The Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No. V, May, 1863

Why then was there an increase in those ten States, while in the other twenty-four there was an actual decrease? I think this question can only be answered by ascribing that increase to emancipation. In Kentucky, Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware, slavery is unprofitable and declining, and acts of emancipation frequently occur. Pennsylvania and New Jersey, before the passage of the fugitive slave law of 1850, were favorite resorts of fugitives, perhaps partly on account of the known sympathies of the Quakers. Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, were also resorted to by fugitives, both on account of their easy accessibility from adjacent Slave States, and their proximity to Canada, and also because such labor as a fugitive from slavery is best able to do, is there always in demand. These States have also received thousands of colored persons, brought to them by humane and conscientious masters, for the very purpose of emancipating them.

From 1850 to 1860 the facts are still more striking. The increase which occurred was not, as would have been true of a natural increase, scattered over our whole territory, and in some proportion to the colored population previously existing, but almost wholly, either where the unprofitableness and decline of slavery was leading to emancipation, or where from any cause the fugitive slave law of 1850 was not strictly enforced. Examples of the former are Maryland, Virginia, and Missouri, and of the latter are Ohio, Illinois, Michigan, Iowa, and even Massachusetts and Connecticut, in the latter of which it had been declining for twenty years previous.

With the facts before us, then, furnished by the United States Census, from 1790 to 1860, how is it possible to believe that the colored population of this country has ever increased at all, except hi slavery? How can we help seeing that it is slavery, and slavery alone, which has swelled their numbers from a little more than half a million, as it was in 1790, to near four and a half millions at the present time? Yet there are millions among us that turn pale at the thought of emancipation, lest thereby we should be overrun by the multiplication of the colored race! There are millions who would be thought intelligent men, who think they have propounded an unanswerable argument against emancipation When they have asked, 'What will you do with the negro?' We may well ask what shall we do with the negro, if we continue to multiply the race in slavery as beasts of burden and articles of merchandise. But on the supposition of freedom, the question has no significance. The men who are always scaring themselves and others by such fears are either very ignorant or very hypocritical.

But the case will be still stronger when we come to inquire, as we must before we close, into the causes of the facts which have just been presented. There is no reason to believe that the slower increase of the colored race is at all due to any original inferiority in the powers of reproduction, or that any such inferiority exists. Its causes are to be found wholly in the different circumstances, characters, and habits of the two peoples. The negro is, to a great extent, a barbarian in the midst of civilization. He is destitute of those comforts of life, that care, skill, and intelligent watchfulness, which are indispensable to success in rearing children in the midst of the dangers, exposures, and diseases of infancy. His dwelling does not afford the necessary protection from the cold and storms of winter, or from the heats of summer: it is ill warmed and ill ventilated; he has not an unfailing supply of food and clothing suited to the wants of that most frail and delicate of living creatures, a human infant. Hence a large portion of his children die in infancy.

On the last page of the Appendix to the volume already referred to, is a most instructive table, showing the truth of this operation. Thus in 1850 the white population of Alabama was 426,514; the colored population, slave and free, was 365,109. In that year the deaths of white children under five years of age were 1,650; of colored children, 2,463. That is, only two thirds as many white children died as colored; and yet the white population was greater almost in the ratio of 7 to 6. By running the eye down the table, it will be seen that similar facts exist in every State where there is a large colored population. These facts leave us in no doubt as to the reason why the increase of the colored population is always slower than that of the white population.

This occurs, as the table just referred to shows, under slavery, where the pecuniary interest of the master will secure his watchful coöperation with the parent to preserve the life of the infant. But in freedom the same causes act upon the colored race with vastly more destructive effect. The preservation of infant life and health is then left solely to the care, skill, and resources of the parent. The result is that decay of the colored race which we have seen indicated in the census. It is essential to our purpose that this point should be made quite plain.

It is obvious that there is in every community a lower stratum of population, in which wages are sufficient to support the individual laborer in comfort, but not sufficient for the support of a family. This not only always has been so, but it always must be, as long as competition continues to be the test of value; and competition must continue to be the test of value as long as the individual right of property is protected and preserved. Nor is this, as many superficial thinkers of our day have thought it, merely the hard and selfish rule by which Shylock oppresses and grinds the face of his victim: it is a necessary and beneficent law of the best forms of society which can ever exist in this world. The welfare of society in all the future imperatively requires that it should be propagated from the strong, the sound, the healthy, both in body and mind, from the strongest, most vigorous, and noblest specimens of the race; and not from the diseased, the weak, the vicious, the degraded, the broken-down classes. Thus only can the life and health of society be preserved age after age. This is as necessary as it is that the farmer should propagate his domestic animals from the finest of his stock, and not from the diminutive, the weak, and the sickly. And it is accomplished in well ordered society by that very law of wages just stated. As a general rule, it is the very persons who are unfit to be the parents of the coming generation, that are thrown into that lower stratum where wages are insufficient for the support of a family. And just in proportion as the entire structure of society is pervaded by intelligence and virtue, this class of persons will abstain from marriage, by prudently considering that they have not a satisfactory prospect of being able to support a family. It is thus only that the horrors of extreme poverty can be avoided at the bottom of the social pyramid. The severity of this law of wages and population can thus be greatly mitigated and the comforts of life be universally enjoyed; but the law itself is necessary and beneficent, and never can be repealed till human nature and human society are constructed on other principles than those known to us.

To apply this to the question before us: When by the act of emancipation the negro is made a free laborer, he is brought into direct competition with the white man; that competition he is unable to endure; and he soon finds his place in that lower stratum, which has just been spoken of, where he can support himself in tolerable comfort as a hired servant, but cannot support a family. The consequence is inevitable. He will either never marry, or he will, in the attempt to support a family, struggle in vain against the laws of nature, and his children will, many of them at least, die in infancy. It is not necessary to argue to convince a candid man (and for candid men only is this article written) that this is, as a general rule, the condition of the free negro. And it shows, beyond the possibility of mistake, what in this country his destiny must be. Like his brother, the Indian of the forest, he must melt away and disappear forever from the midst of us. I do not affirm or intimate that this must be his destiny in all countries. In the tropical regions of the earth, where he may have little to fear from the competition of the more civilized white man, he may preserve and multiply his race. Let him try the experiment. It is worth trying.

Far be it from me to intimate that the negro is the only class of our population that are in this sad condition. In our large cities and towns there are hundreds of thousands of men who have no drop of African blood in their veins, and who are more clamorous than any other class against negro equality, who, through ignorance or vice, or superstition, or inevitable calamity, are in the same hard lot; their children, if they have any, perish in great numbers in infancy, and they will add nothing to the future population of our country. That will be derived from a stronger, nobler parentage. Their race will become extinct. Their case differs from that of the colored man only in this, that they are not distinguished by color and features from the rest of the population; so that the decay of their race cannot be traced by the eye and the memory, and expressed in statistical tables.

We are now prepared to see why the colored population has been, for a considerable time, declining in New York and New England. In those States population is dense; all occupations which afford a comfortable living for a family are crowded and the competition of the white man is quite too much for the negro. If emancipation were now to be made universal, the same thing would rapidly occur in all parts of our country. The white laborer would rush in and speedily crowd every avenue to prosperity and wealth; and the negro, with his inferior civilization, would be crowded everywhere into the lower stratum of the social pyramid, and in a few generations be seen no more. The far more rapid increase of the white race would render the competition more and more severe to him with each successive generation, and render his decay more rapid, and his extinction more certain.

I am well aware that this article may fall into the hands of many excellent men who will not relish this argument, nor this conclusion. They will say it were better then to keep the poor negro in slavery. But they would not say so if they would consider the whole case. If slavery were a blessing to the black man, it is so great a curse to the white man that it should never be permitted to exist. The white man can afford to be kind to the negro in freedom; but he cannot afford to curse himself with being his master and owning him as his property. On this point I need not enlarge, for I am devoutly thankful that the literature of Christendom is full of it.

But slavery is not a blessing to the negro, even in the view of his condition which I have presented; it is an unmitigated curse. To a man of governed passions and virtuous life, it is infinitely better to be an unmarried freeman, enjoying the comforts of this life, and the hopes of the life to come, than to live and die a slave, and the parent of an interminable posterity of slaves. To a being of vicious life and ungoverned passions, all life is a curse, whether in slavery or freedom; and it surely is not obligatory on us, or beneficial to the colored man, to preserve the system of slavery for the sake of perpetuating a succession of such lives down through coming generations.

Slavery, by forced and artificial means, propagates society from its lowest and most degraded class, from a race of barbarians held within its bosom from generation to generation, without being permitted to share its civilizing influences. It thus propagates barbarism from age to age, till at last it involves both master and slave in a common ruin. Freedom recruits the ranks of a nation's population from the homes of the industrious, the frugal, the strong, the enlightened, the virtuous, the religious; and leaves the ignorant, the superstitious, the indolent, the improvident, the vicious, without an offspring, and without a name in future generations. Freedom places society, by obeying the law of propagation which God imposed on it, upon an ascending plane of ever-increasing civilization; slavery, by a forced and unnatural law of propagation, places it upon a descending plane of ever-deepening vice and barbarism.

That dread of negro equality which is perpetually haunting the imaginations of the American people, is, therefore, wholly without foundation in any reality. It is a delusion, which has already driven us, in a sort of madness, far on the road to ruin. It is, I fear, a judicial blindness, which the all-wise and righteous Ruler of the universe has sent upon us for the punishment of our sins. The negro does not aspire to political or social equality with the white man. He has evidently no such destiny, no such hope, no such possibility. He is weak, and constantly becoming weaker; and nothing can ever make him strong but our continued injustice and oppression. He appeals not to our fears, but to our compassion. He asks not to rule us: he only craves of us leave to toil; to hew our wood and draw our water, for such miserable pittance of compensation as the competition of free labor will award him—a grave. If we deny him this humble boon, we may expect no end to our national convulsions but in dissolution. If we promptly grant it, over all our national domain, we may expect the speedy return of peace, and such prosperity as no nation ever before enjoyed.

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one lives it—to not many is it known; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'

    —Goethe.

Successful.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'

    —Webster's Dictionary.

CHAPTER IV

We go tack to look a little at the fortunes of the Meeker family. Twenty-three years have passed since we introduced it to the reader, on the occasion of Hiram's birth. Time has produced his usual tokens. Mr. Meeker is already an old man of seventy, but by no means infirm. His days have been cheerful and serene, and his countenance exhibits that contented expression which a happy old age produces.

A happy old age—how few of the few who reach the period enjoy that! Mr. Meeker's life has been unselfish and genuine; already he reaps his reward.

Mrs. Meeker, too, is twenty-three years older than when we first made her acquaintance. She is now over sixty. She still possesses her fair proportions; indeed, she has grown somewhat stouter with advancing years. Her face is sleek and comely, but the expression has not improved. When she wishes to appear amiable, she greets you with the same pleasing smile as ever; but if you watch her features as they relapse into their natural repose, you will discover a discontented, dissatisfied air, which has become habitual. Why? Mrs. Meeker has met with no reverses or serious disappointments in the daily routine of her life. But, alas! its sum total presents no satisfactory consequences. She has become, though unconscious of it, weary of the changeless formality of her religious duties, performed as a ceaseless task, without any real spirit or true devotion. Year after year has run its course and carried her along, through early womanhood into mature life, on to the confines of age. What has she for all those years? Nothing but disquiet and solicitude, and a vague anxiety, without apparent cause or satisfactory object.

As they advance in age, Mr. and Mrs. Meeker exhibit less sympathy in each other's thoughts and views and feelings. By degrees and instinctively the gulf widens between them—until it becomes impassable. Everything goes on quietly and decorously, but there is no sense of united destiny, no pleasurable desire for a union beyond the grave.

The children are scattered; the daughters are all married. Jane and Laura have gone 'West,' and Mary is living in Hartford. Doctor Frank we will give an account of presently. George is a practical engineer, and is employed on the Erie canal. William, who was to remain at home and manage the farm, is married, and lives in a small house not far off. His mother would permit no 'daughter-in-law' with her. She did not like the match. William had fallen in love with a very superior girl, fine-looking and amiable, but not possessed of a penny. Besides, she belonged to the Methodist church, a set who believed in falling from grace! Mrs. Meeker had peremptorily forbid her son marrying 'the girl,' but after a year's delay, and considerable private conversation with his father, William had married her, and a small house which stood on the premises had been put in order for him. What was worse, William soon joined the same church with his wife, and then the happiness of the young couple seemed complete. Mrs. Meeker undertook, as she said, to 'make the best of a bad bargain,' so the two families were on terms of friendly intercourse, but they continued to remain separated.

Dr. Frank, as he was called, had taken his medical degree, and, by the indulgence of his father, whose heart yearned sympathetically toward his firstborn, opportunity was afforded him to spend a year in Paris. Mrs. Meeker groaned over this unnecessary expense. When she saw that on this occasion she was not to have her own way, she insisted that the money her husband was wasting on Frank should be charged against his 'portion.' She never for a moment forgot Hiram's interest. She had schemed for years so to arrange affairs that the homestead proper would fall to him, notwithstanding George was to be the farmer. Mrs. Meeker calculated on surviving her husband for a long, indefinite period. She was several years younger, and, as she was accustomed to remark, came of a long-lived race. 'Mr. Meeker was failing fast' (she had said so for the last fifteen years)—'at his age he could not be expected to hold out long. He ought to make his will, and do justice to Hiram, poor boy. All the rest had received more than their share. He was treated like an outcast.'

This was the burden of Mrs. Meeker's thoughts, the latter portion of which found expression in strong and forcible language. For she calculated, by the aid of her 'thirds' as widow, to so arrange it as to give her favorite the most valuable part of the real estate.

There was a fixedness and a tenacity about this woman's regard for her youngest child that was, in a certain sense, very touching. It could not be termed parental affection—that is blind and indiscriminating; it was rather a sympathetic feeling toward a younger second self, with which, doubtless, was mingled the maternal interest. Whatever touched Hiram affected her; she understood his plans without his explaining them; she foresaw his career; she was anxious, hopeful, trembling, rejoicing, as she thought of what he must pass through before he emerged rich and powerful.

Hiram visited home but seldom. Even when at Burnsville, he came over scarcely once in three months. Often, when expecting him, his mother would sit by the window the whole afternoon, watching for her son to arrive. Many a time was supper kept hot for him till late into the night, while she sat up alone to greet him; but he did not come. I hardly know how to record it, but I am forced to say that Hiram cared very little about his mother. Could he have possibly cared much for anybody, he would probably for her, for he knew how her heart was bound up in him. He knew it, and, I think, rather pitied the old lady for her weakness. His manner toward her was all that could be desired—very dutiful, very respectful. So it was to his father. For Hiram did not forget the statement of his Sunday-school teacher, which was made when he was a very young child, about the 'commandment with promise.' Thus his conduct toward his parents was, like his conduct generally, unexceptionable.

For Frank, the eldest, however, Hiram felt a peculiar aversion. It was a long time before the former entertained any other feeling for his 'little brother' than one of the most affectionate regard. By many years the youngest of the family, Hiram, while a child, was the pet and plaything of the older ones, and especially of Frank, who in his college vacations took pleasure in training the little fellow, who was just learning his letters, and in teaching him smart sayings and cunning expressions. As Hiram grew up and began to display the characteristics I have already so fully described, Frank, who was quick and sensitive in his appreciation of qualities, could not, or at least did not, conceal the disgust he felt for these exhibitions. He took occasion on his visits home to lecture the youngster soundly. Hiram was not demonstrative in return, but Mrs. Meeker gave way to undue warmth and excitement in taking his part. This was when Hiram was at the village academy. From that time, there was coolness between the brothers, increased by the total difference of their notions, which ripened in time to settled aversion. After Hiram went to Burnsville, they did not meet. Dr. Frank, after spending his year abroad, had returned and accepted the appointment of demonstrator of anatomy in a medical school in Vermont. Thence he was called to a chair, in what was then the only medical college in the city. He was at the time about thirty-six years old, and a splendid fellow. Enthusiastically devoted to his profession, Dr. Frank had looked to the metropolis as the field of his ultimate labors. But he knew the difficulties of getting established, and it was not till he was assured of a respectable foothold through his appointment that he ventured on the change. Doubtless the fact of his having a wife and children made him cautious. Now, however, we behold him settled in town, zealously engaged with his class at lecture hours, and making his way gradually in public favor.

It was with some surprise that, one evening, while making a short call at Mr. Bennett's, he encountered Hiram, who had just removed to the city. The brothers had not met for four years. On this occasion they shook hands with a species of cordiality—at least on the Doctor's part—while Hiram preserved a bearing of humility and injured innocence. The Doctor asked his brother many questions. Was he living in town—how long since he had come to New York—was he engaged with Mr. Bennett—what was he doing? Hiram returned short answers to these queries—very short—acting the while as if he were in pain under a certain infliction. He looked up, as much as to say, 'Now, let me alone; please don't persecute me.' But the Doctor did not give the matter up. He invited Hiram to come and see him, and told him, with a smile, to be sure and let him know if he should be taken sick. Hiram wriggled in his seat, and looked more persecuted than ever; he replied that his health was very good, and likely to continue so. The words were scarcely out of his mouth, before it struck him that such an observation was a direct tempting of Providence, to trip his heels and lay him on a sickbed for his boast. So, after a slight hesitation, he added, 'But the race is not to the swift, brother, and I am wrong to indulge in vainglory about anything. Life and death are uncertain; none realize it, I trust, more deeply than I do.'

'I was in hopes, Hiram, you had quit talking cant,' said Dr. Frank, in a tone of disgust. 'Take my advice, and stop it, that is, if it is not too late.'

He did not wait for a response, but, much to Hiram's satisfaction, rose, and saying to Mrs. Bennett that he had overstayed his time, bade a rapid 'good evening' to all, and left the room.

'It is dreadful to feel so toward a brother. It is of no use. I won't attempt to resist it. The least we see of each other the better—but, good God, what's to become of him!' Such was the Doctor's soliloquy as he walked rapidly on. Other thoughts soon occupied his mind, and Hiram was forgotten. The latter, however, did not forget. The Doctor's rebuke filled his heart with rage; still he consoled himself with the thought that his brother was an infidel, and would unquestionably be damned. Meantime he was forced to hear various encomiums on him from Mrs. Bennett and her daughters—[Doctor Frank, as we have intimated, was a brilliant fellow, and in the very prime of life]—and was still further annoyed by a remark of Mr. Bennett, that 'the Doctor was doing very well; gaining ground fast; getting some of our best families.' Hiram departed from the house in an uncomfortable state of mind. All the way home he indulged in the bitterest feelings: so strong were these that they found expression in ominous mutterings to himself, among which were, 'Conceited fool,' 'I hate him,' and the like.

Suddenly Hiram's thoughts appeared to take a new direction. He stopped short, and exclaimed aloud: 'What have I done? O God, have mercy on me. God forgive me!'

When he reached his room he hastily struck a light and seized his Bible. Turning the leaves rapidly in search of something, his eyes were at length fastened on a verse, and he trembled from head to foot, and his breath nearly failed him, while he read as follows:

'But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause, shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.'

'The very word; oh, the very, very word!' he exclaimed. 'I have said it—said that word—said 'fool,' and I am in danger of hell fire, if I do belong to the church. Yes, hell fire—oh-oh—oh, hell fire. I wish mother was here. I know what I will do. I will write a confession, and send it to my brother to-morrow. I will abase myself before him. Yes, I will. Oh, oh, hell fire! What will become of me!' Hiram prayed, a good portion of the night, for a remission of the awful sentence; the bare possibility of its being carried out filled him with terror.

At last, overcome by weariness and exhaustion, he fell asleep.

He awoke early. He lay several minutes, revolving the last night's scene. Presently his countenance brightened. He sprang from the bed, and again turned to the dreaded text, but not with his previous alarm. On the contrary, he was hopeful. He read the verse over carefully, and said to him self: 'I am all right, after all. It means whosoever shall say the word to his brother. I did not make any reply to Frank, much as he irritated me. I restrained my anger, and suffered humiliation before him. I may have been too violent in giving utterance to these expressions, but it is doubtful if I have even incurred any penalty, for I surely was not angry without a cause. God has heard my prayers, and has relieved my mind in answer thereto. I shan't have to make a confession either. Glad of that. How he would have triumphed over me!'

So Hiram went forth to his usual 'duties,' his complacency fully restored, and his faith confirmed that he was one of the 'elect.'

CHAPTER V

'Already she guessed who it was!'

And who could he be—the intelligent, handsome, but, as it would seem, over-bold young man, who had presumed to place himself so confidently in her path and interrupt her walk till he had said his say, and then disappear as abruptly as he came?

She guessed who.

The arrival of her father with the guest he was to bring proved she had divined right. For coming up the avenue, she saw that it was the same handsome young man she had a little before encountered. And she could perceive in her father's countenance a glowing look of satisfaction as the two mounted the steps (Sarah was peeping through the blinds) and proceeded to enter the house. Before they had accomplished this, however, the room was vacant. Sarah was nowhere to be found—that is, for the moment; but in due time she presented herself, and thereupon Dr. James Egerton—that was his name—was formally introduced to her.

'I recollect you now,' said Sarah, seriously. 'Your features have not at all changed, except they seem larger and—'

'Older, doubtless,' interrupted the young man. 'You, too, have changed, even more than I; but I knew you the moment my eyes fell on you.' * * *

Seven years had passed since grievous afflictions befell Joel Burns—when his wife died and his daughter was stricken low, and he himself was brought to the very gates of death. The reader has already been made acquainted with these circumstances, and will scarcely forget that, when the famous medical man returned to New Haven after visiting Sarah, he despatched his favorite student, with directions to devote himself to the case. It is known, too, with what earnestness and skill the youth—for he was little more than a youth—performed his responsible duties.

Here I had thought to take leave of him, but as he has abruptly come on the stage as a visitor at Burnsville, and as Sarah Burns already exhibits an incipient interest in the young doctor, I must let the reader into the secret of his sudden appearance.