The Freedmen's Book Part 6

Although she was tenderly cared for, and not required to do any fatiguing work, her const.i.tution never recovered from the shock it had received in early childhood. When she was about nineteen years old, her health failed so rapidly that physicians said it was necessary for her to take a sea-voyage. A son of Mr. Wheatley's was going to England on commercial business, and his mother proposed that Phillis should go with him.

In England she received even more attention than had been bestowed upon her at home. Several of the n.o.bility invited her to their houses; and her poems were published in a volume, with an engraved likeness of the author. In this picture she looks gentle and thoughtful, and the shape of her head denotes intellect. One of the engravings was sent to Mrs.

Wheatley, who was delighted with it. When one of her relatives called, she pointed it out to her, and said, "Look at my Phillis! Does she not seem as if she would speak to me?"

Still the young poetess was not spoiled by flattery. One of the relatives of Mrs. Wheatley informs us, that "not all the attention she received, nor all the honors that were heaped upon her, had the slightest influence upon her temper and deportment. She was still the same single-hearted, unsophisticated being."

She addressed a poem to the Earl of Dartmouth, who was very kind to her during her visit to England. Having expressed a hope for the overthrow of tyranny, she says:--

"Should you, my Lord, while you peruse my song, Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,-- Whence flow these wishes for the common good, By feeling hearts alone best understood,-- I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate, Was s.n.a.t.c.hed from Afric's fancied happy state.

What pangs excruciating must molest, What sorrows labor in my parent's breast!

Steeled was that soul, and by no misery moved, That from a father seized his babe beloved.

Such was my case; and can I then but pray Others may never feel tyrannic sway."

The English friends of Phillis wished to present her to their king, George the Third, who was soon expected in London. But letters from America informed her that her beloved benefactress, Mrs. Wheatley, was in declining health, and greatly desired to see her. No honors could divert her mind from the friend of her childhood. She returned to Boston immediately. The good lady died soon after; Mr. Wheatley soon followed; and the daughter, the kind instructress of her youth, did not long survive. The son married and settled in England. For a short time Phillis stayed with a friend of her deceased benefactress; then she hired a room and lived by herself. It was a sad change for her.

The war of the American Revolution broke out. In the autumn of 1776 General Was.h.i.+ngton had his head-quarters at Cambridge, Ma.s.sachusetts; and the spirit moved Phillis to address some complimentary verses to him. In reply, he sent her the following courteous note:--

"I thank you most sincerely for your polite notice of me in the elegant lines you enclosed. However undeserving I may be of such encomium, the style and manner exhibit a striking proof of your poetical talents. In honor of which, and as a tribute justly due to you, I would have published the poem, had I not been apprehensive that, while I only meant to give the world this new instance of your genius, I might have incurred the imputation of vanity. This, and nothing else, determined me not to give it a place in the public prints.

"If you should ever come to Cambridge, or near head-quarters, I shall be happy to see a person so favored by the Muses,[4] and to whom Nature had been so liberal and beneficent in her dispensations.

"I am, with great respect, "Your obedient, humble servant, "GEORGE WAs.h.i.+NGTON."

The early friends of Phillis were dead, or scattered abroad, and she felt alone in the world. She formed an acquaintance with a colored man by the name of Peters, who kept a grocery shop. He was more than commonly intelligent, spoke fluently, wrote easily, dressed well, and was handsome in his person. He offered marriage, and in an evil hour she accepted him. He proved to be lazy, proud, and harsh-tempered. He neglected his business, failed, and became very poor. Though unwilling to do hard work himself, he wanted to make a drudge of his wife. Her const.i.tution was frail, she had been unaccustomed to hards.h.i.+p, and she was the mother of three little children, with no one to help her in her household labors and cares. He had no pity on her, and instead of trying to lighten her load, he made it heavier by his bad temper. The little ones sickened and died, and their gentle mother was completely broken down by toil and sorrow. Some of the descendants of her lamented mistress at last heard of her illness and went to see her. They found her in a forlorn situation, suffering for the common comforts of life.

The Revolutionary war was still raging. Everybody was mourning for sons and husbands slain in battle. The country was very poor. The currency was so deranged that a goose cost forty dollars, and other articles in proportion. In such a state of things, people were too anxious and troubled to think about the African poetess, whom they had once delighted to honor; or if they transiently remembered her, they took it for granted that her husband provided for her. And so it happened that the gifted woman who had been patronized by wealthy Bostonians, and who had rolled through London in the splendid carriages of the English n.o.bility, lay dying alone, in a cold, dirty, comfortless room. It was a mournful reverse of fortune; but she was patient and resigned. She made no complaint of her unfeeling husband; but the neighbors said that when a load of wood was sent to her, he felt himself too much of a gentleman to saw it, though his wife was s.h.i.+vering with cold. The descendants of Mrs. Wheatley did what they could to relieve her wants, after they discovered her extremely dest.i.tute condition; but, fortunately for her, she soon went "where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest."

Her husband was so generally disliked, that people never called her Mrs.

Peters. She was always called Phillis Wheatley, the name bestowed upon her when she first entered the service of her benefactress, and by which she had become known as a poetess.

FOOTNOTE:

[4] The ancient Greeks supposed that nine G.o.ddesses, whom they named Muses, inspired people to write various kinds of poetry.

A PERTINENT QUESTION.

BY FREDERICK DOUGLa.s.s.

"Is it not astonis.h.i.+ng, that while we are ploughing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses and constructing bridges, building s.h.i.+ps, working in metals of bra.s.s, iron, and copper, silver and gold; that while we are reading, writing, and ciphering, acting as clerks, merchants, and secretaries, having among us lawyers, doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and teachers; that while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men, digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, breeding sheep and cattle on the hillside; living, moving, acting, thinking, planning; living in families as husbands, wives, and children; and, above all, confessing and wors.h.i.+pping the Christian's G.o.d, and looking hopefully for immortal life beyond the grave;--is it not astonis.h.i.+ng, I say, that we are called upon to prove that we are _men_?"

THE WORKS OF PROVIDENCE.

BY PHILLIS WHEATLEY.

[Written at sixteen years of age.]

Arise, my soul! on wings enraptured rise, To praise the Monarch of the earth and skies, Whose goodness and beneficence appear, As round its centre moves the rolling year; Or when the morning glows with rosy charms, Or the sun slumbers in the ocean's arms.

Of light divine be a rich portion lent, To guide my soul and favor my intent.

Celestial Muse, my arduous flight sustain, And raise my mind to a seraphic strain!

Adored forever be the G.o.d unseen, Who round the sun revolves this vast machine; Though to his eye its ma.s.s a point appears: Adored the G.o.d that whirls surrounding spheres, Who first ordained that mighty Sol[5] should reign, The peerless monarch of th' ethereal train.

Of miles twice forty millions is his height, And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight, So far beneath,--from him th' extended earth Vigor derives, and every flowery birth.

Vast through her orb she moves, with easy grace, Around her Phoebus[6] in unbounded s.p.a.ce; True to her course, the impetuous storm derides, Triumphant o'er the winds and surging tides.

Almighty! in these wondrous works of thine, What power, what wisdom, and what goodness s.h.i.+ne!

And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explored, And yet creating glory unadored?

Creation smiles in various beauty gay, While day to night, and night succeeds to day.

That wisdom which attends Jehovah's ways, s.h.i.+nes most conspicuous in the solar rays.

Without them, dest.i.tute of heat and light, This world would be the reign of endless night.

In their excess, how would our race complain, Abhorring life! how hate its lengthened chain!

From air, or dust, what numerous ills would rise!

What dire contagion taint the burning skies!

What pestilential vapor, fraught with death, Would rise, and overspread the lands beneath!

Hail, smiling Morn, that, from the orient main Ascending, dost adorn the heavenly plain!

So rich, so various are thy beauteous dyes, That spread through all the circuit of the skies, That, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars, And thy great G.o.d, the cause of all, adores!

O'er beings infinite his love extends, His wisdom rules them, and his power defends.

When tasks diurnal tire the human frame, The spirits faint, and dim the vital flame, Then, too, that ever-active bounty s.h.i.+nes, Which not infinity of s.p.a.ce confines.

The sable veil, that Night in silence draws, Conceals effects, but shows th' Almighty Cause.

Night seals in sleep the wide creation fair, And all is peaceful, but the brow of care.

Again gay Phoebus, as the day before, Wakes every eye but what shall wake no more; Again the face of Nature is renewed, Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good.

May grateful strains salute the smiling morn, Before its beams the eastern hills adorn!

FOOTNOTES:

[5] _Sol_ is the word for sun in Latin, the language spoken by the ancient Romans.

[6] Phoebus was the name for the sun, in the language of the ancient Greeks.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

BY FRANCES E. W. HARPER.

The silver cord was loosened, We knew that she must die; We read the mournful token In the dimness of her eye.

Like a child oppressed with slumber, She calmly sank to rest, With her trust in her Redeemer, And her head upon his breast.