LETTER XX.
Dear Charles,—“Some persons, and perhaps the majority
of religious people,” you say, “would be at a loss to see
special providences in such things as I relate, who yet would
willingly attribute the impressions and restraints of my early
life to the Holy Spirit.” Such, I presume, dear friend, class
all these matters under a term of their own—common operations
of the Spirit. If by that term is meant that such
operations are shared by very many, be it so: but that many
are the objects of God's love is not a reason for denying a
special providence. As we have said, too many men, and
even among the professedly religious, can believe nothing to
be special and particular unless the interference be in great
matters and for great people. But why this perpetual distrust
and secret infidelity? Will not the very arguments
that object to a special providence, overthrow all providence?
For myself, it is far more difficult to believe what most
call a general providence, than to admit a special, direct,
particular interference every hour and moment. I am persuaded
that here, as in other religious things, the state of a
man's own heart influences his views. And pious persons
understand very differently at different times. To walk with
God in close and intimate communion, day and night, as ever
in his presence, admits us to many secret things never before
conjectured; and among others to a clearer perception of a
special providence.
* * * Nor are you mistaken: that people, that dear
people did receive me with open arms. Not a few did almost
literally hold me to their very heart; and with joyous eyes
streaming tears, they did look up to heaven and bless God
that the reviler was clothed, and in his right mind, at the
feet of Jesus Christ! And that reviler felt fulfilled the
promise, that he should, on deserting his sinful companions,
find “brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers a thousand-fold.”
Charles, be assured that is the meaning of the
promise. Are not all believers the sons of one Father, the
brethren of one Saviour, the loving and sanctified people
and family of one Holy Ghost—with one spirit, one faith,
one baptism? * * * * * And if the departed know
about repentant sinners, my own mother and those other mothers
did rejoice over the returning prodigal.
The most affecting of all incidents pertaining to this period
of my second life, was the joy of my mother's African nurse,
now nearly one hundred years old. Charles, believe me that,
notwithstanding all we hear about the extreme cruelty of
slave-owners to their slaves, and the invincible hatred slaves
have for their masters, in many cases what is affirmed is a
slanderous and malicious lie. The attachment between owners
and slaves is sometimes like the tie of a tender relationship.
Slaves may be found, who would almost die for a kind master
or mistress. There are negroes that will love the children
and the children's children, for several successive generations;
and who will fondle on the younger members of the
family as a mother fondles on her most beloved.
Many years ago, as I was on the point of leaving the
Island for the North, and while entering a boat, a very aged
negress, who had most carefully dressed herself for the interview
in her gayest apparel and most gorgeous turban,
came near, and looking affectionately into my face, and making
a low and graceful courtsey, said, “Is this Miss Betsey's
son?” Poor Charlotte, she had been my mother's playmate!
But when my mother, long years before, had left her native
South—to suffer, to die, in the North,—Charlotte had taken
the last look of her youthful mistress, called, according to
the usage, Miss Betsey even after her marriage! And now
she looked upon her son! * * * * Charles!—the gushing
soul was in the look that came with her question—“Is
this Miss Betsey's son?” Was it wonderful, tears filled my
eyes? Could I have hurt or mistreated that woman? No!
I am not ashamed to say, tears are at this very moment dropping
on my paper! This may provoke a sneer,—that I can
stand; but I could not endure myself if there was no love in
my soul for that kind, tender, loving negro woman, who loved
my mother, and then loved her son!
Pre-eminent in attachment, however, was my mother's
nurse. At my mother's marriage, being set free, she accompanied
her to the north, in the capacity of nurse and
housekeeper. She was a genuine African; and doubtless,
also, once a zealous idolater; for when brought to America
her face was gashed and scarred according to some pagan
superstition. Along the seams of that furrowed face how
often have I seen tears streaming! In my father's family
the faithful nurse remained till all—father, mother, children,
eight or nine in number, lay in the church-yard! Then the
great love, divided among the dead, was concentrated in her
heart, and came out in one living stream of tenderness towards
the sole living remembrancer of the past!
They who became the second mothers of the orphan boy
—then a mere infant of some three years—could have told
how Maria clasped him to her heart; how she raved in the
very frenzy of sorrow; how she filled their dwelling with
the bitter wailing that melted all hearts; and how, in her
mistaken zeal, she interfered with necessary regulations, till
force was used to tear us apart!
Of all this I remember little. As years, however, increased
I soon became sensible, that if the whole world deserted
me, there was yet one heart that ever yearned over
me with a mother's strong love—one heart that could almost
have dropped its very blood to defend my life—one heart that
would break if I had died!
How often, when she was seated at the corner of the
street selling to school children little parcels of confectionery,
have I, on approaching, seen that dim eye gleam with a sudden
light of love!—while tears ran down that seared face!
And how often, in despite of myself, have I been snatched
to that throbbing heart, amidst the wondering looks of the
passers! * * * * * * * * Oh! Charles, I became
ashamed of this, then—(my tears are often atoning
for it now)—and in my far-off wanderings from God, I partially
forgot,—no, no, not forgot—I partially and purposely
avoided her! And yet was that so surprising—she was a
devoted Christian then—and I was a reprobate! Yes, blessed
be the Son of God, my mother's nurse was a Christian.
For more than thirty years she belonged to the Baptist Church
in —; and by repeating the texts and quotations from
the Scriptures as they were heard from the pulpit, a stranger,
to hear her use the word of God, would have supposed her
able to read.
Well, the change came. Again I went to see Maria;
and both now were happy. At one visit she said:
“Dear Massa, won't you read the Bible and pray with
old Maria?”
“Most willingly, Maria,” was my reply. And so, Charles,
I read in the Scriptures, and then, in her little dark and
humble back room, we both kneeled down together—the aged
saint and the repentant prodigal—she a converted idolater,
and weighed down with near an hundred years of deep and
abundant sorrow, and I a converted infidel, in the prime of
early manhood; and our souls were united in a prayer to the
same reconciled Father!
We arose from our knees. Charles, can I ever forget
what happened? Never! That dear saint of the Most High
clasped me in her aged arms, and with streaming eyes looking
towards heaven, she exclaimed, “God knows, dear massa,
I loved you for old massa's sake, but now I love you for
the Lord Jesus' sake!”
