Harriet, the Moses of Her People Part 7

This woman, of whom you have been reading, is now old and feeble, suffering from the effects of her life of unusual labor and hards.h.i.+p, as well as from repeated injuries; but she is still at work for her people. For many years, even long before the war, her little home has been the refuge of the hunted and the homeless, for whom she had provided; and I have seen as many as eight or ten dependents upon her care at one time living there.

It has always been a hospital, but she feels the need of a large one, and only prays to see this, "her last work," completed ere she goes hence.

Without claiming any of my dear old Harriet's prophetic vision, I seem to see a future day when the wrongs of earth will be righted, and justice, long delayed, will a.s.sert itself. I seem to see that our poor Harriet has pa.s.sed within "one of dem gates," and has received the welcome, "Come, thou blessed of my Father; for I was hungry and you gave me meat, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you took me in, naked and you clothed me, sick and in prison and you visited me."

And when she asks, "Lord, when did I do all this?" He answers:

"Inasmuch as you did it unto one of the least of these, _my brethren_, you did it unto me."

And as she stands in her modest way just within the celestial gate, I seem to see a kind hand laid upon her dark head, and to hear a gentle voice saying in her ear, "Friend, come up higher!"

SOME ADDITIONAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF "HARRIET."

The story of this remarkable black woman has been attracting renewed interest of late, and I have often been asked to publish another edition of the book, and to add some interesting and amusing incidents which I have related to my friends.

Harriet is very old and feeble now; she does not know how old, but probably between eighty and ninety. Her years of toil and adventure have told upon her, and she may not last much longer. If she does, she will still need help which she would never ask for herself, but which this little book may give her; when she dies, it may aid in putting up a fitting monument to her memory, which should always be "kept green."

As time goes on, the horrors of the days of slavery are by many forgotten, and the children who have been born since the War of the Rebellion know of that fearful straggle, and of the causes that led to it, only as a tradition of long ago.

Even in the city where Harriet has so long lived her quiet and un.o.btrusive life, it is not an uncommon thing to meet a young person who has never even heard her name.

Those who know the princ.i.p.al facts of her eventful history may be interested to read these few added incidents, which she has related to me from time to time.

A year or two ago, as I was staying at the summer home of my brother, Professor Hopkins, on Owasco Lake, Harriet came up to see us; it was after lunch, and my brother ordered a table to be set for her on the broad shaded piazza and waited on her himself, bringing her cups of tea and other good things, as if it were a pleasure and an honor to serve her.

There is a quiet dignity about Harriet that makes her superior or indifferent to all surrounding circ.u.mstances; whether seated at the hospitable board of Gerrit Smith or any other white gentleman, as she often was, or sent to the kitchen, where the white domestics refused to eat with a "n.i.g.g.e.r," it was all the same to Harriet; she was never elated, or humiliated; she took everything as it came, making no comments or complaints.

And so she sat quietly eating her lunch, and talking with us.

After the lunch was over, as we sat on the piazza waiting for the steamboat to take her back to Auburn, she said:

"I often think, Missus, of things I wish I had told you before you wrote de book. Now, as I come up on de boat I thought of one thing thet happened to me when I was very little.

"I was only seven years old when I was sent away to take car' of a baby. I was so little dat I had to sit down on de flo' and hev de baby put in my lap. An' dat baby was allus in my lap 'cept when it was asleep, or its mother was feedin' it.

"One mornin' after breakfast she had de baby, an' I stood by de table waitin' till I was to take it; just by me was a bowl of lumps of white sugar. My Missus got into a great quarrel wid her husband; she had an awful temper, an' she would scole an' storm, an' call him all sorts of names. Now you know, Missus, I never had nothing good; no sweet, no sugar, an' dat sugar, right by me, did look so nice, an' my Missus's back was turned to me while she was fightin' wid her husband, so I jes' put my fingers in de sugar bowl to take one lump, an' maybe she heard me, an' she turned an'

saw me. De nex' minute she had de raw hide down; I give one jump out of de do', an' I saw dey came after me, but I jes' flew, and dey didn't catch me. I ran, an' I ran, an' I run, I pa.s.sed many a house, but I didn't dar' to stop, for dey all knew my Missus an'

dey would send me back. By an' by, when I was clar tuckered out, I come to a great big pig-pen. Dar was an ole sow dar, an' perhaps eight or ten little pigs. I was too little to climb into it, but I tumbled ober de high board, an' fell in on de ground; I was so beat out I couldn't stir.

"An' dere, Missus, I stayed from Friday till de nex' Chuesday, fightin' wid dose little pigs for de potato peelin's an" oder sc.r.a.ps dat came down in de trough. De ole sow would push me away when I tried to git her chillen's food, an' I was awful afeard of her. By Chuesday I was so starved I knowed I'd got to go back to my Missus, I hadn't got no whar else to go, but I knowed what was comin.' So I went back."

"And she gave you an awful flogging, I suppose, Harriet?"

"No, Missus, but _he_ did."

This was all that was said, but probably that flogging left some of those scars which cover her neck and back to this day.

Think of a poor little helpless thing seven years old enduring all this terror and suffering, and yet few people are as charitable to the slave-holders as Harriet. "Dey don' know no better, Missus; it's de way dey was brought up. 'Make de little nigs min' you, or flog 'em,' was what was said to de chillen, and dey was brought up wid de whip in der hand. Now, min' you, Missus, dat wasn't de way on all de plantations; dere was good Marsters an' Missuses, as I've heard tell, but I didn't happen to come across 'em."

There is frequent mention made in the Memoir of Harriet's firm and unwavering trust in G.o.d in times of great perplexity or deadly peril, when she often had occasion to say, "Vain is the help of man, but in G.o.d is my help." I have never known another instance of such implicit trust and confidence.

Very soon after the Civil War her house was turned into a hospital, and no poor helpless creature of her race was ever turned from her door. Indeed, all through the war, and through the cruel reign of the fugitive slave law, her house was one of the depots of the "Underground Railway," as that secret and unseen mode of conveying the hunted fugitives was called, and when the war was over she established a hospital, which for many years, indeed till she was too ill herself to take charge of it, has been the refuge of the sufferers of her race who had no earthly dependence but Harriet.

Very often this woman, except for her trust in "de Lawd," had had no idea where the next meal was to come from, but she troubled herself no more about it than if she had been a Vanderbilt or an Astor. "De Lawd will provide" was her motto, and He never failed her.

One day, in pa.s.sing through Auburn, I was impelled to stop over a train, and drive out to see what were the needs of my colored friend, and to take her some supplies.

Her little house was always neat and comfortable, and the small parlor was nicely and rather prettily furnished. The lame, the halt, and the blind, the bruised and crippled little children, and one crazy woman, were all brought in to see me, and "the blind woman" (she seemed to have no other name), a very old woman who had been Harriet's care for eighteen years, was led into the room--an interesting and pathetic group.

On leaving, I said to her: "If you will come out to the carriage, Harriet, there are some provisions there for you."

She turned to one of her poor dependents and said: "What did you say to me dis mornin'? You said, 'We hadn't got nothin' to eat in de house,' and what did I say to you? I said, 'I've got a rich Father!'"

Nothing that comes to this remarkable woman ever surprises her.

She says very little in the way of thanks, except to the Giver of all good. How the knowledge comes to her no one can tell, but she seems always to know when help is coming, and she is generally on hand to receive it, though it is never for herself she wants it, but only for those under her care.

I must not forget to mention the Indian girls of the Fort Wrangel School, who, having read a little notice of Harriet in the "Evangelist," went to work, and by their daily labor raised thirty-seven dollars which they sent to me for Harriet--and this school has been disbanded, and these educated girls have been sent back to their wretched homes, because our Government could not afford to support it any longer!

Pundita Ramabai went about this time to see Harriet and they had an interesting talk together. Here was a remarkable trio taking hold of hands--the woman from East India, the Indian girl from the far West, and the black woman from the Southern States only two removes from an African savage!

Once when she came to New York, where she had not been in twenty years, and was starting off alone to find some friends miles away in a part of the city which she had never seen, we remonstrated with her, telling her she would surely be lost.

"Now, Missus," she said, "don't you t'ink dis ole head dat done de navigatin' down in Egypt can do de navigatin' up here in New York?"

And she walked many miles, scorning a "cyar," and found all the people she wished to see.

Harriet was known by various names among her Southern friends. One of these was "Ole Chariot," perhaps as a rhyme to the name by which they called her.

And so, often when she went to bring away a band of refugees, she would sing as she walked the dark country roads by night:

"When dat ar' ole chariot comes, Who's gwine wid me?"

And from some unseen singer would come the response:

"When dat ar' ole chariot comes, I'se gwine wid you."

And by some wireless telegraphy known only to the initiated it would be made known in one cabin or another where their deliverer was waiting concealed, and when she would be ready to pilot them on their long journey to freedom.

A Woman's Suffrage Meeting was held in Rochester a year or two ago, and Harriet came to attend it. She generally attended every meeting of women, on whatever subject, if possible to do so.

She was led into the church by an adopted daughter, whom she had rescued from death when a baby, and had brought up as her own.

The church was warm and Harriet was tired, and soon after she entered deep sleep fell upon her.

Susan B. Anthony and Mrs. Stanton were on the platform, and after speeches had been made and business accomplished, one of these ladies said: