Skip to main content

William James Watkins to Frederick Douglass, December 10, 1852

1

Letter from Wm. J. Watkins.
Frederick Douglass, Esq:
Dear Sir:—
The great national quadrennial battle is over; and neither "plain Mr. Scott, nor General Scott," nor the gentleman in search of that Hospital, is elected President of the United States. A few weeks ago, and, according to the declaration of the sapient editor of the Boston Atlas, et id omna genus, "Scott leads the column." It was the easiest thing in the world to elect the "mighty man of war."— The Scott papers were filled with "pyramids" of figures, units, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, all one had to do, was to perform a sum in Simply Addition, and he who "cheerfully" accepted the nomination, with the platform, was elected. But we have been examining one or two of these sums more minutely, and as I tell my boys in school sometime, I find they (the Whigs) had not the right answer. Blazing figures stand out in bold relief, where cyphers only should present themselves. Instead of "put down" 2 and "carry" 1, it should have been "put down" 0, and "carry" nothing. O the uncertainty of human computation! We can't trust the lying figures of political Arithmetic. Hope, says one, soothes asunder every misfortune. But the Whig party is too deeply engulphed in the vortex of despair, to be resurrected by the hand of Hope. It lies buried with the hero (?) of the 7th of March; and upon its grave are piled, in dreadful agony, the anathemas of bleeding millions. Various are the opinions of political doctors relative to the cause of its death; but those who have studied its organic structure most thoroughly, affirm that it was very peculiarly constituted, and could not possibly survive the 2d of November shock. Yes!—Whiggery! thou art gone! We have no tears to shed around thy bier; would to God thy twin sister, sham Democracy, "had borne thee company!" But the day of retribution is at hand. I hear an unearthly voice coming from the dead, "Rejoice not over me, O Democracy," for "mene, mene, tekel, upharsin," is written upon THY wall! Death, hell, and the grave are close upon THEE! The slave power shall not always triumph. The American people shall yet behold it, divested of its deceptive habiliments; they shall see it in all its native hideousness, its heart appalling deformity; a monster, cruel and rapacious, preying upon the vitals of the body politic; the incarnation of crime and cruelty,

2

and devastation and death; an incubus upon the wealth and morality, and literature of the nation; the great destroyer of its peace and union. And, depend upon it, when they thus behold it, it shall be as effectually blown to atoms, as though a whirlwind had breathed upon it. A few years ago, and European despotism sang a requiem of ease. Arrayed in the habiliments of regal magnificence, it sat seemingly secure, as though the God of Heaven had thrown around it his everlasting arms. The despot sailed so smoothly down the stream of time, that I dreamed of nought but the gilded glories of his earthly heaven, and thrones and dominions and principalities and powers, danced before his vision, like dew drops glittering before the kings of day. He feels that he is king of kings, and lord of lords. But hark! a voice from behind the throne starts him from his vain and illusory imaginings, and his dreams of bliss are gone - gone forever. He hears nothing now, but the thunders of the people's voice, declaring in intonations loud and startling, "WE WILL BE FREE;" and he sees destructio[n] written by a mystic hand upon his palace wall. The kings of the earth take counsel together and resolve to crush the spirit of liberty; to stem, if possible, that seemingly restless torrent which they behold rushing widely toward them, and which they know will eventually sweep them from their thrones, and humble them in the dust. But truth is mighty and will prevail. This is no hyperbole. 'Tis but a truthful portraiture of the present critical and crumbling condition of European despotism. And what shall we say of its loving handimaid, American Republicanism, or rather American despotism? And when we cast our eyes over this broad republic, a singular anomoly, a living paradox, presents itself. Once every year, and the nation assembles in council, and proclaims to the world, we hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are born free, &c. Yes! the jubilatic anthem is heard o'er river, valley, woods and plain. Rum, religion (?) and powder, all contribute their quota towards the celebration of freedom's natal day. But hark! I hear another voice amid all these rapturous hosannahs. 'Tis a low, sepulchral one: the voice of Rachel weeping for her children. There she stands, with her heart surcharged with agony, listening to the voice of melody. And as the joyful anthems of the free fall upon her ears, she is seen by the multitude,

"With a scorn in her eye which the gazer can feel,
And a glance like the sunshine that flashes upon steel."

3

And why. O why, that sad, dejected look?—Why doth the storm cloud sit upon they brow? Why dost thou yet mingle in the concert of praise? Can no gleam of sunshine penetrate thy heart, and chase the sadness from they brow? "Alas! Alas! for me," she cries; "I have no hope; they have torn me from my child, the darling of my heart. The light of its eye shall no more illume the dark chamber of my soul. Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on me, thou wouldst struggle with the martyr for the stake, and thank heaven for the flames." In the name of American republicanism, she is hurried to the rice swamp, there to dwindle, droop, and die. And the tyrants who thus crush and dehumanize our fellow-men and women, give God the glory. And yet the imperative edict has gone forth, "Thou shalt be dumb." Our foreparents were commanded, "Of every tree in the garden, thou mayest freely eat; but of the tree of knowledge, of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it, for in the day thou eatest thereof, thou shalt surely die."—We now have another edict. Of every subject within the range of human thought, thou mayest truly speak; but upon the subject of American slavery, thou shalt not speak of it for in the day thou speakest thereof, thou, shalt surely die. But we will speak. Our enemies can neither annihilate thought, nor the expression of thought.

"'Twere easier to hurl the rooted mountain from its base,
Than force the yoke of slavery upon men determined to be free."

4

Not speak of it? We'll lift our voices in defiance of the edict of the Baltimore inquisition,
"Though hell itself should rage,
And bid us hold our peace."
Not speak of it?
"Go, tame the wild torrent, and stem with a straw
The proud surges that sweep o'er the sands, that confine him
But presume not again, to give freemen a law,
Nor strive with the chains they have broken to bind them."

In conclusion, Friend Douglass, let me add our cause is just, and will ultimately triumph. Let us hope amid the gloom. Our elevation depends very materially upon our action.—We can't accomplish much while tottering upon the brink of despair. "Those who would be free, themselves, must strike the blow." I, for one, intend to hope amid thunder, lightning, earthquake, tempest, whirlwind. I feel more like conquering when looking upon the bright, than upon the dark side of the picture. Gazing continually upon the clouds and darkness, has an enervating tendency. I am constitutionally hopeful; perhaps too sanguine in my expectations. I do not love the darkness. I love to gather sunbeams, fresh every morning, with the ever grasping hand of hope. When the lurid fires of an earthly hell play round my seemingly devoted head; when rocked in the arms of an earthquake, or shaken by the whirlwind's voice, a soft, melodious whisper, like the intonation of a seraph's lute, falls upon my ear, bidding me "hope on, hope forever." I flee sometimes from the darkness that threatens to envelope me, and fly as it were upon an angel's wing, until I find myself amid bowers, beauteous and bright, plucking ambrosial fruits, and drinking from perennial fountains.

"What though the embattled legions,
Of earth and hell combine
His arm throughout their legions,
Shall soon in terror shine.
Gard on thy sword victorious,
Immanuel, prince of peace
The triumph shall be glorious,
Ere yet the battle cease."

Yours, in Hope,
Wm. J. Watkins.

Creator

Watkins, William J.

Date

1852-12-10

Description

William James Watkins to Frederick Douglass. PLSr: Frederick Douglass' Papers, 10 December 1852. Offers postelection commentary.

Publisher

This document was calendared in the published volume and has not been published in full before.

Collection

North Star

Type

Letters

Publication Status

Unpublished

Source

North Star