Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, February 25, 1854
[Through a delay of the mail from Washington,
this letter arrived too late for publication in our
last week's paper.]
WASHINGTON, Feb. 25th, 1854.
DEAR FRIEND:—I closed my last letter
abruptly; for Mr. Charles A. Wheaton was
singing in an adjoining room, and you know
that his sweet strains are (to the lovers of
melody) irresistible. I was very much en-
joying the toughing songs—"the Blind Boy,"
and "the Slave Mother"—when the MEDIUM,
(to whom I referred in my previous letter)
was announced, and duly entered accom-
panied by a friend, who is also a Medium.
It would be utterly in vain for me to at-
tempt to describe the scene that followed.—
I wish heartily that CHARLES DICKENS could
have been spirited here for a few hours, to
have told, in his own original way how "this
Medium" (as the spirits called him) closed
his eyes to all transitory sad external things,
and opened them upon the internal world—how he, or the "spirits" through him, preached
a long and weak sermon upon things in gen-
eral—how the three believers present looked
attentive and earnest, and anxious to inter-
pret every inexplicable riddle "this Medium"
presented to the assembly—how I and other
unbelieving Ishmaelities sat in mortal terror
lest our risible faculties would at length have
full scope, and commit us, by a hearty peal
of laughter—how our excellent host quietly
made his escape from the room in the midst
of a long address vouchsafed him by the
"spirits," and commencing with "Friend
Smith"—and what an independent course
"this Medium," and the "spirits" together
took, in regard to sundry tenses of verbs and
personal pronouns. Verily! the spirit of
Lindley Murray was not among them. It
was rich to hear the questions put by a re-
nowned lawyer present to the medium, and
to see the futile attempts of his wife and
daughter to hold him back, lest he should
give offence. At length, all the patience,
possessed by our friend Mr. Wheaton, was
exhausted, and he could hold his peace no
longer. I have some recollection of hear-
ing the word humbug pronounced by some
one, and now followed one of the most comical
scenes I ever beheld, in which this Medium,
and the spirits, and three or four live mor-
tals, talked thick and fast, and did not agree
at all. Now and then I could not help ask-
ing, "Is this you, or the spirits?" Some-
times the reply came, "the spirits"—some-
times, "the medium"—and sometimes, in an
angry tone, "It does not matter which it is?"
and in this medium and I agreed.
The spirits gave Mr. Wheaton, and anoth-
er gentleman of the party, a pretty sharp
talking to, for their rude intermeddling
about things that they knew not of. Mr.
Wheaton went away, but had "the last word"
at parting. The spirits did not permit this
Medium to go until he had given a kind of
sketch of his life—his former advantageous
wordly calling— his magnanimous self-sacri-
fice in the cause of—what shall I call it?—
and his present dependence on the spiritual-
ists for support. Just as he concluded, the
spirits marvelously unsealed his eyes and
permitted him to go.
So ended Washington's birth-day with me.
Thursday morning my time was divided be-
tween Miss SARAH M. GRIMKE, Hon. J.R.
GIDDINGS, and the HUTCHINSONS; with all I
had some interesting conversation. When
we reached the Senate Chamber the hour
was late, and we found it densely crowded,
in preparation for the speech of TOOMBS, of
Georgia. It was only by considerable effort
that we obtained seats. I supposed that the
speech was a fair specimen of slaveholding
oratory. What it lacked in logic and power
was made up in vituperation and imperti-
nent brow-beating. The speaker hurled ev-
ery kind of denunciation at the heads of
Senators Seward and Sumner; the Southern-
ers smiled approbation; and Douglas glanc-
ed triumphantly around. I see that "a cor-
respondent of the N. Y. Tribune" points out
Messrs. Toombs and Stephens of Georgia as
the real instigators of this Nebraska plot—and states that Douglas is but a tool of the
plotters. This does not appear to me to be
a likely story. Douglas is a man of great in-
tellect and power, as well as of cunning, and
wears the aspect of one far more likely to
form dark plots of his own, and to use other
people to work them out, than to submit to
be used by others. Yet this designing, am-
bitious man is not all evil; Dr. Bailey was
telling me yesterday, that, outside his politics,
he has a heart, and can be good natured, as
well as generous. When asked for a contri-
bution towards the purchase of a slave, I am
told that his purse is always open, and that
he never gives niggardly. Perchance he
thinks this may be making some restitution
of the ill-gotten gain arising from his three
slave plantations in Mississippi! Senator
Sumner dined with us on Thursday. I need
scarcely to say that Nebraska, and the recent
speeches made in the Senate, formed the
chief subjects of conversation. Mr. Sumner
does not consider it a sure thing that the
bill will pass the Senate. Several Senators
are wavering; but I believe that Gov. Sew-
ard's calculation will be right, and that
of the sixty-two Senators, only twelve or
fourteen will dare to vote against this in-
iquitous project. Gen. Houston has assum-
ed a very interesting attitude on this ques-
tion. His name will be recorded as the only
Southern Senator who has had the moral
courage to speak and to vote on the side of
Right and Freedom.
On Friday, the weather being clear and
frosty, and the sun shining brightly, I joined
several friends who were bound for Mount
Vernon, and by nine o'clock our steamer was
carrying us down the Potomac.
The river is wide and gloriously beautiful—the current is rapid. Onward, onward rush the
waters in full majesty and freedom, till, many
miles lower down, they empty themselves in-
to Chesapeake Bay—a Bay renowned, not
only for its natural beauty, but for an Apos-
trophe once addressed to its waters by A
SLAVE. I never forgot that the shores be-
tween which we passed were cursed by sla-
very. In the course of half an hour we came
to Alexandria—a city still disgraced by a
slave pen. We did not land here. I had a
great desire to witness what must be the
most horrible of all sights—a slave auction,
but a young Southern lady assured me that
no ladies are ever present on such occasions.
We next reached Fort Washington—one of
the strongholds erected at the time of the
last war. We here landed, and ascended the
Fort. The ground was covered with thick
snow, through which we waded with some dif-
ficulty; but the exertion did us good, and
we were amply repaid when we had attain-
ed the summit, by the fine and extensive
prospect stretched out before us. Albeit,
the scene was wintry in the extreme, as a
light drapery of snow hung around the
trees, and covered the ground on all sides—
We returned to the boat, and soon reached
Mount Vernon, which is tweleve miles distant
from the city of Washington. Many des-
criptions have been given of this spot, which
is at ounce dear to the heart of every Ameri-
can, and revered by visitors from all climes,
as the abode and last resting place of
WASHINGTON—it would be, altogether a work
of supererogation to attempt any lengthy
details of my visit there.
I will simply say, that Mount Vernon
is delightfully situated; the house stands on
a high eminence overlooking the Potomac;
the grounds slope down to the waters' edge.
The house bears the marks of great anti-
quity; the windows are small—the sashes
thick. It is built of wood, painted white.
An extensive corridor runs along the front
of the dwelling. Visitors are now only
permitted to see the enterence hall, and two
of the lower rooms. In one of these rooms
a visitors' book is kept, in which we entered
our names. We were told that the dining
room was shown to strangers for some time,
but that a mantle-shelf, once presented by La-
feyette to Gen. Washington, became so in-
jured by visitors breaking off little pieces
for keepsakes, that an order came for the
room to be closed. So we only obtained a
glimpse of the room in which Washington
used to entertain his company through the
window. The furniture in the several
apartments is very old fashioned. I sat
in Washington's writing-chair. A bright-
looking colored boy stood in the hall, ready
to answer questions. I asked him, "Who
lived there now?" He said, "Gen. Wash-
ington's great nephew." I said, "Do you
live here?" He replied, "Yes." "But you are free?"
I rejoined. "No. I belong to
GEN. WASHINGTON'S GREAT NEPHEW." I can
not describe the thrill that went through me
at the words, "I BELONG TO"—the first I
had ever heard from a slave—for fugitive
slaves do not use that language.
How deplorable! how lamentable! how
disgraceful! that a man owning the name of
Washington, and living in very precincts
of the spot where lie the mortal remains
the immortal Hero and Father of his country
should yet hold slaves. I looked, again, and
again, wishfully at the bright-eyed boy, and
longed to interrogate him further. He told
me he could not read or write. We explor-
ed the gardens and green house, and carried
away some little relics. I have made, as
yet, no mention of the Tomb of Washing-
ton. The vault looks dreary and is in a state
of melancholy decay. On visiting it one
may truly say,
'No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep
But living statues here are seen to weep.'
The inscription above the entrance to the
vault is nearly obliterated; I dimly dis-
cerned those hallowed words that have com-
forted many a mourner, "In sure and cer-
tain hope of the reserrection from the dead."
We waded through deep snow all round the
grounds. In summer the spot must be en-
chanting. The river winds, and gentle hills
slope down on all sides to the waters' edge
But I must not linger. We returned to
Washington early in the afternoon, some-
what worn and weary, yet very glad to have
seen Mount Vernon.
This morning I have spent with friends at
home and abroad. I enjoyed a pleasant
visit with Dr. and Mrs. Bailey—also with
Gov. Seward. Nebraska was, of course, our
principal subject of conversation. Of the
various on dits I shall have much to tell you
by and bye. I have also seen our friend
Miss Miner to-day, and have made an ap-
pointment to visit her school on Monday
morning. The weather continues cold and
stormy; but we have a house full of bright,
happy faces, on every one of which it is a
pleasure to look—for no frown is seen here
and no unkind word is heard. The Peter-
terboro atmosphere diffuses itself through the
Washington dwelling.
One word more. I have just seen my first
letter in print, and some curious things your
printer has made me say. There are errors
in grammar, as well as in spelling. Let those
pass; but one correction I must make—
CHARLES D. MILLER, Esq., introduced me to
the President—not "Mrs. Miller." Then,
again, I said that in passing through Balti-
more I only saw the "Dock yards." Your
printer makes me say "back yards!"
Most truly yours,
JULIA GRIFFITHS.