In 1840, '41, this anti-slavery movement was broken in halves by the woman question. The people believed in the silence of women. But, when the Grimkés went through New England, such was the overpowering influence with which they swept the churches that men did not remember this dogma till after they had gone. When they left, and the spell weakened, some woke to the idea that it was wrong for a woman to speak to a public assembly. The wakening of old prejudice to its combat with new convictions was a fearful storm. But she bore it, when it broke at last, with the intrepidity with which she surmounted every obstacle. By the instinctive keenness of her conscience, she only needed to see truth to recognize it, as the flower turns to the sun. God had touched that soul so that it needed no special circumstance, no word of warning or instruction from those about her; for she was ever self-poised.
When I think of her, there comes to me the picture of the spotless dove in the tempest, as she battles with the storm, seeking for some place to rest her foot. She reminds me of innocence personified in Spencer's poem. In her girlhood, alone, heart-led, she comforts the slave in his quarters; mentally struggling with the problems his position wakes her to. Alone, not confused, but seeking something to lean on, she grasps the Church, which proves a broken reed. No whit disheartened, she turns from one sect to another, trying each by the infallible touchstone of that clear, childlike conscience. The two old lonely Quakers in their innocence rest her foot awhile. But the eager soul must work, not rest in testimony. Coming North, at last, she makes her own religion,—one of sacrifice and toil. Breaking away from, rising above all forms, the dove floats at last in the blue sky where no clouds reach.
And thus exiled from her native city, she goes forth with her sister to seek the spot where she can most effectually strike at the institution. Were I to single out the moral and intellectual trait which most won me, it was her serene indifference to the judgment of those about her. Self-poised, she seemed morally sufficient to herself. Her instincts were all so clear and right she could trust their lesson. But a clear, wide, patient submission to all suggestion and influence preceded opinion, and her public addresses were remarkable for the fullness and clearness of the arguments they urged. She herself felt truths, but patiently argued them to others.
The testimony she gave touching slavery was, as she termed it, "the wail of a broken-hearted child." It was known to a few that the pictures she drew were of her own fireside. That loving heart! how stern a sense of duty must have wrung it before she was willing to open that record! But with sublime fidelity, with entire self-sacrifice, she gave all she could to the great argument that was to wake a nation to duty. Listen to the fearful indictment she records against the system. And this was not slavery in its most brutal, repulsive form. It was slavery hid in luxury, when refinement seemed to temper some of its worst elements. But, with keen sense of right, even a child of a dozen years saw through the veil, saw the system in its inherent vileness, saw the real curse of slavery in the hardened heart of the slave-holder.
A few years of active life, extensive and most influential labor, many sheaves and a rich harvest, God's blessing on her service, then illness barring her from the platform. How serenely she took up the cross! So specially endowed; men bowing low so readily to the power and magic of her words; she could not but have seen the grand possibilities that were opening before her. How peacefully she accepted the bond, and set herself to training others for the work against which her own door was shut! East, West, North, and South, come up to give testimony that these later years bore ample fruit. How many souls have cause to thank that enforced silence! I have listened to such testimonies, spoken sometimes in tears, on the shores of the Great Lakes and beyond the Mississippi."
From the following facts and anecdotes told by her husband, we see that Angelina united with the highest moral heroism, the physical courage and coolness in the hour of danger that but few men can boast. Theodore D. Weld, in his published sketch, says:
Though high physical courage is also fairly inferrable from her anti-slavery career, yet only those most with her in life's practical affairs can appreciate her self-poise in danger. Peril was to her a sedative; it calmed and girded her, bringing out every resource, and making self-command absolute. She knew nothing of that flutter which confuses. Great danger instantly brought thought and feeling to a focus, and held them there. Several perilous emergencies in her life are vividly recalled—such as being overturned while in a carriage with a child in her arms, the horse meanwhile floundering amid the débris, a shaft broken, and dash-board kicked into splinters. At another time, shots at the road-side set off the horses in a run. Seeing her husband, in his struggle to rein them in, jerked up from his seat and held thus braced and half-standing, she caught him round the waist, adding her weight to his, and thus enabled him to pull the harder, till the steady, silent tug upon the reins tamed down the steeds. Her residence at Belleville, N. J., had no near neighbors, stood back from the road, and was nearly hidden by trees and shrubbery. The old stone structure, dating back to 1700, was known as the "haunted house." Being very large, with barn, sheds, and several out-houses, it was specially attractive to stragglers and burglars. Stories had been long afloat of outrages perpetrated there, among which was a murder a century before, with a burglary and robbery more recent. We had not been long there, when one night Angelina, waked by suspicious noises, listened, till certain that a burglar must be in the house. Then, stealing softly from the room, she struck a light, and explored from cellar to attic, looking into closets, behind doors, and under beds. For a slight, weak woman, hardly able to lift an empty tea-kettle, thus to dare, shows, whether we call it courage or presumption, at least the absence of all fear. None of the family knew of this fact, until an accident long after revealed it.
Some years after this, when visiting in a friend's family in the absence of the parents, she often took the children to ride. Upon returning one day, she said to the cook, "Maggie, jump in, and I'll give you a ride." So away they went. Soon a by-road struck off from the main one. Turning in to explore it, she found that it ran a long way parallel to the railroad. Suddenly Maggie screamed: "O missus! I forgot. This is just the time for the express, and this is the horse that's awful afraid of the cars, and nobody can hold him. Oh, dear, dear!" Seeing Maggie's fright, she instantly turned back, saying, "Now, Maggie, if the train should come before we get back to the turn, do just what I tell you, and I'll bring you out safe." "Oh, yes, missus! I will! I will!" "Mark, now. Don't scream; don't touch the reins; don't jump out; 'twill kill you dead if you do. Listen, and, as soon as you hear the cars coming, drop down on the bottom of the wagon. Don't look out; keep your eyes and mouth shut tight. I'll take care of you." Down flat dropped Maggie on the bottom, without waiting to hear the train. Soon the steam-whistle screamed in front, instead of rear, as expected! Short about she turned the horse, and away he sprang, the express thundering in the rear. For a mile the road was a straight, dead level, and right along the track. At utmost speed the frantic animal strained on. On plunged the train behind. Neither gained nor lost. No sound came but the rushing of steed and train. It was a race for life, and the blood horse won. Then, as the road turned from the track up a long slope, the train shot by, taming the horse's fright; but, as his blood was up, she kept him hard pushed to the crest of the slope, then slacked his pace, and headed him homeward. Faithful Maggie stuck fast to her promise and to the wagon-bottom, until told, "It's all over," when she broke silence with her wonderments. When she got home the kitchen rang with exclamations. That race was long her standing topic, she always insisting that she wasn't scared a bit, not she, because she "knew the missus wasn't."
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