Part 3

With the passage of this great measure the victories of the abolitionists reached their climax. From 1807 up to 1818 their successes were fairly balanced by their reverses. The great acquisitions of new territory during this period were so many triumphs for the South, and the new free States which came into existence were erected in districts into which the slave system had never ventured. The spirit which had supported the friends of humanity in their labors seemed to be gradually decaying. The representatives of free principles in the southern States grew yearly less numerous, while an unaccountable apathy was creeping over the once vigorous and energetic societies of the North. Politicians took less and less interest in views which, if openly professed, would rob them of many friends, while candidates for National offices took refuge from such dangerous ground in discreet silence or studied ambiguity. Without spending time, therefore, upon the many less important debates that intervened between this and the year 1819 we may pass at once to the memorable one which in that and the following year, threw the whole nation into a state of unparalleled excitement. A few remarks will serve to explain the origin of this new form of the question. In 1787, before the adoption of the Constitution, the old Congress had, by a _unanimous_ vote, passed their famous ordinance for the government of the territories of the United States. Among the fundamental conditions of this compact, as it was called, and which was “forever to remain unalterable,” except by the mutual consent of both the contracting parties, was an article providing for the perpetual exclusion of slavery from this “virgin soil.” The honor of introducing the provision has been since disputed between Virginia and Massachusetts; but be that as it may, its adoption seems to have been a natural effusion from the spirit of freedom which warmed every heart in those days from New Hampshire to Georgia. The subsequent cessions of territory by Georgia and North Carolina, out of which the States of Mississippi and Tennessee were erected, had, however, been guarded by express reservations of the rights of slaveholders, and these reservations were, as we have seen, necessarily respected by Congress. But upon the purchase of Louisiana and Missouri from France in 1803, no such stipulations had been introduced into the Treaty; yet while Congress does not seem to have thought itself at liberty to interfere with the already vested rights of slaveholders in those territories, every possible measure was adopted to prevent the further increase of the race by migration or importation from abroad. Louisiana was admitted almost immediately, passing with scarce any transition from her condition as a French colony to that of an independent American State. With regard to her, therefore, it was thought inexpedient to startle these recently acquired and scarce reconciled citizens, by legislation which they might misconstrue into arbitrary misgovernment taking advantage of their helplessness. In 1802, 1816 and 1818, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois had been successively and quietly admitted under the terms of the ordinance of ’87. The country was thus in a state of perfect repose so far as this question was concerned. All early excitement had died away, a new generation had arisen in Congress, and new intellects were roaming about seeking the material for agitation and display. At this juncture Missouri applied for admission to the Union. A large majority of the Northern members at once decided that they would in all future legislation bind themselves irrevocably to the free principles of the ordinance of ’87. Missouri, it was true, had at the time a large number of slaves within her borders, but upon these vested rights as the South was pleased to call them, the North did not propose to encroach. But they contended, that up to the last moment of her territorial existence the paramount authority of Congress over her could not be questioned. The Constitution in providing that “new States may be admitted into the Union,” must have intended to allow Congress to exercise some discretionary power in the case, and how could such power possibly be exercised if not by imposing conditions upon the high privilege they were bestowing. Was it to be in the power of any community, no matter how barbarous their laws or how monstrous their social habits, to claim admission into a Union already the hope and admiration of the world, simply upon showing that they numbered the requisite population and had set up a Government which they might choose to call republican? Such a doctrine could never be tolerated in a civilized and Christian society, and never had been acquiesced in heretofore by the general Government. Not a single State had yet been admitted, except upon some conditions or restrictions. And if the general principle were once allowed that the power to impose such restrictions existed, could a case be imagined more urgently demanding its exercise? Were Congress to be called upon at this late day to roll back the tide of legislation which ever since the “immortal ordinance of ’87” had been flowing on towards the fulfillment of those bright visions of universal freedom and equality in which the fathers of the revolution had indulged? Could it be, that the southern members, who had uniformly mourned over slavery as the greatest of evils, and had proclaimed again and again that it was a heavy hereditary curse of which their constituents longed to free themselves, could it be that these very statesmen were seeking to extend this curse, to perpetuate this evil, and fasten upon the growing west an Institution that Washington, Madison and Jefferson had denounced as demoralizing and debilitating?

On the other side, it was argued that the Ordinance of ’87 was never intended by its framers to apply to any other territory than that which was actually in the possession of the United States at the time of its passage; that the established habits of the region which was now to be admitted, peremptorily called for the toleration of slavery; that the Constitution did not, and no power could restrain a sovereign State from establishing slavery, or any other institution she chose, in her midst; that any proviso like this, therefore, pretending to control that sovereignty, was an absurdity; that Congress had no power to legislate, except for territories, and by the very act into which this proviso was sought to be introduced, Missouri would cease to be a territory, and claim equal powers with those who now presumed to dictate to her; that as well might the South seek to impose slavery upon Michigan and the uninhabited forests bordering on the great lakes. As to the inhumanity of extending what was acknowledged to be an evil and a curse, it must be remembered that the narrower the boundaries into which slavery was crowded, the more terrible these evils became, and that it was only by widely diffusing it that a hope could be entertained of ameliorating, and perhaps eradicating them. Of course, the usual hints about dissolution, anarchy, and bloodshed, accompanied these arguments. But the question did not confine itself to Congress. The excitement spread rapidly both North and South. The daily press teemed with the proceedings of public meetings, with private remonstrances, and with legislative resolutions. The future condition of an enormous territory, stretching far into the distant West, was supposed to be at stake. No means were spared to rouse the public feeling to the highest possible pitch; dissolution and civil war, with all their ghastly paraphernalia, were paraded before the people through every possible medium; and when, at last, the session closed, and the question still remained unsettled, there were few hearts firm enough to look with untroubled equanimity upon the rapidly gathering storm.

The debate of the following session was still more violent. The wide-spread popular excitement urged on the Representatives of every section to express, in the angriest terms, the feelings of their constituents. The Senate had repeatedly negatived the restricting proviso, as it was called, and the House as often insisted upon inserting it. At this juncture, Maine applied for admission as a separate and independent State; and as no possible objection could be urged against her, a bill for the purpose passed rapidly through the House, and was sent to the Senate. This happy opportunity for forcing the House into a Compromise was eagerly seized, and an attempt made to saddle the bill with an extraordinary series of amendments providing for the unconditional admission of Missouri. The opponents of slavery in the Senate, though a minority, were, however, a most determined one. But in vain they represented the absurdity of calling this a Compromise, merely because two utterly incongruous measures were strangely crowded into a wholesale bill; and equally in vain, when a separation of the unnatural Union was denied them, did they, for more than a month of anxious debating, struggle to hang their favorite proviso to this already many-tailed monster. The bill, with its amendments, was sent back to the House; but the Representatives had been as busy as their neighbors, and having, by this time, nearly completed a bill of their own on the Missouri claims, the monster of the Senate’s creation was, with little ceremony, stripped of all his tails, and sent back again to that august body in his original simplicity. The crisis was now approaching with a vengeance. In vain the bill was tossed back and forward, from House to House; the fourth of March was rapidly approaching, and owing to her peculiar relations to Massachusetts, the fourth of March was the last day upon which Maine could hope for an independent existence. Rumors of secession grew louder and louder, as the hope of an adjustment grew hourly fainter. The people were wound up to the highest pitch of excitement; all other objects were forgotten in the one absorbing question that agitated every heart; and on the morning of the second of March, an earthquake might almost have rolled away unheeded, as at the battle of Thrasymene. All sides began to be seriously alarmed at the possible consequences of their temerity--the majority yielded, as usual; in a few short hours the great Missouri Compromise was passed, the storm died away, the breakers were cleared, the Union was saved, and the newspapers said that everybody was overjoyed at the happy adjustment. Whether the slaves in Missouri joined in the general jubilee and offered up their thanksgivings for the salvation of the country, does not distinctly appear--possibly, because the slaves of Missouri were not in the habit of expressing their opinions, or offering their worship through the convenient medium of the public press. In substance, the Compromise admitted the new state without the restricting proviso, and prohibited slavery forever in the rest of the purchased territory north of 36° 30´.

For nearly a year, the Union slept in peace, earnestly trying to flatter itself into the conviction, that the “distracting question” was at last put to rest, and obstinately oblivious of an ancient law enacted by Providence long before the foundations of the Union or the earth, either, were laid; and, wherein, it is provided, that of two opposing principles, one must be right, and the other wrong, that no compromise between them, however unanimously voted, can, in the nature of things, be permanent; and that in spite of enthusiastic conventions and full-mouthed Congresses, said compromises will forever tend to change, to decay, and to self-destruction. The operation of this most impracticable law, as modern politicians would term it, suddenly and most disagreeably startled the Union from its comfortable nap. Missouri, after discovering so cheap a path to celebrity, was not disposed to abandon it without further efforts to distinguish her infant name. It was still necessary for her, ere she could take her place in the happy and united family of American States, to frame for herself a Constitution, and present it for the approval of Congress. In this, she made it the duty of her future Legislature to “pass such laws as were necessary to prevent free negroes and mulattoes from coming to and settling in the State, under any pretext whatever.”

The constitutionality of this provision, which has since been adopted by several of the Southern States, has never been judicially determined. The clause with which it is thought to conflict, is that which provides, that “the citizens of each State shall be entitled to all the privileges and immunities of citizens in the several States.” Now, if residence and the right to be protected in acquiring and transmitting property under the laws be sufficient to constitute citizenship, the free negro population of every Northern State would be entitled to some privileges in the State of Missouri; and, assuredly, when a party is entitled to exercise certain rights within a given territory, it can never be legal to deprive him of those rights, by forbidding him to enter it. And even if these qualifications are insufficient to constitute citizenship, (a theory which would exclude a large proportion of the white population in some of the Southern States,) yet in a few of the free States the right of voting is at present added to them; and in these cases, at least, if the clause be not doomed to remain forever a dead letter, it would seem to find its application. On the other hand, it was urged with great force, that if the Legislature of a State esteem a certain class of population dangerous to its existence, it must be entitled by the first principle of self-preservation--the foundation both of national and individual existence--to exclude them from its midst. The clause in the Constitution cannot mean that every citizen of each State is entitled to become such in every other State. This is notoriously untrue. In some States freehold qualifications are required for voters; in others not. In some there are restraints upon the acquisition of property, which in others do not exist. Where, then, is the line to be drawn between constitutional and unconstitutional differences? Each State may determine the qualifications necessary for its voters--why may not one of them be a peculiar color? Each State may exclude from its borders the professors of particular occupations, which may be distasteful to it, or which it may fancy to be dangerous; why not those who have, at any time, exercised such occupations--which would amount to the same thing as the exclusion of an obnoxious race?

During a long and troubled session, this intricate question was argued both by Congress and the people, with a violence unknown before. Mr. Clay, for a long time, struggled in vain to close the rapidly widening breach. In vain, his famous Committee of Thirteen reported a series of compromising resolutions; both sides were too far advanced to retract, and the platform was angrily rejected. No question, however insignificant, could be taken up, into which these bitter feelings were not dragged; the business of the Nation was wholly suspended, while the contending forces hurled harangues of defiance at each others’ heads, which were re-echoed with equal fury from every village in the country. A settlement grew more and more hopeless; and, at last, a formal plan of secession was agreed upon by a minority of the State. The cry of “_Danger to the Union_” has become so hackneyed of late years, as to be treated with contempt by rational men of all parties; but, if ever it had a serious and alarming meaning, it was at the time we are speaking of. Even President making and President greeting, failed to drown the dismal foreboding, that soon all Presidents might be memories of the past. A storm was raised that no one had power to quell; “the spirits had come from the vasty deep,” and no magician was found who could charm them back again. At length, by slow and cautious advances, Mr. Clay again approached the troubled circle; increased his Committee to twenty-three, representing all the States of the Union, reasoned with them, exhorted them, entreated them; brought all those wondrously conciliatory talents with which he was gifted, to bear personally upon each member he could reach; and after the most laborious and exhausting efforts, succeeded in passing the Compromise, which, at last, quieted the Missouri question. It consisted substantially in referring the subject to the National Judiciary, to whose province it undoubtedly belonged, and to whose solemn decision the North should, from the beginning, have been content to leave it. That it has never been settled by this high authority, and that we are still unable to answer the apparently simple question--“Who are citizens of the United States?”--is certainly a very singular predicament for a great people to be placed in, but one for which the South are in no way to blame.

The violent sectional feeling, however, to which this discussion had given birth, had sunk too deeply into the hearts of the people to be eradicated by any Compromise. Its baneful effects have been since witnessed in the manner in which every great national question has been debated. We cannot, of course, fill our pages with references to these really irrelevant matters, nor have we space to follow in all its developments, the illiberal policy pursued by Congress with regard to petitions from the North upon this subject. The treatment to which they have been subjected is generally known, and the reasons for and against it too well understood to require rehearsing.

During the fifteen or twenty years following, the feeling against slavery grew constantly stronger in the Northern States, and gradually assumed a more thoroughly organized character. Anti-Slavery Societies were formed in the latter part of this period; the all-powerful machinery of the press was called in to sustain the movement; public discussions on the subject attracted general attention; and all possible means were employed, which the leaders of the party could devise, to propagate their views. The provisions of the Fugitive Law of 1793 began to be, for the first time, severely commented upon. The various laws which different States had passed, with a view to its impartial administration, were strictly scrutinized, and the Act itself denounced as arbitrary and unconstitutional. The State of Pennsylvania, unwilling that the freedom of negroes within her borders should be allowed to depend upon the unassisted judgment of Magistrates of the lowest jurisdiction, passed an Act in 1826 requiring all such cases to be heard before the Judges of the County Courts. In 1842, this law was declared unconstitutional by the Supreme Court, in the celebrated case of Prigg v. the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. In consequence of this decision, the Legislature passed an Act which had already been adopted in several of the Free States, by which all State Magistrates and Judges were forbidden to take cognizance of cases of fugitive slaves, the jails of the State were closed against the masters, and the whole subject was left to the jurisdiction of Congress, where it properly belonged.

Such was the state of public feeling, when the annexation of Texas and the conquests won from Mexico called upon Congress to legislate for a new and enormous territory. A large portion of the northern members adhered to the platform laid down by them in the struggle of 1819, resolving that nothing should induce them to swerve from the great principle established by the ordinance of 1787. The extraordinary rapidity with which the gold fever peopled California, and her consequent application for admission into the Union, doubled the difficulty; while the toleration of the domestic slave trade in the District of Columbia, the unsettled boundaries of Texas, and the complaints which both parties insisted upon, with regard to the old Act for the recapture of fugitives, were each in itself sufficient to embarrass the famous Congress of 1850. The men who prepared to meet this swarm of dangers were, probably, superior to any that had ever coped with the question before--veterans in the Cabinet and on the floor--men who had grown grey in watching the Constitution--who had received it in their childhood from its framers, and who had guarded its safety for nearly half a century with almost superstitious love. To review the famous debate which led to that Compromise, which swallowed up all other Compromises, on the broad platform of which all parties have learned to stand, though, perhaps, not very harmoniously, and in the universality of which all minor distinctions are forgotten, would be a lengthy, and is, happily, an unnecessary task. No one, who will read this paper, needs to be reminded of events so recent, and so widely interesting, that every school-boy in the land has thoroughly mastered them and is prepared with a long train of reasoning in their support or condemnation. Our only object has been to show their historical connection with the many measures that have indirectly aided in producing them, and that object, it is hoped, has been partially accomplished.

The success of this measure, time alone can determine. It has lived thus long amid great extremes, both of popular favor and odium. So far as the Fugitive Slave Law is concerned, the severest ordeal through which it has passed, and one in which its practical working has been most fully displayed, is undoubtedly the Trial of Hanway, to a brief history of which the attention of the reader is now invited.

THE TREASON TRIALS.

On the 9th of September, A. D. 1851, Mr. Edward Gorsuch, a citizen of Maryland, residing near Baltimore, appeared before Edward D. Ingraham, Esq., U. S. Commissioner for Philadelphia, and asked for warrants under the Act of Congress of the 18th Sept. 1850, for the arrest of four of his slaves whom he had heard were secreted somewhere in Lancaster County. Warrants were issued forthwith, directed to H. H. Kline, a deputy U. S. Marshal, authorizing him to arrest George Hammond, Joshua Hammond, Nelson Ford, and Noah Buley, persons held to service or labor in the State of Maryland, and bring them before the said Commissioner.

Mr. Gorsuch then made arrangements with John Agin and Thompson Tully, residents of Philadelphia, and police officers, to assist Kline in making the arrests. They were to meet Mr. Gorsuch and some companions at Penningtonville, a small place on the State railroad, about 50 miles from Philadelphia. Kline, with the warrants, left Philadelphia, on the same day about 2 P. M. for West Chester. Here he hired a conveyance and rode on to Gallagherville. Here he hired another conveyance to take him to Penningtonville. Before he had driven very far, the carriage breaking down, he returned to Gallagherville, procured another and started again. Owing to this detention, he was prevented from meeting Mr. Gorsuch and his friends at the appointed time. When he reached Penningtonville, about 2 A. M., on the 10th September, they had gone.

On entering the tavern, the place of rendezvous, he saw a colored man whom he recognized as Samuel Williams, a resident of Philadelphia. To put him off his guard, Kline asked the landlord some questions about horse thieves. Williams replied that he had seen them, and told Kline he had come too late.