The Indianapolis leader. (Indianapolis, Ind.) 1879-1890, 1880-07-24

warmth and glow of humane philanthropy,
never ceasing until the slave pen and the
auction block became institutions OF the
past What story M re eloquent than this
one verse from "Nicodemus:
"Nicodemus. the slave.
Was of African birth;
He was bought for bag
Full of gold.
de was reckOned as part
OF the salt of the earth,
And he died long ago,
Very old"
And the concluding lines OF another verse:
"And his last sad request
Wake me up at the dawn
OF the greet jubilee
On the morn OF the great jubilee"
Never will forget the last time listened
to the sublime invocation to posterity,
which the poet had put into the mouth OF
the humble slave. 1t was years ago--a
party of young men of my own age, was
patiently waiting for the death OF the last
dav of grace which Abraham Lincoln had
should declare slavery forever abolished
clock tower came the greeting in funeral
LONESOME, two, three, four, five, six, seven,
eight, nine, ten, eleven. twelve Death to
the old year-brth to the new! Death to
Slave:y-life to Libertyl AS if by mutual
impulse and agreement, score of voices
shouted, LET US wake Nicodemus to-
night; and if the dead can hear the shouts
of the hving-can witness their JOY and
their sorrows, Nicodemus was awakened
that nightl The time had finally arrived
for his children to do as he requested of
them. The dawn of the great jubilee"
had come.
A song which never fails to affect an
audience, no matter what its composition,
and which has been sung more times than
any other of the old slavery ballads within
the last thirty years, is seldom heard now
days, and yet what a world of feeling it
contains:
"Way down upon the Swanee riber,
Far far away;
Dare's where my heart is turning eber-
Dare's where the old folks stay"
in listening to this old familiar ballad,
how readily does imagination picture out
the fleeing slave, far from the home of his
ancestors, worn out, weary, foot-sore trav-
cling by night and hiding by day. while
the sul en bay of the approaching blood
hounds during the long watches of the
light bursts upon his sensitive ear. So
with this one:
Take me- back to the place
VIII re | hrst saw the light
To the brighl, sunny South,
Take me back.
Who can not see in this 'plaint of
banished, yearning soul, longing to visit
once more the scenes and associations OF
youth, or the spot
"Where the little ones lie asleep,
And old master lies buried
Close by"
"Hang up the fiddle and the bow
Law down the shovel and the hoe;
There's no more work
For poor Uncle Ned,
He is gone where the good darkies CO.
Yes, and the shovel and the hoe have long
since cOrroded with rust the fiddle has
been mute for 10 these many years. And
"The little log cabin in the lane"
has gone to decay; the path which led to
the bubbling spring on the hillside is
overgrown with grass; the spring itself
has long been dry-but never will we for
get Uncle Ned. "Poor Uncle Ned"-yes
humble, obscure, if thou wilt--a slave,
certsinly-a creature, it may be. of the
phantasy-yet there can be no truer type.
How alike the real Uncle Neds and Uncle
Toms whom all of us have known.
Then wake again the songs of old"
Not that would linger in mawkish SEN
timentality over the things which in some
senses it might be we'll enough to forget
Not that would, il could, resurreet the
past-the dreadful, terrible past-with it's
auction blocks, it's chain gangs, its slave
pens and blood-hounds. Oh. no; for would
that the dead past could ''bury its dead
in this respect But that would ask you
never to forget to do homage (even though
it cause you to unbend trifile from the
proud altitude of American citizenship
which to-day belongs to you), TO the mem
ories, the martyrdoms of the sires OF your
race
Indianapolis, July u, 1890.