Ethiop [William J. Wilson] to Frederick Douglass, August 2, 1855

OUR CORRESPONDENT.

FOR FREDERICK DOUGLAS' PAPER

FROM OUR BROOKLYN CORRESPONDENT.

BROOKLYN, Aug. 2, 1855.

MY DEAR DOUGLASS:—Where is Ethiop?— Where? This is the question a thousand time put and a thousand times unanswered. Indeed it is one of the questions of the day down here in Gotham, and about the Heights. One says he is not in or about Gotham, and another says he is not about the Heights. Both are immeasurably true. Without attempting to answer this rather anxious question fully, still, for the especial benefit of one of the "First of August Orators," the "Fire Eater of Gotham," who came over to the quiet city of Brooklyn, on that evening to revise himself, and vociferously raised the question; and also for the benefit of the good public generally, I may give a gentle intimation as to where. Let me begin, then. Where is Ethiop?

The 1st of August just passed. It was celebrated, as you know, with much point and spirit, here especially on Old Long Island.— Cars, stages, hacks, and other delicate vehicles were charted, and for aught I know, borrowed and bought for the occasion; and a large concourse of people of all shades, sizes, and shapes, gathered at Morris' Grove in good pic-nic order ere eleven o'clock. The day, by this time, notwithstanding the threatened aspect of the morning, had put on a fine appearance; the air was soft and balmy, without excessive heat, and all present fresh and full for enjoyment and rejoicing. On arriving at the spot, we found an altar being created to liberty. The builder laid thereon the last plank, drove his last nail, and laid aside his hammer. The company were soon seated; and though in person, reading in Mor-

ris Grove, were almost as soon, by the glowing eloquence of Judge Culver being swiftly wafted in the spirit to the islands of the sea,

"Where freemen joining heart to heart rejoiced, And for hours too, with tidings laden, He did our spirits ferry o'er."

At length the Judge arrived at a point he called a conclusion, but which few were willing to admit; still we submitted, and everybody repaired to where refreshments were served, and partook bountifully. The hospitality exhibited on the occasion, was unbounded. All were invited to partake without money and without price. Refreshments over, Wm. Lloyd Garrison—the same William Lloyd Garrison of twenty years ago—fresh and vigorous in appearance now as then, mounted the stand, and after some good old-fashioned psalm-singing, led by (an old familiar face) Robert Hamilton, he, (Garrison,) for about one hour, thundered in the car of oppression, one of those telling speeches which only Garrison can make. Morris' Grove is near Jamaica, one of those once strongholds of old Long Island slavery, the relics of which are yet visible. One old white woman who had had "niggers" in her kitchen, in the days that are passed, after hearing read by Garrison a portion of history relative to West India barbarity previous to emancipation, evinced so much ignorance as to say she did not believe a word of it; it was all a lie. Another old pair, apparently from a distance, and doubtless, never witnessed such a sight before, drew near, and remained standing by the stand, during the whole delivery of Garrison's speech, lost in wonder at what they heard, and afterward withdrew to a private nook, struck a light, filled their pipes, and quietly smoked in deep meditation.

A knot of rustics left their fields and came up in the afternoon, doubtless for a little fun—They consisted of about a dozen the greatest and hardest-looking customers seen probably in a year's travel. Attempt of description is useless, yet, they were, evidently, of the gentry of the surrounding neighborhood. I have said

they came up for a little diversion, but from the extreme width of their mouths, and the saucerlike shape of their eyes, and the inclined position of their bodies, I judged they had reckoned without their host. They went away with something in their thick noodles that placed them somewhere between a dream and a reverie.

I have ever thought, and am more confirmed in it than ever, that old Long Island needs to be inundated with anti-slavery lecturers and agents; that both the black and white-faced population stand as much, if not more, in need of light as any other spot north of Mason and Dixon's line.

The exercises of the day were brought to a close by Mr.McKim, of Philadelphia; and everybody returned home well pleased with the day's excursion, and the occasion that produced it. But the affair did not end here. No black man, as you will perceive, took part in the exercises, save the Rev. J. M. Williams, who played, and the old and familiar face of Robert Hamilton, in a little singing. They (the blacks) were, of course, invited to participate, but I suppose that meant silent participation. Be this as it may, the third session of the affair came off in the Bridge Street Methodist Church, Brooklyn, in the evening, under the management of colored gentlemen. But where was Ethiop?— Those at the Grove

"Little knew good, gentle folks, The cheil was 'mong them taking notes;"

nor do I think it was distinctly known at Bridge Street, and for this reason. I had quietly entered and ensconced myself in an unobtrusive corner; had listened to the prayer of the chaplain for the oppressed and the loosed; had listened to the "familiar voice" of friend Hamilton again in a song; had heard quite a number of speeches by orators, whose names were not down on the programme, and colored all save one; and had began to store away in my mind the substance of these instantaneous oratorical effusions, as they came fresh and unstudied from the speakers, when this tide of eloquence ceased

to flow. It was for but a moment; for the master of ceremonies—a sprig of the medical profession—announced the distinguished orator from Gotham, of whom slight mention is made in the beginning of these notes. He arose—His thin lips quivered; his eyes flashed vivid fight; his locks, of which he takes some pains, shook to the hot breeze as it passed by him through the window-pane, rendering him as a whole, in appearances, wonderfully striking.—This, as you may know, is the handsome member—or rather the fire-eating member, as he is more commonly called—of the once celebrated Committee of Thirteen; and I can never behold him without being reminded of Cooper's 'Last of the Mohegans." His first and second attitudes taken, and a few smothering sentences uttered, he began to warm up; the smoke began to clear; and he finally blazed out in the following classical and beautiful apostrophy:—"Where—Oh where is Ethiop!" So sudden, so unexpected was it, that everybody looked around, while Ethiop quietly kept his seat, as unruffled as a pensive lake on a still mid-summer evening. "Where—Oh where is Ethiop?" he again exclaimed; and then pitching upon this unknown cheil, and his sayings and doings for his next text, this fire-eating orator proceeded on and on, John Gilpin-like, in a truly characteristic speech of much force, truth, and eloquence, mixed with still more wit, fun, fiction and folly, till the hour of adjournment, after which everybody went home, doubtless repeating the beautiful apostophy, "Where—Oh where is Ethiop?"

"They little thought these gentle folks, The cheil was 'mong them taking notes."

This ended the First of August on old Long Island. May the glorious day never be forgotten by us here—rather may our interest in it, and the cause of it, heighten with the lapse of years. In my next, I may better answer the question, "Where is Ethiop?"

Yours truly, ETHIIOP

Near Washington Park.