Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, February 10, 1857

OUR CORRESPONDENCE.

For Frederick Douglass' Paper.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

Number XXXVII.

IBSTOCK GRANGE, (Eng.,) Feb. 10th, 1857.

MY DEAR DOUGLASS:—Here I am, still lingering among dear, old friends, recruiting my health and strength from the breezes that are wafted over Leicestershire forest hills, and basking, in sunshine, in doors and out. But that a white world appeared beneath our feet, a few days in January, it has been difficult to realize that it is winter—a real English winter—so clear has been the atmosphere, so blue the sky, so green the grass, so balmy the air, and so brilliant the sunshine!

Yesterday was quite a gala day in the village of Ibstock. A new Baptist Chapel has been recently opened there, and a tea party and Concert, in aid of the funds, were given. The people thronged, for miles around, to this village fete—all denominations uniting harmoniously in the musical effort, which reflected great credit on the ladies and arrangers, as well as on the performers themselves. What contrasts does "Village Life," in England, present to life in a little town (we cannot call it village) in the United States! So thought I, last evening as I sat and watched the rosy-cheeked, round-faced, merry-looking villagers, diminishing the piles of sweet bread and butter, and nice plum cake, spread out before them by the liberal ladies who "furnished trays" for the entertainment; and then, when the stringed instruments, the wind instruments, and the Choral voices together sounded forth "Gloria in Excelsis," it was interesting to watch the countenances of many who were marvelling at the concord of sweet sounds, by them unheard before. Truly spake our sweet Poet when he said:

"There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;

And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased

With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave;

Some chord in unison with what we hear

Is touched within us, and the heart replies."

* * * * * *

I spent most of last week at Sherburne House, Coventry, with your old friends, the C—s. They bear you in affectionate remembrance. I had the gratification, while there, of meeting a number of the friends of the Slave, in the ancient Hall of St. Mary, and of assisting to organize the Anti-Slavery Society, which will, I doubt not, do its part in the great work, in time to come. So very full are our excellent friends there, of home work and home efforts for the amelioration of the condition of the neglected brothers and sisters around them, that

it seemed very difficult to find an opening for the distant Slave, although they have every possible desire to aid the efforts that are being made in his behalf. But, I am glad to say, the opening is made, and most sincerely do I thank these much valued friends for making it.

Nearly the whole burden and responsibility of a most important institution, for young women, rest upon two members of this family. They founded this institution eleven years ago, and have been indefatigable in maintaining it. About forty young women are there carefully educated, in habits of industry, and in the principles of true Christianity. From their skills as needle women, and laundresses, they are able to do a good deal towards the support of the institution that shelters them from the wintry blasts of a cold world.

* * * * * *

So long as I remember any thing, it seems to me that I have a recollection of three tall and famous spires of the old town of Coventry. I was only two years old when I first saw these spires; for 'twas then that the little Londoner was first taken to visit her good cousins in Warwickshire; and ever after then, as the horses dashed through the narrow winding streets of Coventry, or the rattling train entered the railway station there, the sigh of the three spires was one of joy—for its "coming events cast their shadows before," these spires seemed, to my fancy, the giant sentinels of the region of enchantment which I was about to enter—the region in which rise the lordly towers of the proud Castle of Warwick—the region in which stand the ivy-mantled walls of the ancient Castle of Kenilworth— the find Abbey of Stoneleigh—the celebrated Guy`s Cliff—the exquisitely beautiful church of Stratford on Avon, and many other places, famous the world over, some of which are closely associated with England's greatest Bard—the Bard of Avon. Most attractive were these places to my childhood's fancy, and at an early age I knew every nook and winding stair, and the tower of Kenilworth Castle;—but far more attractive to me than any of these, was a spacious and ancient red brick mansion, situated within four miles of Kenilworth, and called Wroxhall—for that was my Warwickshire home—and there free from all school restraints, and secure in the favor of the noble-minded, high-souled, ever kind and indulgent master of the domain, (one who was ever ready to rescue us from difficulty, and to take our part, if we got into mischief,) did we, children make merry, in the orchards, and gardens, and daisy-covered meadows, while from lofty swings, fastened to the tall oak trees, would our voices of gladness ascend, and our shouts of mirth. Wroxhall was, truly, Liberty Hall—for though numerous were the guests received there, and from far came friends to visit the much-honored, much loved master of Wroxhall, we, the children, were never forgotten—and while, in boundless hospitality to almost countless

visitors, the late JOHN JACKSON, Esq., was not unfrequently likened to Sir WALTER SCOTT, it was also a characteristic of both these large-hearted men, that their smallest, or poorest guest was never overlooked.

But, the place that once knew the master of Wroxhall, knows him no more. The household are all dead; not only have those members of the family, whose hair was white passed away, but two of the younger branches (one of whom was singularly fitted to fill the vacant place that few could even have attempted to fill) are gone to "that bourne, whence no traveller returns;" and Wroxhall is now the abode of strangers.

So, as I looked again at the three tall spires of Coventry last week, I fell into melancholy musings on the days gone by; and those dear ones departed. Yet,

"Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy; Bright dreams of past which she cannot destroy; That come in the night time of sorrow and care, And bring back the music which joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled; Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled; You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will; But the scent of the roses will hang round it still."

"Look not mournfully back into the past it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present, it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear, and with a manly heart."—So says one of my favorite writers; imagination can picture the voices of departed dear ones from the spirit and rejoicing; and so thought I, as I stood by the magnificent Church of St. Michael's, Coventry, whose tall spire rises up three hundred feet into the blue heavens, direct from the ground. The length of this grand ecclesiastical edifice is also three hundred feet; the architecture is very fine and the flying buttresses give it a peculiarly light and graceful appearance. The spire of St. Michael's is the tallest and finest of the three tall Coventry spires. The interior of Trinity Church has just been richly decorated, and very beautiful it appears, with its encaustic tiling, fine carvings in wood and stone, and gaily painted roof.

Who does not know that Coventry is famous for its ribbon manufactures? I went over one warehouse there, in which I saw ribbons that might well vie, in elegance and beauty, with some of the most beautiful French ribbons.

Time fails, and I must not pause to speak of the king co-operation I received from several of the Coventry ministers, nor of what a pleasant Dorcas tea party I went to, in connection with one of the chapels there, at the invitation of an excellent Scotch minister—one who, like the majority of his countrymen, is eager to facilitate every effort making for the elevation of an oppressed race.—The co-operation and kind assistance of my influential Scotch friends, is never, by me, found

wanting when sought, and never will be. This much I venture to say. From no friends of the Anti-Slavery cause have I received more practical proofs of their deep interest in the cause of freedom, and of their kind sympathy with my humble efforts to advance it than from the ministers of the United Presbyterian Church in Scotland. —a church that numbers some of the noblest and most enlightened men among its ministers I have ever met—men who, while they "contend earnestly for the faith once delivered to the saints," (as it is their duty to do,) would exceedingly rejoice if I could enlist the sympathies and aid (on behalf of the poor slave) of people of every kind and class in England—UNITARIANS not excepted.

* * * * * *

This is my last day at Ibstock. To-morrow I start (all being well) to Sheffield, having had a kind of invitation tendered me by a gentleman there to see whether I can form an Anti-Slavery Society in the town where so many bowie knives are made.

This letter is written rapidly, and in the midst of bustle. I beseech of the printers to have compassion on my writing. There are some grievous mistakes in my Newstead Letter. The Lady of ANNERSLEY is terribly misrepresented! I will reciprocate their kindness by having as much compassion on them as possible.

Always yours truly,

JULIA GRIFFITHS.

P. S.—I will write again when the Sheffield Anti-Slavery Society is formed.