Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, September 22, 1855

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD—NO. VI.

CHEETHAM HILL, Sept. 22nd, 1855.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—I am again in the midst of a circle, composed of some of your warmest English friends—and of some of the most devoted and indefatigable friends of the Anti-Slavery cause. You will already have anticipated me, in my reference to the family of MORRIS; for you will remember that, in their drawing-room, the first Manchester Anti-Slavery Society was formed. You will also readily imagine the warmth of the welcome that awaited me here, and how fast we all talked round the fire on the first night of my arrival in Manchester! I left our much-loved friends at Duffield on Monday last, having spent a most delightful week with them in their sweet retreat on the banks of the Derwent. If I had had time at command, I should have given more of it to exploring the beauties of Derbyshire, as well as to the enjoyment of the highly congenial society there. We had driving excursions, riding

excursions, and walking excursions. We climbed the glorious hills, and descended into the fertile valleys; and many times we wished you could have joined us in these charming expeditions. One day I drove our dear invalid friend, M. E., seven miles in a poney chaise; her devoted husband bearing as company on foot, lest any mischief should befall us. This beloved friend feels keenly her inability to make active exertions on behalf of her favorite Anti-Slavery newspaper; (need I name it?) and her sweet little girl (one year old) sends six pairs of beautiful silk socks for the Rochester Bazaar. I am enclined to think she will be the youngest contributor. I went to the pretty little village church of Duffield on Sunday, and greatly enjoyed the service; but the sermon (from the text, "I come not to send peace, but a sword) was neither in accordance with my taste, nor my principles. One day, while I was staying at Duffield, a "friend," from Philadelphia, dined with us. Of course, he professed to be AntiSlavery; but sorely was I grieved to hear him advocate MILLARD FILLMORE, as a fitting man for the next President. I bit my lips, and listened to the eulogy, until I could hold my peace no longer; and then out came a sermon—text "The Fugitive Slave Bill." If I were rude, I really could not help it; it was most painful to me to see a kind-hearted and intelligent man, wearing a chess which is a badge of philanthropy the world over, standing forth the champion of him who, at one time, held the destinies of unoffending thousands in his hand, and who signed an edict, which surrendered them to the

fell grasp of the destroyer.

It would have been very hard work to say good-bye to my Derbyshire friends, but that I have promised to visit them again, on my way from the north.

"Sweet valley of Duffield! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace."

My journey to Manchester was extremely agreeable. Instead of going by railroad, I was advised, by my friends, to travel outside the mail coach, which passes through Matlock, Bakewell, and Buxton, and amid the finest scenery of Derbyshire. Indeed, the ride is called the finest in England. The weather was charming, (for English weather,) though in the early morning, the hills were partially obscured by mists; towards noon, these rolled away, and I saw "the Heights of Abraham," and "the High Tor," without a shadow. We passed near old Haddon Hall, of which I had an excellent view. The meandering Derwent kept us company for many miles—and then the Wye was our travelling companion, (not the famous Western Wye, but a less known Eastern brother.) At the most romantic part of our journey, one of my travelling companions opened a case, and drew forth a newly invented musical instrument, called the "Organ Accordian," and for some hours I listened to some of the sweetest music I ever heard. You will not wonder that amidst such scenes and sounds the journey did not seem a long one; that the

dingy, manufacturing town of Stockport came upon us even before we expected it; and that we were in the heart of the city of Manchester, loyal Manchester, with its hundreds of flags flying, and banners waving, at the close of a short day's ride. It was as I entered Manchester, that I first saw and felt that SEBASTOPOL WAS TAKEN. The week is flying rapidly, and on Monday I am bound for Glasgow. I heard of a death last night that I did not expect to hear. The great "North of England. and Manchester Anti-Slavery League," (I really forget all its titles,) is no more!! I have not yet learned accurately of what complaint it died, nor what its age was, nor how many mourners it had, nor to whom it left its property. Suffice it to say, malgre all the flourish of trumpets at its inauguration, it "sleeps in the shade."

LANGSIDE, near Glasgow, Oct. 2nd.

Yes! I am really in Scotland, and can now, for the first time, sing, bail, "Caledonia, stern and wild!" You, who are such an ardent admirer of Burns, will fully sympathize with me in the mental excitement I was in, when I crossed the dividing stream which separates England from Scotland, and found my foot pressing, for the first time, the native earth of Wallace, and of "Bruce of Bannockburn"—of Burns and Campbell—of the gude Sir Walter Scott and Wilson—of Chalmers and Wardlaw. I do not wonder the ardent love of country that burns so vividly in the bosom of every worthy son of Scotia— for who would not be proud of such a country—a country, that has sent forth

some of the most brilliant lights of the world—a country, whose theologians, philosophers, historians, poets, and novelists, stand in the foremost ranks of their kind—have rarely been equalled, and never excelled—a country, the achievements of whose mighty dead, tell of her struggles for independence and liberty, and whose living voice has ever testified against oppression.

"Yes! in that generous cause, for ever strong, The patriot's virtue, and the poet's song, Still, as the tide of ages rolls away, Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay."

I pity the man whose spirit does not stir within him on entering Scotland.

I have now been in Glasgow (or rather at Langside) eight days; the weather has been quite too unfavorable for me to visit Loch Lomond, or any other of the neighboring beauties of scenery—only on two days have I seen the sun—and Scottish mist is far more prevalent than is desirable for a traveller. I am agreeably disappointed with the city of Glasgow, and much struck with the massive character of the buildings, both public and private; the stone fronts of the houses present an imposing appearance, and the architecture is, for the most part, fine. Glasgow, seen under a bright, blue, American sky, would look magnificent. Perhaps it is truly said of us, islanders of Great Britain, that, when at home, we are continually