Page:An Appeal in Favor of that Class of Americans Called Africans.djvu/191

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INTELLECT OF NEGROES.
177

ducted first to close prison in Chateaux de Joux, and from thence to Besançon, where he was plunged into a cold, wet, subterranean prison, which soon proved fatal to a constitution used only to the warm skies and free air of the West Indies. He languished through the winter of 1802–1803; and his death, which happened in April, 1803, raised a cry of indignation against the government, which had chosen this dastardly method of destroying one of the best and bravest of the negro race.

Toussaint L'Ouverture is thus spoken of by Vincent, in his Reflections on the state of St Domingo: "Toussaint L'Ouverture is the most active and indefatigable man, of whom it is possible to form an idea. He is always present wherever difficulty or danger makes his presence necessary. His great sobriety,—the power of living without repose,—the facility with which he resumes the affairs of the cabinet, after the most tiresome excursions,—of answering daily a hundred letters,—and of habitually tiring five secretaries—render him so superior to all around him, that their respect and submission almost amount to fanaticism. It is certain no man in modern times has obtained such an influence over a mass of ignorant people, as General Toussaint possesses over his brethren of St Domingo. He is endowed with a prodigious memory. He is a good father and a good husband."

Toussaint re-established religious worship in St Domingo; and on account of his zeal in this respect, a certain class of men called him, in derision, the Capuchin.

With the genius and energy of Bonaparte, General Toussaint is said to have possessed the same political duplicity, and far-sighted cunning. These are qualities which almost inevitably grew out of the peculiar circumstances in which they were placed, and the obstacles with which they were obliged to contend.

Wordsworth addressed the following sonnet to Toussaint L'Ouverture:

"Toussaint, thou most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough
Within thy hearing, or thou liest now
Buried in some deep dungeon's earless den;—