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Title: My Bondage and My Freedom

Author: Frederick Douglass

Release Date: January, 1995 [eBook #202]
[Most recently updated: June 12, 2022]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: Mike Lough and David Widger

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MY BONDAGE and MY FREEDOM

By Frederick Douglass


By a principle essential to Christianity, a PERSON is eternally
differenced from a THING; so that the idea of a HUMAN BEING,
necessarily excludes the idea of PROPERTY IN THAT BEING. —COLERIDGE

Entered according to Act of Congress in 1855 by Frederick Douglass in
the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Northern District of
New York

TO
HONORABLE GERRIT SMITH,
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF
ESTEEM FOR HIS CHARACTER,
ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS AND BENEVOLENCE,
AFFECTION FOR HIS PERSON, AND
GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP,
AND AS
A Small but most Sincere Acknowledgement of
HIS PRE-EMINENT SERVICES IN BEHALF OF THE RIGHTS AND LIBERTIES
OF AN
AFFLICTED, DESPISED AND DEEPLY OUTRAGED PEOPLE,
BY RANKING SLAVERY WITH PIRACY AND MURDER,
AND BY
DENYING IT EITHER A LEGAL OR CONSTITUTIONAL EXISTENCE,
This Volume is Respectfully Dedicated,
BY HIS FAITHFUL AND FIRMLY ATTACHED FRIEND,

FREDERICK DOUGLAS.
ROCHESTER, N.Y.




CONTENTS

 MY BONDAGE and MY FREEDOM
 EDITOR’S PREFACE
 INTRODUCTION

 CHAPTER I. _Childhood_
 CHAPTER II. _Removed from My First Home_
 CHAPTER III. _Parentage_
 CHAPTER IV. _A General Survey of the Slave Plantation_
 CHAPTER V. _Gradual Initiation to the Mysteries of Slavery_
 CHAPTER VI. _Treatment of Slaves on Lloyd’s Plantation_
 CHAPTER VII. _Life in the Great House_
 CHAPTER VIII. _A Chapter of Horrors_
 CHAPTER IX. _Personal Treatment_
 CHAPTER X. _Life in Baltimore_
 CHAPTER XI. _“A Change Came O’er the Spirit of My Dream”_
 CHAPTER XII. _Religious Nature Awakened_
 CHAPTER XIII. _The Vicissitudes of Slave Life_
 CHAPTER XIV. _Experience in St. Michael’s_
 CHAPTER XV. _Covey, the Negro Breaker_
 CHAPTER XVI. _Another Pressure of the Tyrant’s Vice_
 CHAPTER XVII. _The Last Flogging_
 CHAPTER XVIII. _New Relations and Duties_
 CHAPTER XIX. _The Run-Away Plot_
 CHAPTER XX. _Apprenticeship Life_
 CHAPTER XXI. _My Escape from Slavery_

 LIFE as a FREEMAN
 CHAPTER XXII. _Liberty Attained_
 CHAPTER XXIII. _Introduced to the Abolitionists_
 CHAPTER XXIV. _Twenty-One Months in Great Britain_
 CHAPTER XXV. _Various Incidents_

 RECEPTION SPEECH [10]. At Finsbury Chapel, Moorfields, England, May 12,
 Dr. Campbell’s Reply
 LETTER TO HIS OLD MASTER. [11]. To My Old Master, Thomas Auld
 THE NATURE OF SLAVERY. Extract from a Lecture on Slavery, at Rochester,
 INHUMANITY OF SLAVERY. Extract from A Lecture on Slavery, at Rochester,
 WHAT TO THE SLAVE IS THE FOURTH OF JULY?. Extract from an Oration, at
 THE INTERNAL SLAVE TRADE. Extract from an Oration, at Rochester, July
 THE SLAVERY PARTY. Extract from a Speech Delivered before the A. A. S.
 THE ANTI-SLAVERY MOVEMENT. Extracts from a Lecture before Various

 FOOTNOTES




MY BONDAGE and MY FREEDOM




EDITOR’S PREFACE


If the volume now presented to the public were a mere work of ART, the
history of its misfortune might be written in two very simple words—TOO
LATE. The nature and character of slavery have been subjects of an
almost endless variety of artistic representation; and after the
brilliant achievements in that field, and while those achievements are
yet fresh in the memory of the million, he who would add another to the
legion, must possess the charm of transcendent excellence, or apologize
for something worse than rashness. The reader is, therefore, assured,
with all due promptitude, that his attention is not invited to a work
of ART, but to a work of FACTS—Facts, terrible and almost incredible,
it may be yet FACTS, nevertheless.

I am authorized to say that there is not a fictitious name nor place in
the whole volume; but that names and places are literally given, and
that every transaction therein described actually transpired.

Perhaps the best Preface to this volume is furnished in the following
letter of Mr. Douglass, written in answer to my urgent solicitation for
such a work:

ROCHESTER, N. Y. _July_ 2, 1855.


DEAR FRIEND: I have long entertained, as you very well know, a somewhat
positive repugnance to writing or speaking anything for the public,
which could, with any degree of plausibilty, make me liable to the
imputation of seeking personal notoriety, for its own sake.
Entertaining that feeling very sincerely, and permitting its control,
perhaps, quite unreasonably, I have often refused to narrate my
personal experience in public anti-slavery meetings, and in
sympathizing circles, when urged to do so by friends, with whose views
and wishes, ordinarily, it were a pleasure to comply. In my letters and
speeches, I have generally aimed to discuss the question of Slavery in
the light of fundamental principles, and upon facts, notorious and open
to all; making, I trust, no more of the fact of my own former
enslavement, than circumstances seemed absolutely to require. I have
never placed my opposition to slavery on a basis so narrow as my own
enslavement, but rather upon the indestructible and unchangeable laws
of human nature, every one of which is perpetually and flagrantly
violated by the slave system. I have also felt that it was best for
those having histories worth the writing—or supposed to be so—to commit
such work to hands other than their own. To write of one’s self, in
such a manner as not to incur the imputation of weakness, vanity, and
egotism, is a work within the ability of but few; and I have little
reason to believe that I belong to that fortunate few.

These considerations caused me to hesitate, when first you kindly urged
me to prepare for publication a full account of my life as a slave, and
my life as a freeman.

Nevertheless, I see, with you, many reasons for regarding my
autobiography as exceptional in its character, and as being, in some
sense, naturally beyond the reach of those reproaches which honorable
and sensitive minds dislike to incur. It is not to illustrate any
heroic achievements of a man, but to vindicate a just and beneficent
principle, in its application to the whole human family, by letting in
the light of truth upon a system, esteemed by some as a blessing, and
by others as a curse and a crime. I agree with you, that this system is
now at the bar of public opinion—not only of this country, but of the
whole civilized world—for judgment. Its friends have made for it the
usual plea—“not guilty;” the case must, therefore, proceed. Any facts,
either from slaves, slaveholders, or by-standers, calculated to
enlighten the public mind, by revealing the true nature, character, and
tendency of the slave system, are in order, and can scarcely be
innocently withheld.

I see, too, that there are special reasons why I should write my own
biography, in preference to employing another to do it. Not only is
slavery on trial, but unfortunately, the enslaved people are also on
trial. It is alleged, that they are, naturally, inferior; that they are
_so low_ in the scale of humanity, and so utterly stupid, that they are
unconscious of their wrongs, and do not apprehend their rights.
Looking, then, at your request, from this stand-point, and wishing
everything of which you think me capable to go to the benefit of my
afflicted people, I part with my doubts and hesitation, and proceed to
furnish you the desired manuscript; hoping that you may be able to make
such arrangements for its publication as shall be best adapted to
accomplish that good which you so enthusiastically anticipate.

FREDERICK DOUGLASS

There was little necessity for doubt and hesitation on the part of Mr.
Douglass, as to the propriety of his giving to the world a full account
of himself. A man who was born and brought up in slavery, a living
witness of its horrors; who often himself experienced its cruelties;
and who, despite the depressing influences surrounding his birth, youth
and manhood, has risen, from a dark and almost absolute obscurity, to
the distinguished position which he now occupies, might very well
assume the existence of a commendable curiosity, on the part of the
public, to know the facts of his remarkable history.

EDITOR




INTRODUCTION


When a man raises himself from the lowest condition in society to the
highest, mankind pay him the tribute of their admiration; when he
accomplishes this elevation by native energy, guided by prudence and
wisdom, their admiration is increased; but when his course, onward and
upward, excellent in itself, furthermore proves a possible, what had
hitherto been regarded as an impossible, reform, then he becomes a
burning and a shining light, on which the aged may look with gladness,
the young with hope, and the down-trodden, as a representative of what
they may themselves become. To such a man, dear reader, it is my
privilege to introduce you.

The life of Frederick Douglass, recorded in the pages which follow, is
not merely an example of self-elevation under the most adverse
circumstances; it is, moreover, a noble vindication of the highest aims
of the American anti-slavery movement. The real object of that movement
is not only to disenthrall, it is, also, to bestow upon the Negro the
exercise of all those rights, from the possession of which he has been
so long debarred.

But this full recognition of the colored man to the right, and the
entire admission of the same to the full privileges, political,
religious and social, of manhood, requires powerful effort on the part
of the enthralled, as well as on the part of those who would
disenthrall them. The people at large must feel the conviction, as well
as admit the abstract logic, of human equality; the Negro, for the
first time in the world’s history, brought in full contact with high
civilization, must prove his title first to all that is demanded for
him; in the teeth of unequal chances, he must prove himself equal to
the mass of those who oppress him—therefore, absolutely superior to his
apparent fate, and to their relative ability. And it is most cheering
to the friends of freedom, today, that evidence of this equality is
rapidly accumulating, not from the ranks of the half-freed colored
people of the free states, but from the very depths of slavery itself;
the indestructible equality of man to man is demonstrated by the ease
with which black men, scarce one remove from barbarism—if slavery can
be honored with such a distinction—vault into the high places of the
most advanced and painfully acquired civilization. Ward and Garnett,
Wells Brown and Pennington, Loguen and Douglass, are banners on the
outer wall, under which abolition is fighting its most successful
battles, because they are living exemplars of the practicability of the
most radical abolitionism; for, they were all of them born to the doom
of slavery, some of them remained slaves until adult age, yet they all
have not only won equality to their white fellow citizens, in civil,
religious, political and social rank, but they have also illustrated
and adorned our common country by their genius, learning and eloquence.

The characteristics whereby Mr. Douglass has won first rank among these
remarkable men, and is still rising toward highest rank among living
Americans, are abundantly laid bare in the book before us. Like the
autobiography of Hugh Miller, it carries us so far back into early
childhood, as to throw light upon the question, “when positive and
persistent memory begins in the human being.” And, like Hugh Miller, he
must have been a shy old-fashioned child, occasionally oppressed by
what he could not well account for, peering and poking about among the
layers of right and wrong, of tyrant and thrall, and the wonderfulness
of that hopeless tide of things which brought power to one race, and
unrequited toil to another, until, finally, he stumbled upon his
“first-found Ammonite,” hidden away down in the depths of his own
nature, and which revealed to him the fact that liberty and right, for
all men, were anterior to slavery and wrong. When his knowledge of the
world was bounded by the visible horizon on Col. Lloyd’s plantation,
and while every thing around him bore a fixed, iron stamp, as if it had
always been so, this was, for one so young, a notable discovery.

To his uncommon memory, then, we must add a keen and accurate insight
into men and things; an original breadth of common sense which enabled
him to see, and weigh, and compare whatever passed before him, and
which kindled a desire to search out and define their relations to
other things not so patent, but which never succumbed to the marvelous
nor the supernatural; a sacred thirst for liberty and for learning,
first as a means of attaining liberty, then as an end in itself most
desirable; a will; an unfaltering energy and determination to obtain
what his soul pronounced desirable; a majestic self-hood; determined
courage; a deep and agonizing sympathy with his embruted, crushed and
bleeding fellow slaves, and an extraordinary depth of passion, together
with that rare alliance between passion and intellect, which enables
the former, when deeply roused, to excite, develop and sustain the
latter.

With these original gifts in view, let us look at his schooling; the
fearful discipline through which it pleased God to prepare him for the
high calling on which he has since entered—the advocacy of emancipation
by the people who are not slaves. And for this special mission, his
plantation education was better than any he could have acquired in any
lettered school. What he needed, was facts and experiences, welded to
acutely wrought up sympathies, and these he could not elsewhere have
obtained, in a manner so peculiarly adapted to his nature. His physical
being was well trained, also, running wild until advanced into boyhood;
hard work and light diet, thereafter, and a skill in handicraft in
youth.

For his special mission, then, this was, considered in connection with
his natural gifts, a good schooling; and, for his special mission, he
doubtless “left school” just at the proper moment. Had he remained
longer in slavery—had he fretted under bonds until the ripening of
manhood and its passions, until the drear agony of slave-wife and
slave-children had been piled upon his already bitter experiences—then,
not only would his own history have had another termination, but the
drama of American slavery would have been essentially varied; for I
cannot resist the belief, that the boy who learned to read and write as
he did, who taught his fellow slaves these precious acquirements as he
did, who plotted for their mutual escape as he did, would, when a man
at bay, strike a blow which would make slavery reel and stagger.
Furthermore, blows and insults he bore, at the moment, without
resentment; deep but suppressed emotion rendered him insensible to
their sting; but it was afterward, when the memory of them went
seething through his brain, breeding a fiery indignation at his injured
self-hood, that the resolve came to resist, and the time fixed when to
resist, and the plot laid, how to resist; and he always kept his
self-pledged word. In what he undertook, in this line, he looked fate
in the face, and had a cool, keen look at the relation of means to
ends. Henry Bibb, to avoid chastisement, strewed his master’s bed with
charmed leaves and _was whipped_. Frederick Douglass quietly pocketed a
like _fetiche_, compared his muscles with those of Covey—and _whipped
him_.

In the history of his life in bondage, we find, well developed, that
inherent and continuous energy of character which will ever render him
distinguished. What his hand found to do, he did with his might; even
while conscious that he was wronged out of his daily earnings, he
worked, and worked hard. At his daily labor he went with a will; with
keen, well set eye, brawny chest, lithe figure, and fair sweep of arm,
he would have been king among calkers, had that been his mission.

It must not be overlooked, in this glance at his education, that Mr.
Douglass lacked one aid to which so many men of mark have been deeply
indebted—he had neither a mother’s care, nor a mother’s culture, save
that which slavery grudgingly meted out to him. Bitter nurse! may not
even her features relax with human feeling, when she gazes at such
offspring! How susceptible he was to the kindly influences of
mother-culture, may be gathered from his own words, on page 57: “It has
been a life-long standing grief to me, that I know so little of my
mother, and that I was so early separated from her. The counsels of her
love must have been beneficial to me. The side view of her face is
imaged on my memory, and I take few steps in life, without feeling her
presence; but the image is mute, and I have no striking words of hers
treasured up.”

From the depths of chattel slavery in Maryland, our author escaped into
the caste-slavery of the north, in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Here he
found oppression assuming another, and hardly less bitter, form; of
that very handicraft which the greed of slavery had taught him, his
half-freedom denied him the exercise for an honest living; he found
himself one of a class—free colored men—whose position he has described
in the following words:

“Aliens are we in our native land. The fundamental principles of the
republic, to which the humblest white man, whether born here or
elsewhere, may appeal with confidence, in the hope of awakening a
favorable response, are held to be inapplicable to us. The glorious
doctrines of your revolutionary fathers, and the more glorious
teachings of the Son of God, are construed and applied against us. We
are literally scourged beyond the beneficent range of both authorities,
human and divine. * * * * American humanity hates us, scorns us,
disowns and denies, in a thousand ways, our very personality. The
outspread wing of American christianity, apparently broad enough to
give shelter to a perishing world, refuses to cover us. To us, its
bones are brass, and its features iron. In running thither for shelter
and succor, we have only fled from the hungry blood-hound to the
devouring wolf—from a corrupt and selfish world, to a hollow and
hypocritical church.”—_Speech before American and Foreign Anti-Slavery
Society, May_, 1854.

Four years or more, from 1837 to 1841, he struggled on, in New Bedford,
sawing wood, rolling casks, or doing what labor he might, to support
himself and young family; four years he brooded over the scars which
slavery and semi-slavery had inflicted upon his body and soul; and
then, with his wounds yet unhealed, he fell among the Garrisonians—a
glorious waif to those most ardent reformers. It happened one day, at
Nantucket, that he, diffidently and reluctantly, was led to address an
anti-slavery meeting. He was about the age when the younger Pitt
entered the House of Commons; like Pitt, too, he stood up a born
orator.

William Lloyd Garrison, who was happily present, writes thus of Mr.
Douglass’ maiden effort; “I shall never forget his first speech at the
convention—the extraordinary emotion it excited in my own mind—the
powerful impression it created upon a crowded auditory, completely
taken by surprise. * * * I think I never hated slavery so intensely as
at that moment; certainly, my perception of the enormous outrage which
is inflicted by it on the godlike nature of its victims, was rendered
far more clear than ever. There stood one in physical proportions and
stature commanding and exact—in intellect richly endowed—in natural
eloquence a prodigy.” 1

It is of interest to compare Mr. Douglass’s account of this meeting
with Mr. Garrison’s. Of the two, I think the latter the most correct.
It must have been a grand burst of eloquence! The pent up agony,
indignation and pathos of an abused and harrowed boyhood and youth,
bursting out in all their freshness and overwhelming earnestness!

This unique introduction to its great leader, led immediately to the
employment of Mr. Douglass as an agent by the American Anti-Slavery
Society. So far as his self-relying and independent character would
permit, he became, after the strictest sect, a Garrisonian. It is not
too much to say, that he formed a complement which they needed, and
they were a complement equally necessary to his “make-up.” With his
deep and keen sensitiveness to wrong, and his wonderful memory, he came
from the land of bondage full of its woes and its evils, and painting
them in characters of living light; and, on his part, he found, told
out in sound Saxon phrase, all those principles of justice and right
and liberty, which had dimly brooded over the dreams of his youth,
seeking definite forms and verbal expression. It must have been an
electric flashing of thought, and a knitting of soul, granted to but
few in this life, and will be a life-long memory to those who
participated in it. In the society, moreover, of Wendell Phillips,
Edmund Quincy, William Lloyd Garrison, and other men of earnest faith
and refined culture, Mr. Douglass enjoyed the high advantage of their
assistance and counsel in the labor of self-culture, to which he now
addressed himself with wonted energy. Yet, these gentlemen, although
proud of Frederick Douglass, failed to fathom, and bring out to the
light of day, the highest qualities of his mind; the force of their own
education stood in their own way: they did not delve into the mind of a
colored man for capacities which the pride of race led them to believe
to be restricted to their own Saxon blood. Bitter and vindictive
sarcasm, irresistible mimicry, and a pathetic narrative of his own
experiences of slavery, were the intellectual manifestations which they
encouraged him to exhibit on the platform or in the lecture desk.

A visit to England, in 1845, threw Mr. Douglass among men and women of
earnest souls and high culture, and who, moreover, had never drank of
the bitter waters of American caste. For the first time in his life, he
breathed an atmosphere congenial to the longings of his spirit, and
felt his manhood free and unrestricted. The cordial and manly greetings
of the British and Irish audiences in public, and the refinement and
elegance of the social circles in which he mingled, not only as an
equal, but as a recognized man of genius, were, doubtless, genial and
pleasant resting places in his hitherto thorny and troubled journey
through life. There are joys on the earth, and, to the wayfaring
fugitive from American slavery or American caste, this is one of them.

But his sojourn in England was more than a joy to Mr. Douglass. Like
the platform at Nantucket, it awakened him to the consciousness of new
powers that lay in him. From the pupilage of Garrisonism he rose to the
dignity of a teacher and a thinker; his opinions on the broader aspects
of the great American question were earnestly and incessantly sought,
from various points of view, and he must, perforce, bestir himself to
give suitable answer. With that prompt and truthful perception which
has led their sisters in all ages of the world to gather at the feet
and support the hands of reformers, the gentlewomen of England 2 were
foremost to encourage and strengthen him to carve out for himself a
path fitted to his powers and energies, in the life-battle against
slavery and caste to which he was pledged. And one stirring thought,
inseparable from the British idea of the evangel of freedom, must have
smote his ear from every side—

Hereditary bondmen! know ye not
Who would be free, themselves mast strike the blow?


The result of this visit was, that on his return to the United States,
he established a newspaper. This proceeding was sorely against the
wishes and the advice of the leaders of the American Anti-Slavery
Society, but our author had fully grown up to the conviction of a truth
which they had once promulged, but now forgotten, to wit: that in their
own elevation—self-elevation—colored men have a blow to strike “on
their own hook,” against slavery and caste. Differing from his Boston
friends in this matter, diffident in his own abilities, reluctant at
their dissuadings, how beautiful is the loyalty with which he still
clung to their principles in all things else, and even in this.

Now came the trial hour. Without cordial support from any large body of
men or party on this side the Atlantic, and too far distant in space
and immediate interest to expect much more, after the much already
done, on the other side, he stood up, almost alone, to the arduous
labor and heavy expenditure of editor and lecturer. The Garrison party,
to which he still adhered, did not want a _colored_ newspaper—there was
an odor of _caste_ about it; the Liberty party could hardly be expected
to give warm support to a man who smote their principles as with a
hammer; and the wide gulf which separated the free colored people from
the Garrisonians, also separated them from their brother, Frederick
Douglass.

The arduous nature of his labors, from the date of the establishment of
his paper, may be estimated by the fact, that anti-slavery papers in
the United States, even while organs of, and when supported by,
anti-slavery parties, have, with a single exception, failed to pay
expenses. Mr. Douglass has maintained, and does maintain, his paper
without the support of any party, and even in the teeth of the
opposition of those from whom he had reason to expect counsel and
encouragement. He has been compelled, at one and the same time, and
almost constantly, during the past seven years, to contribute matter to
its columns as editor, and to raise funds for its support as lecturer.
It is within bounds to say, that he has expended twelve thousand
dollars of his own hard earned money, in publishing this paper, a
larger sum than has been contributed by any one individual for the
general advancement of the colored people. There had been many other
papers published and edited by colored men, beginning as far back as
1827, when the Rev. Samuel E. Cornish and John B. Russworm (a graduate
of Bowdoin college, and afterward Governor of Cape Palmas) published
the _Freedom’s Journal_, in New York City; probably not less than one
hundred newspaper enterprises have been started in the United States,
by free colored men, born free, and some of them of liberal education
and fair talents for this work; but, one after another, they have
fallen through, although, in several instances, anti-slavery friends
contributed to their support. 3 It had almost been given up, as an
impracticable thing, to maintain a colored newspaper, when Mr.
Douglass, with fewest early advantages of all his competitors, essayed,
and has proved the thing perfectly practicable, and, moreover, of great
public benefit. This paper, in addition to its power in holding up the
hands of those to whom it is especially devoted, also affords
irrefutable evidence of the justice, safety and practicability of
Immediate Emancipation; it further proves the immense loss which
slavery inflicts on the land while it dooms such energies as his to the
hereditary degradation of slavery.

It has been said in this Introduction, that Mr. Douglass had raised
himself by his own efforts to the highest position in society. As a
successful editor, in our land, he occupies this position. Our editors
rule the land, and he is one of them. As an orator and thinker, his
position is equally high, in the opinion of his countrymen. If a
stranger in the United States would seek its most distinguished men—the
movers of public opinion—he will find their names mentioned, and their
movements chronicled, under the head of “BY MAGNETIC TELEGRAPH,” in the
daily papers. The keen caterers for the public attention, set down, in
this column, such men only as have won high mark in the public esteem.
During the past winter—1854-5—very frequent mention of Frederick
Douglass was made under this head in the daily papers; his name glided
as often—this week from Chicago, next week from Boston—over the
lightning wires, as the name of any other man, of whatever note. To no
man did the people more widely nor more earnestly say, _“Tell me thy
thought!”_ And, somehow or other, revolution seemed to follow in his
wake. His were not the mere words of eloquence which Kossuth speaks of,
that delight the ear and then pass away. No! They were _work_-able,
_do_-able words, that brought forth fruits in the revolution in
Illinois, and in the passage of the franchise resolutions by the
Assembly of New York.

And the secret of his power, what is it? He is a Representative
American man—a type of his countrymen. Naturalists tell us that a full
grown man is a resultant or representative of all animated nature on
this globe; beginning with the early embryo state, then representing
the lowest forms of organic life, 4 and passing through every
subordinate grade or type, until he reaches the last and
highest—manhood. In like manner, and to the fullest extent, has
Frederick Douglass passed through every gradation of rank comprised in
our national make-up, and bears upon his person and upon his soul every
thing that is American. And he has not only full sympathy with every
thing American; his proclivity or bent, to active toil and visible
progress, are in the strictly national direction, delighting to
outstrip “all creation.”

Nor have the natural gifts, already named as his, lost anything by his
severe training. When unexcited, his mental processes are probably
slow, but singularly clear in perception, and wide in vision, the
unfailing memory bringing up all the facts in their every aspect;
incongruities he lays hold of incontinently, and holds up on the edge
of his keen and telling wit. But this wit never descends to frivolity;
it is rigidly in the keeping of his truthful common sense, and always
used in illustration or proof of some point which could not so readily
be reached any other way. “Beware of a Yankee when he is feeding,” is a
shaft that strikes home in a matter never so laid bare by satire
before. “The Garrisonian views of disunion, if carried to a successful
issue, would only place the people of the north in the same relation to
American slavery which they now bear to the slavery of Cuba or the
Brazils,” is a statement, in a few words, which contains the result and
the evidence of an argument which might cover pages, but could not
carry stronger conviction, nor be stated in less pregnable form. In
proof of this, I may say, that having been submitted to the attention
of the Garrisonians in print, in March, it was repeated before them at
their business meeting in May—the platform, _par excellence_, on which
they invite free fight, _a l’outrance_, to all comers. It was given out
in the clear, ringing tones, wherewith the hall of shields was wont to
resound of old, yet neither Garrison, nor Phillips, nor May, nor
Remond, nor Foster, nor Burleigh, with his subtle steel of “the ice
brook’s temper,” ventured to break a lance upon it! The doctrine of the
dissolution of the Union, as a means for the abolition of American
slavery, was silenced upon the lips that gave it birth, and in the
presence of an array of defenders who compose the keenest intellects in
the land.

_“The man who is right is a majority”_ is an aphorism struck out by Mr.
Douglass in that great gathering of the friends of freedom, at
Pittsburgh, in 1852, where he towered among the highest, because, with
abilities inferior to none, and moved more deeply than any, there was
neither policy nor party to trammel the outpourings of his soul. Thus
we find, opposed to all disadvantages which a black man in the United
States labors and struggles under, is this one vantage ground—when the
chance comes, and the audience where he may have a say, he stands forth
the freest, most deeply moved and most earnest of all men.

It has been said of Mr. Douglass, that his descriptive and declamatory
powers, admitted to be of the very highest order, take precedence of
his logical force. Whilst the schools might have trained him to the
exhibition of the formulas of deductive logic, nature and circumstances
forced him into the exercise of the higher faculties required by
induction. The first ninety pages of this “Life in Bondage,” afford
specimens of observing, comparing, and careful classifying, of such
superior character, that it is difficult to believe them the results of
a child’s thinking; he questions the earth, and the children and the
slaves around him again and again, and finally looks to _“God in the
sky”_ for the why and the wherefore of the unnatural thing, slavery.
_“Yes, if indeed thou art, wherefore dost thou suffer us to be slain?”_
is the only prayer and worship of the God-forsaken Dodos in the heart
of Africa. Almost the same was his prayer. One of his earliest
observations was that white children should know their ages, while the
colored children were ignorant of theirs; and the songs of the slaves
grated on his inmost soul, because a something told him that harmony in
sound, and music of the spirit, could not consociate with miserable
degradation.

To such a mind, the ordinary processes of logical deduction are like
proving that two and two make four. Mastering the intermediate steps by
an intuitive glance, or recurring to them as Ferguson resorted to
geometry, it goes down to the deeper relation of things, and brings out
what may seem, to some, mere statements, but which are new and
brilliant generalizations, each resting on a broad and stable basis.
Thus, Chief Justice Marshall gave his decisions, and then told Brother
Story to look up the authorities—and they never differed from him.
Thus, also, in his “Lecture on the Anti-Slavery Movement,” delivered
before the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society, Mr. Douglass
presents a mass of thought, which, without any showy display of logic
on his part, requires an exercise of the reasoning faculties of the
reader to keep pace with him. And his “Claims of the Negro
Ethnologically Considered,” is full of new and fresh thoughts on the
dawning science of race-history.

If, as has been stated, his intellection is slow, when unexcited, it is
most prompt and rapid when he is thoroughly aroused. Memory, logic,
wit, sarcasm, invective pathos and bold imagery of rare structural
beauty, well up as from a copious fountain, yet each in its proper
place, and contributing to form a whole, grand in itself, yet complete
in the minutest proportions. It is most difficult to hedge him in a
corner, for his positions are taken so deliberately, that it is rare to
find a point in them undefended aforethought. Professor Reason tells me
the following: “On a recent visit of a public nature, to Philadelphia,
and in a meeting composed mostly of his colored brethren, Mr. Douglass
proposed a comparison of views in the matters of the relations and
duties of ‘our people;’ he holding that prejudice was the result of
condition, and could be conquered by the efforts of the degraded
themselves. A gentleman present, distinguished for logical acumen and
subtlety, and who had devoted no small portion of the last twenty-five
years to the study and elucidation of this very question, held the
opposite view, that prejudice is innate and unconquerable. He
terminated a series of well dove-tailed, Socratic questions to Mr.
Douglass, with the following: ‘If the legislature at Harrisburgh should
awaken, to-morrow morning, and find each man’s skin turned black and
his hair woolly, what could they do to remove prejudice?’ ‘Immediately
pass laws entitling black men to all civil, political and social
privileges,’ was the instant reply—and the questioning ceased.”

The most remarkable mental phenomenon in Mr. Douglass, is his style in
writing and speaking. In March, 1855, he delivered an address in the
assembly chamber before the members of the legislature of the state of
New York. An eye witness 5 describes the crowded and most intelligent
audience, and their rapt attention to the speaker, as the grandest
scene he ever witnessed in the capitol. Among those whose eyes were
riveted on the speaker full two hours and a half, were Thurlow Weed and
Lieutenant Governor Raymond; the latter, at the conclusion of the
address, exclaimed to a friend, “I would give twenty thousand dollars,
if I could deliver that address in that manner.” Mr. Raymond is a first
class graduate of Dartmouth, a rising politician, ranking foremost in
the legislature; of course, his ideal of oratory must be of the most
polished and finished description.

The style of Mr. Douglass in writing, is to me an intellectual puzzle.
The strength, affluence and terseness may easily be accounted for,
because the style of a man is the man; but how are we to account for
that rare polish in his style of writing, which, most critically
examined, seems the result of careful early culture among the best
classics of our language; it equals if it does not surpass the style of
Hugh Miller, which was the wonder of the British literary public, until
he unraveled the mystery in the most interesting of autobiographies.
But Frederick Douglass was still calking the seams of Baltimore
clippers, and had only written a “pass,” at the age when Miller’s style
was already formed.

I asked William Whipper, of Pennsylvania, the gentleman alluded to
above, whether he thought Mr. Douglass’s power inherited from the
Negroid, or from what is called the Caucasian side of his make up?
After some reflection, he frankly answered, “I must admit, although
sorry to do so, that the Caucasian predominates.” At that time, I
almost agreed with him; but, facts narrated in the first part of this
work, throw a different light on this interesting question.

We are left in the dark as to who was the paternal ancestor of our
author; a fact which generally holds good of the Romuluses and Remuses
who are to inaugurate the new birth of our republic. In the absence of
testimony from the Caucasian side, we must see what evidence is given
on the other side of the house.

“My grandmother, though advanced in years, * * * was yet a woman of
power and spirit. She was marvelously straight in figure, elastic and
muscular.” (p. 46.)

After describing her skill in constructing nets, her perseverance in
using them, and her wide-spread fame in the agricultural way he adds,
“It happened to her—as it will happen to any careful and thrifty person
residing in an ignorant and improvident neighborhood—to enjoy the
reputation of being born to good luck.” And his grandmother was a black
woman.

“My mother was tall, and finely proportioned; of deep black, glossy
complexion; had regular features; and among other slaves was remarkably
sedate in her manners.” “Being a field hand, she was obliged to walk
twelve miles and return, between nightfall and daybreak, to see her
children” (p. 54.) “I shall never forget the indescribable expression
of her countenance when I told her that I had had no food since
morning. * * * There was pity in her glance at me, and a fiery
indignation at Aunt Katy at the same time; * * * * she read Aunt Katy a
lecture which she never forgot.” (p. 56.) “I learned after my mother’s
death, that she could read, and that she was the _only_ one of all the
slaves and colored people in Tuckahoe who enjoyed that advantage. How
she acquired this knowledge, I know not, for Tuckahoe is the last place
in the world where she would be apt to find facilities for learning.”
(p. 57.) “There is, in _Prichard’s Natural History of Man_, the head of
a figure—on page 157—the features of which so resemble those of my
mother, that I often recur to it with something of the feeling which I
suppose others experience when looking upon the pictures of dear
departed ones.” (p. 52.)

The head alluded to is copied from the statue of Ramses the Great, an
Egyptian king of the nineteenth dynasty. The authors of the _Types of
Mankind_ give a side view of the same on page 148, remarking that the
profile, “like Napoleon’s, is superbly European!” The nearness of its
resemblance to Mr. Douglass’ mother rests upon the evidence of his
memory, and judging from his almost marvelous feats of recollection of
forms and outlines recorded in this book, this testimony may be
admitted.

These facts show that for his energy, perseverance, eloquence,
invective, sagacity, and wide sympathy, he is indebted to his Negro
blood. The very marvel of his style would seem to be a development of
that other marvel—how his mother learned to read. The versatility of
talent which he wields, in common with Dumas, Ira Aldridge, and Miss
Greenfield, would seem to be the result of the grafting of the
Anglo-Saxon on good, original, Negro stock. If the friends of
“Caucasus” choose to claim, for that region, what remains after this
analysis—to wit: combination—they are welcome to it. They will forgive
me for reminding them that the term “Caucasian” is dropped by recent
writers on Ethnology; for the people about Mount Caucasus, are, and
have ever been, Mongols. The great “white race” now seek paternity,
according to Dr. Pickering, in Arabia—“Arida Nutrix” of the best breed
of horses &c. Keep on, gentlemen; you will find yourselves in Africa,
by-and-by. The Egyptians, like the Americans, were a _mixed race_, with
some Negro blood circling around the throne, as well as in the mud
hovels.

This is the proper place to remark of our author, that the same strong
self-hood, which led him to measure strength with Mr. Covey, and to
wrench himself from the embrace of the Garrisonians, and which has
borne him through many resistances to the personal indignities offered
him as a colored man, sometimes becomes a hyper-sensitiveness to such
assaults as men of his mark will meet with, on paper. Keen and
unscrupulous opponents have sought, and not unsuccessfully, to pierce
him in this direction; for well they know, that if assailed, he will
smite back.

It is not without a feeling of pride, dear reader, that I present you
with this book. The son of a self-emancipated bond-woman, I feel joy in
introducing to you my brother, who has rent his own bonds, and who, in
his every relation—as a public man, as a husband and as a father—is
such as does honor to the land which gave him birth. I shall place this
book in the hands of the only child spared me, bidding him to strive
and emulate its noble example. You may do likewise. It is an American
book, for Americans, in the fullest sense of the idea. It shows that
the worst of our institutions, in its worst aspect, cannot keep down
energy, truthfulness, and earnest struggle for the right. It proves the
justice and practicability of Immediate Emancipation. It shows that any
man in our land, “no matter in what battle his liberty may have been
cloven down, * * * * no matter what complexion an Indian or an African
sun may have burned upon him,” not only may “stand forth redeemed and
disenthralled,” but may also stand up a candidate for the highest
suffrage of a great people—the tribute of their honest, hearty
admiration. Reader, _Vale! New York_

JAMES M’CUNE SMITH




CHAPTER I. _Childhood_


PLACE OF BIRTH—CHARACTER OF THE DISTRICT—TUCKAHOE—ORIGIN OF THE
NAME—CHOPTANK RIVER—TIME OF BIRTH—GENEALOGICAL TREES—MODE OF COUNTING
TIME—NAMES OF GRANDPARENTS—THEIR POSITION—GRANDMOTHER ESPECIALLY
ESTEEMED—“BORN TO GOOD LUCK”—SWEET POTATOES—SUPERSTITION—THE LOG
CABIN—ITS CHARMS—SEPARATING CHILDREN—MY AUNTS—THEIR NAMES—FIRST
KNOWLEDGE OF BEING A SLAVE—OLD MASTER—GRIEFS AND JOYS OF
CHILDHOOD—COMPARATIVE HAPPINESS OF THE SLAVE-BOY AND THE SON OF A
SLAVEHOLDER.


In Talbot county, Eastern Shore, Maryland, near Easton, the county town
of that county, there is a small district of country, thinly populated,
and remarkable for nothing that I know of more than for the worn-out,
sandy, desert-like appearance of its soil, the general dilapidation of
its farms and fences, the indigent and spiritless character of its
inhabitants, and the prevalence of ague and fever.

The name of this singularly unpromising and truly famine stricken
district is Tuckahoe, a name well known to all Marylanders, black and
white. It was given to this section of country probably, at the first,
merely in derision; or it may possibly have been applied to it, as I
have heard, because some one of its earlier inhabitants had been guilty
of the petty meanness of stealing a hoe—or taking a hoe that did not
belong to him. Eastern Shore men usually pronounce the word _took_, as
_tuck; Took-a-hoe_, therefore, is, in Maryland parlance, _Tuckahoe_.
But, whatever may have been its origin—and about this I will not be
positive—that name has stuck to the district in question; and it is
seldom mentioned but with contempt and derision, on account of the
barrenness of its soil, and the ignorance, indolence, and poverty of
its people. Decay and ruin are everywhere visible, and the thin
population of the place would have quitted it long ago, but for the
Choptank river, which runs through it, from which they take abundance
of shad and herring, and plenty of ague and fever.

It was in this dull, flat, and unthrifty district, or neighborhood,
surrounded by a white population of the lowest order, indolent and
drunken to a proverb, and among slaves, who seemed to ask, _“Oh! what’s
the use?”_ every time they lifted a hoe, that I—without any fault of
mine was born, and spent the first years of my childhood.

The reader will pardon so much about the place of my birth, on the
score that it is always a fact of some importance to know where a man
is born, if, indeed, it be important to know anything about him. In
regard to the _time_ of my birth, I cannot be as definite as I have
been respecting the _place_. Nor, indeed, can I impart much knowledge
concerning my parents. Genealogical trees do not flourish among slaves.
A person of some consequence here in the north, sometimes designated
_father_, is literally abolished in slave law and slave practice. It is
only once in a while that an exception is found to this statement. I
never met with a slave who could tell me how old he was. Few
slave-mothers know anything of the months of the year, nor of the days
of the month. They keep no family records, with marriages, births, and
deaths. They measure the ages of their children by spring time, winter
time, harvest time, planting time, and the like; but these soon become
undistinguishable and forgotten. Like other slaves, I cannot tell how
old I am. This destitution was among my earliest troubles. I learned
when I grew up, that my master—and this is the case with masters
generally—allowed no questions to be put to him, by which a slave might
learn his age. Such questions deemed evidence of impatience, and even
of impudent curiosity. From certain events, however, the dates of which
I have since learned, I suppose myself to have been born about the year
1817.

The first experience of life with me that I now remember—and I remember
it but hazily—began in the family of my grandmother and grandfather.
Betsey and Isaac Baily. They were quite advanced in life, and had long
lived on the spot where they then resided. They were considered old
settlers in the neighborhood, and, from certain circumstances, I infer
that my grandmother, especially, was held in high esteem, far higher
than is the lot of most colored persons in the slave states. She was a
good nurse, and a capital hand at making nets for catching shad and
herring; and these nets were in great demand, not only in Tuckahoe, but
at Denton and Hillsboro, neighboring villages. She was not only good at
making the nets, but was also somewhat famous for her good fortune in
taking the fishes referred to. I have known her to be in the water half
the day. Grandmother was likewise more provident than most of her
neighbors in the preservation of seedling sweet potatoes, and it
happened to her—as it will happen to any careful and thrifty person
residing in an ignorant and improvident community—to enjoy the
reputation of having been born to “good luck.” Her “good luck” was
owing to the exceeding care which she took in preventing the succulent
root from getting bruised in the digging, and in placing it beyond the
reach of frost, by actually burying it under the hearth of her cabin
during the winter months. In the time of planting sweet potatoes,
“Grandmother Betty,” as she was familiarly called, was sent for in all
directions, simply to place the seedling potatoes in the hills; for
superstition had it, that if “Grandmamma Betty but touches them at
planting, they will be sure to grow and flourish.” This high reputation
was full of advantage to her, and to the children around her. Though
Tuckahoe had but few of the good things of life, yet of such as it did
possess grandmother got a full share, in the way of presents. If good
potato crops came after her planting, she was not forgotten by those
for whom she planted; and as she was remembered by others, so she
remembered the hungry little ones around her.

The dwelling of my grandmother and grandfather had few pretensions. It
was a log hut, or cabin, built of clay, wood, and straw. At a distance
it resembled—though it was smaller, less commodious and less
substantial—the cabins erected in the western states by the first
settlers. To my child’s eye, however, it was a noble structure,
admirably adapted to promote the comforts and conveniences of its
inmates. A few rough, Virginia fence-rails, flung loosely over the
rafters above, answered the triple purpose of floors, ceilings, and
bedsteads. To be sure, this upper apartment was reached only by a
ladder—but what in the world for climbing could be better than a
ladder? To me, this ladder was really a high invention, and possessed a
sort of charm as I played with delight upon the rounds of it. In this
little hut there was a large family of children: I dare not say how
many. My grandmother—whether because too old for field service, or
because she had so faithfully discharged the duties of her station in
early life, I know not—enjoyed the high privilege of living in a cabin,
separate from the quarter, with no other burden than her own support,
and the necessary care of the little children, imposed. She evidently
esteemed it a great fortune to live so. The children were not her own,
but her grandchildren—the children of her daughters. She took delight
in having them around her, and in attending to their few wants. The
practice of separating children from their mother, and hiring the
latter out at distances too great to admit of their meeting, except at
long intervals, is a marked feature of the cruelty and barbarity of the
slave system. But it is in harmony with the grand aim of slavery,
which, always and everywhere, is to reduce man to a level with the
brute. It is a successful method of obliterating from the mind and
heart of the slave, all just ideas of the sacredness of _the family_,
as an institution.

Most of the children, however, in this instance, being the children of
my grandmother’s daughters, the notions of family, and the reciprocal
duties and benefits of the relation, had a better chance of being
understood than where children are placed—as they often are in the
hands of strangers, who have no care for them, apart from the wishes of
their masters. The daughters of my grandmother were five in number.
Their names were JENNY, ESTHER, MILLY, PRISCILLA, and HARRIET. The
daughter last named was my mother, of whom the reader shall learn more
by-and-by.

Living here, with my dear old grandmother and grandfather, it was a
long time before I knew myself to be _a slave_. I knew many other
things before I knew that. Grandmother and grandfather were the
greatest people in the world to me; and being with them so snugly in
their own little cabin—I supposed it be their own—knowing no higher
authority over me or the other children than the authority of
grandmamma, for a time there was nothing to disturb me; but, as I grew
larger and older, I learned by degrees the sad fact, that the “little
hut,” and the lot on which it stood, belonged not to my dear old
grandparents, but to some person who lived a great distance off, and
who was called, by grandmother, “OLD MASTER.” I further learned the
sadder fact, that not only the house and lot, but that grandmother
herself, (grandfather was free,) and all the little children around
her, belonged to this mysterious personage, called by grandmother, with
every mark of reverence, “Old Master.” Thus early did clouds and
shadows begin to fall upon my path. Once on the track—troubles never
come singly—I was not long in finding out another fact, still more
grievous to my childish heart. I was told that this “old master,” whose
name seemed ever to be mentioned with fear and shuddering, only allowed
the children to live with grandmother for a limited time, and that in
fact as soon as they were big enough, they were promptly taken away, to
live with the said “old master.” These were distressing revelations
indeed; and though I was quite too young to comprehend the full import
of the intelligence, and mostly spent my childhood days in gleesome
sports with the other children, a shade of disquiet rested upon me.

The absolute power of this distant “old master” had touched my young
spirit with but the point of its cold, cruel iron, and left me
something to brood over after the play and in moments of repose.
Grandmammy was, indeed, at that time, all the world to me; and the
thought of being separated from her, in any considerable time, was more
than an unwelcome intruder. It was intolerable.

Children have their sorrows as well as men and women; and it would be
well to remember this in our dealings with them. SLAVE-children _are_
children, and prove no exceptions to the general rule. The liability to
be separated from my grandmother, seldom or never to see her again,
haunted me. I dreaded the thought of going to live with that mysterious
“old master,” whose name I never heard mentioned with affection, but
always with fear. I look back to this as among the heaviest of my
childhood’s sorrows. My grandmother! my grandmother! and the little
hut, and the joyous circle under her care, but especially _she_, who
made us sorry when she left us but for an hour, and glad on her
return,—how could I leave her and the good old home?

But the sorrows of childhood, like the pleasures of after life, are
transient. It is not even within the power of slavery to write
_indelible_ sorrow, at a single dash, over the heart of a child.

The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose—
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush—the flower is dry.


There is, after all, but little difference in the measure of
contentment felt by the slave-child neglected and the slaveholder’s
child cared for and petted. The spirit of the All Just mercifully holds
the balance for the young.

The slaveholder, having nothing to fear from impotent childhood, easily
affords to refrain from cruel inflictions; and if cold and hunger do
not pierce the tender frame, the first seven or eight years of the
slave-boy’s life are about as full of sweet content as those of the
most favored and petted _white_ children of the slaveholder. The
slave-boy escapes many troubles which befall and vex his white brother.
He seldom has to listen to lectures on propriety of behavior, or on
anything else. He is never chided for handling his little knife and
fork improperly or awkwardly, for he uses none. He is never reprimanded
for soiling the table-cloth, for he takes his meals on the clay floor.
He never has the misfortune, in his games or sports, of soiling or
tearing his clothes, for he has almost none to soil or tear. He is
never expected to act like a nice little gentleman, for he is only a
rude little slave. Thus, freed from all restraint, the slave-boy can
be, in his life and conduct, a genuine boy, doing whatever his boyish
nature suggests; enacting, by turns, all the strange antics and freaks
of horses, dogs, pigs, and barn-door fowls, without in any manner
compromising his dignity, or incurring reproach of any sort. He
literally runs wild; has no pretty little verses to learn in the
nursery; no nice little speeches to make for aunts, uncles, or cousins,
to show how smart he is; and, if he can only manage to keep out of the
way of the heavy feet and fists of the older slave boys, he may trot
on, in his joyous and roguish tricks, as happy as any little heathen
under the palm trees of Africa. To be sure, he is occasionally
reminded, when he stumbles in the path of his master—and this he early
learns to avoid—that he is eating his _“white bread,”_ and that he will
be made to _“see sights”_ by-and-by. The threat is soon forgotten; the
shadow soon passes, and our sable boy continues to roll in the dust, or
play in the mud, as bests suits him, and in the veriest freedom. If he
feels uncomfortable, from mud or from dust, the coast is clear; he can
plunge into the river or the pond, without the ceremony of undressing,
or the fear of wetting his clothes; his little tow-linen shirt—for that
is all he has on—is easily dried; and it needed ablution as much as did
his skin. His food is of the coarsest kind, consisting for the most
part of cornmeal mush, which often finds it way from the wooden tray to
his mouth in an oyster shell. His days, when the weather is warm, are
spent in the pure, open air, and in the bright sunshine. He always
sleeps in airy apartments; he seldom has to take powders, or to be paid
to swallow pretty little sugar-coated pills, to cleanse his blood, or
to quicken his appetite. He eats no candies; gets no lumps of loaf
sugar; always relishes his food; cries but little, for nobody cares for
his crying; learns to esteem his bruises but slight, because others so
esteem them. In a word, he is, for the most part of the first eight
years of his life, a spirited, joyous, uproarious, and happy boy, upon
whom troubles fall only like water on a duck’s back. And such a boy, so
far as I can now remember, was the boy whose life in slavery I am now
narrating.




CHAPTER II. _Removed from My First Home_


THE NAME “OLD MASTER” A TERROR—COLONEL LLOYD’S PLANTATION—WYE
RIVER—WHENCE ITS NAME—POSITION OF THE LLOYDS—HOME ATTRACTION—MEET
OFFERING—JOURNEY FROM TUCKAHOE TO WYE RIVER—SCENE ON REACHING OLD
MASTER’S—DEPARTURE OF GRANDMOTHER—STRANGE MEETING OF SISTERS AND
BROTHERS—REFUSAL TO BE COMFORTED—SWEET SLEEP.


That mysterious individual referred to in the first chapter as an
object of terror among the inhabitants of our little cabin, under the
ominous title of “old master,” was really a man of some consequence. He
owned several farms in Tuckahoe; was the chief clerk and butler on the
home plantation of Col. Edward Lloyd; had overseers on his own farms;
and gave directions to overseers on the farms belonging to Col. Lloyd.
This plantation is situated on Wye river—the river receiving its name,
doubtless, from Wales, where the Lloyds originated. They (the Lloyds)
are an old and honored family in Maryland, exceedingly wealthy. The
home plantation, where they have resided, perhaps for a century or
more, is one of the largest, most fertile, and best appointed, in the
state.

About this plantation, and about that queer old master—who must be
something more than a man, and something worse than an angel—the reader
will easily imagine that I was not only curious, but eager, to know all
that could be known. Unhappily for me, however, all the information I
could get concerning him increased my great dread of being carried
thither—of being separated from and deprived of the protection of my
grandmother and grandfather. It was, evidently, a great thing to go to
Col. Lloyd’s; and I was not without a little curiosity to see the
place; but no amount of coaxing could induce in me the wish to remain
there. The fact is, such was my dread of leaving the little cabin, that
I wished to remain little forever, for I knew the taller I grew the
shorter my stay. The old cabin, with its rail floor and rail bedsteads
upstairs, and its clay floor downstairs, and its dirt chimney, and
windowless sides, and that most curious piece of workmanship dug in
front of the fireplace, beneath which grandmammy placed the sweet
potatoes to keep them from the frost, was MY HOME—the only home I ever
had; and I loved it, and all connected with it. The old fences around
it, and the stumps in the edge of the woods near it, and the squirrels
that ran, skipped, and played upon them, were objects of interest and
affection. There, too, right at the side of the hut, stood the old
well, with its stately and skyward-pointing beam, so aptly placed
between the limbs of what had once been a tree, and so nicely balanced
that I could move it up and down with only one hand, and could get a
drink myself without calling for help. Where else in the world could
such a well be found, and where could such another home be met with?
Nor were these all the attractions of the place. Down in a little
valley, not far from grandmammy’s cabin, stood Mr. Lee’s mill, where
the people came often in large numbers to get their corn ground. It was
a watermill; and I never shall be able to tell the many things thought
and felt, while I sat on the bank and watched that mill, and the
turning of that ponderous wheel. The mill-pond, too, had its charms;
and with my pinhook, and thread line, I could get _nibbles_, if I could
catch no fish. But, in all my sports and plays, and in spite of them,
there would, occasionally, come the painful foreboding that I was not
long to remain there, and that I must soon be called away to the home
of old master.

I was A SLAVE—born a slave and though the fact was incomprehensible to
me, it conveyed to my mind a sense of my entire dependence on the will
of _somebody_ I had never seen; and, from some cause or other, I had
been made to fear this somebody above all else on earth. Born for
another’s benefit, as the _firstling_ of the cabin flock I was soon to
be selected as a meet offering to the fearful and inexorable _demigod_,
whose huge image on so many occasions haunted my childhood’s
imagination. When the time of my departure was decided upon, my
grandmother, knowing my fears, and in pity for them, kindly kept me
ignorant of the dreaded event about to transpire. Up to the morning (a
beautiful summer morning) when we were to start, and, indeed, during
the whole journey—a journey which, child as I was, I remember as well
as if it were yesterday—she kept the sad fact hidden from me. This
reserve was necessary; for, could I have known all, I should have given
grandmother some trouble in getting me started. As it was, I was
helpless, and she—dear woman!—led me along by the hand, resisting, with
the reserve and solemnity of a priestess, all my inquiring looks to the
last.

The distance from Tuckahoe to Wye river—where my old master lived—was
full twelve miles, and the walk was quite a severe test of the
endurance of my young legs. The journey would have proved too severe
for me, but that my dear old grandmother—blessings on her
memory!—afforded occasional relief by “toting” me (as Marylanders have
it) on her shoulder. My grandmother, though advanced in years—as was
evident from more than one gray hair, which peeped from between the
ample and graceful folds of her newly-ironed bandana turban—was yet a
woman of power and spirit. She was marvelously straight in figure,
elastic, and muscular. I seemed hardly to be a burden to her. She would
have “toted” me farther, but that I felt myself too much of a man to
allow it, and insisted on walking. Releasing dear grandmamma from
carrying me, did not make me altogether independent of her, when we
happened to pass through portions of the somber woods which lay between
Tuckahoe and Wye river. She often found me increasing the energy of my
grip, and holding her clothing, lest something should come out of the
woods and eat me up. Several old logs and stumps imposed upon me, and
got themselves taken for wild beasts. I could see their legs, eyes, and
ears, or I could see something like eyes, legs, and ears, till I got
close enough to them to see that the eyes were knots, washed white with
rain, and the legs were broken limbs, and the ears, only ears owing to
the point from which they were seen. Thus early I learned that the
point from which a thing is viewed is of some importance.

As the day advanced the heat increased; and it was not until the
afternoon that we reached the much dreaded end of the journey. I found
myself in the midst of a group of children of many colors; black,
brown, copper colored, and nearly white. I had not seen so many
children before. Great houses loomed up in different directions, and a
great many men and women were at work in the fields. All this hurry,
noise, and singing was very different from the stillness of Tuckahoe.
As a new comer, I was an object of special interest; and, after
laughing and yelling around me, and playing all sorts of wild tricks,
they (the children) asked me to go out and play with them. This I
refused to do, preferring to stay with grandmamma. I could not help
feeling that our being there boded no good to me. Grandmamma looked
sad. She was soon to lose another object of affection, as she had lost
many before. I knew she was unhappy, and the shadow fell from her brow
on me, though I knew not the cause.

All suspense, however, must have an end; and the end of mine, in this
instance, was at hand. Affectionately patting me on the head, and
exhorting me to be a good boy, grandmamma told me to go and play with
the little children. “They are kin to you,” said she; “go and play with
them.” Among a number of cousins were Phil, Tom, Steve, and Jerry,
Nance and Betty.

Grandmother pointed out my brother PERRY, my sister SARAH, and my
sister ELIZA, who stood in the group. I had never seen my brother nor
my sisters before; and, though I had sometimes heard of them, and felt
a curious interest in them, I really did not understand what they were
to me, or I to them. We were brothers and sisters, but what of that?
Why should they be attached to me, or I to them? Brothers and sisters
we were by blood; but _slavery_ had made us strangers. I heard the
words brother and sisters, and knew they must mean something; but
slavery had robbed these terms of their true meaning. The experience
through which I was passing, they had passed through before. They had
already been initiated into the mysteries of old master’s domicile, and
they seemed to look upon me with a certain degree of compassion; but my
heart clave to my grandmother. Think it not strange, dear reader, that
so little sympathy of feeling existed between us. The conditions of
brotherly and sisterly feeling were wanting—we had never nestled and
played together. My poor mother, like many other slave-women, had many
_children_, but NO FAMILY! The domestic hearth, with its holy lessons
and precious endearments, is abolished in the case of a slave-mother
and her children. “Little children, love one another,” are words seldom
heard in a slave cabin.

I really wanted to play with my brother and sisters, but they were
strangers to me, and I was full of fear that grandmother might leave
without taking me with her. Entreated to do so, however, and that, too,
by my dear grandmother, I went to the back part of the house, to play
with them and the other children. _Play_, however, I did not, but stood
with my back against the wall, witnessing the playing of the others. At
last, while standing there, one of the children, who had been in the
kitchen, ran up to me, in a sort of roguish glee, exclaiming, “Fed,
Fed! grandmammy gone! grandmammy gone!” I could not believe it; yet,
fearing the worst, I ran into the kitchen, to see for myself, and found
it even so. Grandmammy had indeed gone, and was now far away, “clean”
out of sight. I need not tell all that happened now. Almost
heart-broken at the discovery, I fell upon the ground, and wept a boy’s
bitter tears, refusing to be comforted. My brother and sisters came
around me, and said, “Don’t cry,” and gave me peaches and pears, but I
flung them away, and refused all their kindly advances. I had never
been deceived before; and I felt not only grieved at parting—as I
supposed forever—with my grandmother, but indignant that a trick had
been played upon me in a matter so serious.

It was now late in the afternoon. The day had been an exciting and
wearisome one, and I knew not how or where, but I suppose I sobbed
myself to sleep. There is a healing in the angel wing of sleep, even
for the slave-boy; and its balm was never more welcome to any wounded
soul than it was to mine, the first night I spent at the domicile of
old master. The reader may be surprised that I narrate so minutely an
incident apparently so trivial, and which must have occurred when I was
not more than seven years old; but as I wish to give a faithful history
of my experience in slavery, I cannot withhold a circumstance which, at
the time, affected me so deeply. Besides, this was, in fact, my first
introduction to the realities of slavery.




CHAPTER III. _Parentage_


MY FATHER SHROUDED IN MYSTERY—MY MOTHER—HER PERSONAL
APPEARANCE—INTERFERENCE OF SLAVERY WITH THE NATURAL AFFECTIONS OF
MOTHER AND CHILDREN—SITUATION OF MY MOTHER—HER NIGHTLY VISITS TO HER
BOY—STRIKING INCIDENT—HER DEATH—HER PLACE OF BURIAL.


If the reader will now be kind enough to allow me time to grow bigger,
and afford me an opportunity for my experience to become greater, I
will tell him something, by-and-by, of slave life, as I saw, felt, and
heard it, on Col. Edward Lloyd’s plantation, and at the house of old
master, where I had now, despite of myself, most suddenly, but not
unexpectedly, been dropped. Meanwhile, I will redeem my promise to say
something more of my dear mother.

I say nothing of _father_, for he is shrouded in a mystery I have never
been able to penetrate. Slavery does away with fathers, as it does away
with families. Slavery has no use for either fathers or families, and
its laws do not recognize their existence in the social arrangements of
the plantation. When they _do_ exist, they are not the outgrowths of
slavery, but are antagonistic to that system. The order of civilization
is reversed here. The name of the child is not expected to be that of
its father, and his condition does not necessarily affect that of the
child. He may be the slave of Mr. Tilgman; and his child, when born,
may be the slave of Mr. Gross. He may be a _freeman;_ and yet his child
may be a _chattel_. He may be white, glorying in the purity of his
Anglo-Saxon blood; and his child may be ranked with the blackest
slaves. Indeed, he _may_ be, and often _is_, master and father to the
same child. He can be father without being a husband, and may sell his
child without incurring reproach, if the child be by a woman in whose
veins courses one thirty-second part of African blood. My father was a
white man, or nearly white. It was sometimes whispered that my master
was my father.

But to return, or rather, to begin. My knowledge of my mother is very
scanty, but very distinct. Her personal appearance and bearing are
ineffaceably stamped upon my memory. She was tall, and finely
proportioned; of deep black, glossy complexion; had regular features,
and, among the other slaves, was remarkably sedate in her manners.
There is in _Prichard’s Natural History of Man_, the head of a
figure—on page 157—the features of which so resemble those of my
mother, that I often recur to it with something of the feeling which I
suppose others experience when looking upon the pictures of dear
departed ones.

Yet I cannot say that I was very deeply attached to my mother;
certainly not so deeply as I should have been had our relations in
childhood been different. We were separated, according to the common
custom, when I was but an infant, and, of course, before I knew my
mother from any one else.

The germs of affection with which the Almighty, in his wisdom and
mercy, arms the hopeless infant against the ills and vicissitudes of
his lot, had been directed in their growth toward that loving old
grandmother, whose gentle hand and kind deportment it was in the first
effort of my infantile understanding to comprehend and appreciate.
Accordingly, the tenderest affection which a beneficent Father allows,
as a partial compensation to the mother for the pains and lacerations
of her heart, incident to the maternal relation, was, in my case,
diverted from its true and natural object, by the envious, greedy, and
treacherous hand of slavery. The slave-mother can be spared long enough
from the field to endure all the bitterness of a mother’s anguish, when
it adds another name to a master’s ledger, but _not_ long enough to
receive the joyous reward afforded by the intelligent smiles of her
child. I never think of this terrible interference of slavery with my
infantile affections, and its diverting them from their natural course,
without feelings to which I can give no adequate expression.

I do not remember to have seen my mother at my grandmother’s at any
time. I remember her only in her visits to me at Col. Lloyd’s
plantation, and in the kitchen of my old master. Her visits to me there
were few in number, brief in duration, and mostly made in the night.
The pains she took, and the toil she endured, to see me, tells me that
a true mother’s heart was hers, and that slavery had difficulty in
paralyzing it with unmotherly indifference.

My mother was hired out to a Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve miles
from old master’s, and, being a field hand, she seldom had leisure, by
day, for the performance of the journey. The nights and the distance
were both obstacles to her visits. She was obliged to walk, unless
chance flung into her way an opportunity to ride; and the latter was
sometimes her good luck. But she always had to walk one way or the
other. It was a greater luxury than slavery could afford, to allow a
black slave-mother a horse or a mule, upon which to travel twenty-four
miles, when she could walk the distance. Besides, it is deemed a
foolish whim for a slave-mother to manifest concern to see her
children, and, in one point of view, the case is made out—she can do
nothing for them. She has no control over them; the master is even more
than the mother, in all matters touching the fate of her child. Why,
then, should she give herself any concern? She has no responsibility.
Such is the reasoning, and such the practice. The iron rule of the
plantation, always passionately and violently enforced in that
neighborhood, makes flogging the penalty of failing to be in the field
before sunrise in the morning, unless special permission be given to
the absenting slave. “I went to see my child,” is no excuse to the ear
or heart of the overseer.

One of the visits of my mother to me, while at Col. Lloyd’s, I remember
very vividly, as affording a bright gleam of a mother’s love, and the
earnestness of a mother’s care.

“I had on that day offended “Aunt Katy,” (called “Aunt” by way of
respect,) the cook of old master’s establishment. I do not now remember
the nature of my offense in this instance, for my offenses were
numerous in that quarter, greatly depending, however, upon the mood of
Aunt Katy, as to their heinousness; but she had adopted, that day, her
favorite mode of punishing me, namely, making me go without food all
day—that is, from after breakfast. The first hour or two after dinner,
I succeeded pretty well in keeping up my spirits; but though I made an
excellent stand against the foe, and fought bravely during the
afternoon, I knew I must be conquered at last, unless I got the
accustomed reenforcement of a slice of corn bread, at sundown. Sundown
came, but _no bread_, and, in its stead, their came the threat, with a
scowl well suited to its terrible import, that she “meant to _starve
the life out of me!”_ Brandishing her knife, she chopped off the heavy
slices for the other children, and put the loaf away, muttering, all
the while, her savage designs upon myself. Against this disappointment,
for I was expecting that her heart would relent at last, I made an
extra effort to maintain my dignity; but when I saw all the other
children around me with merry and satisfied faces, I could stand it no
longer. I went out behind the house, and cried like a fine fellow! When
tired of this, I returned to the kitchen, sat by the fire, and brooded
over my hard lot. I was too hungry to sleep. While I sat in the corner,
I caught sight of an ear of Indian corn on an upper shelf of the
kitchen. I watched my chance, and got it, and, shelling off a few
grains, I put it back again. The grains in my hand, I quickly put in
some ashes, and covered them with embers, to roast them. All this I did
at the risk of getting a brutual thumping, for Aunt Katy could beat, as
well as starve me. My corn was not long in roasting, and, with my keen
appetite, it did not matter even if the grains were not exactly done. I
eagerly pulled them out, and placed them on my stool, in a clever
little pile. Just as I began to help myself to my very dry meal, in
came my dear mother. And now, dear reader, a scene occurred which was
altogether worth beholding, and to me it was instructive as well as
interesting. The friendless and hungry boy, in his extremest need—and
when he did not dare to look for succor—found himself in the strong,
protecting arms of a mother; a mother who was, at the moment (being
endowed with high powers of manner as well as matter) more than a match
for all his enemies. I shall never forget the indescribable expression
of her countenance, when I told her that I had had no food since
morning; and that Aunt Katy said she “meant to starve the life out of
me.” There was pity in her glance at me, and a fiery indignation at
Aunt Katy at the same time; and, while she took the corn from me, and
gave me a large ginger cake, in its stead, she read Aunt Katy a lecture
which she never forgot. My mother threatened her with complaining to
old master in my behalf; for the latter, though harsh and cruel
himself, at times, did not sanction the meanness, injustice, partiality
and oppressions enacted by Aunt Katy in the kitchen. That night I
learned the fact, that I was, not only a child, but _somebody’s_ child.
The “sweet cake” my mother gave me was in the shape of a heart, with a
rich, dark ring glazed upon the edge of it. I was victorious, and well
off for the moment; prouder, on my mother’s knee, than a king upon his
throne. But my triumph was short. I dropped off to sleep, and waked in
the morning only to find my mother gone, and myself left at the mercy
of the sable virago, dominant in my old master’s kitchen, whose fiery
wrath was my constant dread.

I do not remember to have seen my mother after this occurrence. Death
soon ended the little communication that had existed between us; and
with it, I believe, a life judging from her weary, sad, down-cast
countenance and mute demeanor—full of heartfelt sorrow. I was not
allowed to visit her during any part of her long illness; nor did I see
her for a long time before she was taken ill and died. The heartless
and ghastly form of _slavery_ rises between mother and child, even at
the bed of death. The mother, at the verge of the grave, may not gather
her children, to impart to them her holy admonitions, and invoke for
them her dying benediction. The bond-woman lives as a slave, and is
left to die as a beast; often with fewer attentions than are paid to a
favorite horse. Scenes of sacred tenderness, around the death-bed,
never forgotten, and which often arrest the vicious and confirm the
virtuous during life, must be looked for among the free, though they
sometimes occur among the slaves. It has been a life-long, standing
grief to me, that I knew so little of my mother; and that I was so
early separated from her. The counsels of her love must have been
beneficial to me. The side view of her face is imaged on my memory, and
I take few steps in life, without feeling her presence; but the image
is mute, and I have no striking words of her’s treasured up.

I learned, after my mother’s death, that she could read, and that she
was the _only_ one of all the slaves and colored people in Tuckahoe who
enjoyed that advantage. How she acquired this knowledge, I know not,
for Tuckahoe is the last place in the world where she would be apt to
find facilities for learning. I can, therefore, fondly and proudly
ascribe to her an earnest love of knowledge. That a “field hand” should
learn to read, in any slave state, is remarkable; but the achievement
of my mother, considering the place, was very extraordinary; and, in
view of that fact, I am quite willing, and even happy, to attribute any
love of letters I possess, and for which I have got—despite of
prejudices only too much credit, _not_ to my admitted Anglo-Saxon
paternity, but to the native genius of my sable, unprotected, and
uncultivated _mother_—a woman, who belonged to a race whose mental
endowments it is, at present, fashionable to hold in disparagement and
contempt.

Summoned away to her account, with the impassable gulf of slavery
between us during her entire illness, my mother died without leaving me
a single intimation of _who_ my father was. There was a whisper, that
my master was my father; yet it was only a whisper, and I cannot say
that I ever gave it credence. Indeed, I now have reason to think he was
not; nevertheless, the fact remains, in all its glaring odiousness,
that, by the laws of slavery, children, in all cases, are reduced to
the condition of their mothers. This arrangement admits of the greatest
license to brutal slaveholders, and their profligate sons, brothers,
relations and friends, and gives to the pleasure of sin, the additional
attraction of profit. A whole volume might be written on this single
feature of slavery, as I have observed it.

One might imagine, that the children of such connections, would fare
better, in the hands of their masters, than other slaves. The rule is
quite the other way; and a very little reflection will satisfy the
reader that such is the case. A man who will enslave his own blood, may
not be safely relied on for magnanimity. Men do not love those who
remind them of their sins unless they have a mind to repent—and the
mulatto child’s face is a standing accusation against him who is master
and father to the child. What is still worse, perhaps, such a child is
a constant offense to the wife. She hates its very presence, and when a
slaveholding woman hates, she wants not means to give that hate telling
effect. Women—white women, I mean—are IDOLS at the south, not WIVES,
for the slave women are preferred in many instances; and if these
_idols_ but nod, or lift a finger, woe to the poor victim: kicks, cuffs
and stripes are sure to follow. Masters are frequently compelled to
sell this class of their slaves, out of deference to the feelings of
their white wives; and shocking and scandalous as it may seem for a man
to sell his own blood to the traffickers in human flesh, it is often an
act of humanity toward the slave-child to be thus removed from his
merciless tormentors.

It is not within the scope of the design of my simple story, to comment
upon every phase of slavery not within my experience as a slave.

But, I may remark, that, if the lineal descendants of Ham are only to
be enslaved, according to the scriptures, slavery in this country will
soon become an unscriptural institution; for thousands are ushered into
the world, annually, who—like myself—owe their existence to white
fathers, and, most frequently, to their masters, and master’s sons. The
slave-woman is at the mercy of the fathers, sons or brothers of her
master. The thoughtful know the rest.

After what I have now said of the circumstances of my mother, and my
relations to her, the reader will not be surprised, nor be disposed to
censure me, when I tell but the simple truth, viz: that I received the
tidings of her death with no strong emotions of sorrow for her, and
with very little regret for myself on account of her loss. I had to
learn the value of my mother long after her death, and by witnessing
the devotion of other mothers to their children.

There is not, beneath the sky, an enemy to filial affection so
destructive as slavery. It had made my brothers and sisters strangers
to me; it converted the mother that bore me, into a myth; it shrouded
my father in mystery, and left me without an intelligible beginning in
the world.

My mother died when I could not have been more than eight or nine years
old, on one of old master’s farms in Tuckahoe, in the neighborhood of
Hillsborough. Her grave is, as the grave of the dead at sea, unmarked,
and without stone or stake.




CHAPTER IV. _A General Survey of the Slave Plantation_


ISOLATION OF LLOYD S PLANTATION—PUBLIC OPINION THERE NO PROTECTION TO
THE SLAVE—ABSOLUTE POWER OF THE OVERSEER—NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL CHARMS
OF THE PLACE—ITS BUSINESS-LIKE APPEARANCE—SUPERSTITION ABOUT THE BURIAL
GROUND—GREAT IDEAS OF COL. LLOYD—ETIQUETTE AMONG SLAVES—THE COMIC SLAVE
DOCTOR—PRAYING AND FLOGGING—OLD MASTER LOSING ITS TERRORS—HIS
BUSINESS—CHARACTER OF AUNT KATY—SUFFERINGS FROM HUNGER—OLD MASTER’S
HOME—JARGON OF THE PLANTATION—GUINEA SLAVES—MASTER DANIEL—FAMILY OF
COL. LLOYD—FAMILY OF CAPT. ANTHONY—HIS SOCIAL POSITION—NOTIONS OF RANK
AND STATION.


It is generally supposed that slavery, in the state of Maryland, exists
in its mildest form, and that it is totally divested of those harsh and
terrible peculiarities, which mark and characterize the slave system,
in the southern and south-western states of the American union. The
argument in favor of this opinion, is the contiguity of the free
states, and the exposed condition of slavery in Maryland to the moral,
religious and humane sentiment of the free states.

I am not about to refute this argument, so far as it relates to slavery
in that state, generally; on the contrary, I am willing to admit that,
to this general point, the arguments is well grounded. Public opinion
is, indeed, an unfailing restraint upon the cruelty and barbarity of
masters, overseers, and slave-drivers, whenever and wherever it can
reach them; but there are certain secluded and out-of-the-way places,
even in the state of Maryland, seldom visited by a single ray of
healthy public sentiment—where slavery, wrapt in its own congenial,
midnight darkness, _can_, and _does_, develop all its malign and
shocking characteristics; where it can be indecent without shame, cruel
without shuddering, and murderous without apprehension or fear of
exposure.

Just such a secluded, dark, and out-of-the-way place, is the “home
plantation” of Col. Edward Lloyd, on the Eastern Shore, Maryland. It is
far away from all the great thoroughfares, and is proximate to no town
or village. There is neither school-house, nor town-house in its
neighborhood. The school-house is unnecessary, for there are no
children to go to school. The children and grand-children of Col. Lloyd
were taught in the house, by a private tutor—a Mr. Page a tall, gaunt
sapling of a man, who did not speak a dozen words to a slave in a whole
year. The overseers’ children go off somewhere to school; and they,
therefore, bring no foreign or dangerous influence from abroad, to
embarrass the natural operation of the slave system of the place. Not
even the mechanics—through whom there is an occasional out-burst of
honest and telling indignation, at cruelty and wrong on other
plantations—are white men, on this plantation. Its whole public is made
up of, and divided into, three classes—SLAVEHOLDERS, SLAVES and
OVERSEERS. Its blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers, and
coopers, are slaves. Not even commerce, selfish and iron-hearted at it
is, and ready, as it ever is, to side with the strong against the
weak—the rich against the poor—is trusted or permitted within its
secluded precincts. Whether with a view of guarding against the escape
of its secrets, I know not, but it is a fact, the every leaf and grain
of the produce of this plantation, and those of the neighboring farms
belonging to Col. Lloyd, are transported to Baltimore in Col. Lloyd’s
own vessels; every man and boy on board of which—except the captain—are
owned by him. In return, everything brought to the plantation, comes
through the same channel. Thus, even the glimmering and unsteady light
of trade, which sometimes exerts a civilizing influence, is excluded
from this “tabooed” spot.

Nearly all the plantations or farms in the vicinity of the “home
plantation” of Col. Lloyd, belong to him; and those which do not, are
owned by personal friends of his, as deeply interested in maintaining
the slave system, in all its rigor, as Col. Lloyd himself. Some of his
neighbors are said to be even more stringent than he. The Skinners, the
Peakers, the Tilgmans, the Lockermans, and the Gipsons, are in the same
boat; being slaveholding neighbors, they may have strengthened each
other in their iron rule. They are on intimate terms, and their
interests and tastes are identical.

Public opinion in such a quarter, the reader will see, is not likely to
very efficient in protecting the slave from cruelty. On the contrary,
it must increase and intensify his wrongs. Public opinion seldom
differs very widely from public practice. To be a restraint upon
cruelty and vice, public opinion must emanate from a humane and
virtuous community. To no such humane and virtuous community, is Col.
Lloyd’s plantation exposed. That plantation is a little nation of its
own, having its own language, its own rules, regulations and customs.
The laws and institutions of the state, apparently touch it nowhere.
The troubles arising here, are not settled by the civil power of the
state. The overseer is generally accuser, judge, jury, advocate and
executioner. The criminal is always dumb. The overseer attends to all
sides of a case.

There are no conflicting rights of property, for all the people are
owned by one man; and they can themselves own no property. Religion and
politics are alike excluded. One class of the population is too high to
be reached by the preacher; and the other class is too low to be cared
for by the preacher. The poor have the gospel preached to them, in this
neighborhood, only when they are able to pay for it. The slaves, having
no money, get no gospel. The politician keeps away, because the people
have no votes, and the preacher keeps away, because the people have no
money. The rich planter can afford to learn politics in the parlor, and
to dispense with religion altogether.

In its isolation, seclusion, and self-reliant independence, Col.
Lloyd’s plantation resembles what the baronial domains were during the
middle ages in Europe. Grim, cold, and unapproachable by all genial
influences from communities without, _there it stands;_ full three
hundred years behind the age, in all that relates to humanity and
morals.

This, however, is not the only view that the place presents.
Civilization is shut out, but nature cannot be. Though separated from
the rest of the world; though public opinion, as I have said, seldom
gets a chance to penetrate its dark domain; though the whole place is
stamped with its own peculiar, ironlike individuality; and though
crimes, high-handed and atrocious, may there be committed, with almost
as much impunity as upon the deck of a pirate ship—it is, nevertheless,
altogether, to outward seeming, a most strikingly interesting place,
full of life, activity, and spirit; and presents a very favorable
contrast to the indolent monotony and languor of Tuckahoe. Keen as was
my regret and great as was my sorrow at leaving the latter, I was not
long in adapting myself to this, my new home. A man’s troubles are
always half disposed of, when he finds endurance his only remedy. I
found myself here; there was no getting away; and what remained for me,
but to make the best of it? Here were plenty of children to play with,
and plenty of places of pleasant resort for boys of my age, and boys
older. The little tendrils of affection, so rudely and treacherously
broken from around the darling objects of my grandmother’s hut,
gradually began to extend, and to entwine about the new objects by
which I now found myself surrounded.

There was a windmill (always a commanding object to a child’s eye) on
Long Point—a tract of land dividing Miles river from the Wye a mile or
more from my old master’s house. There was a creek to swim in, at the
bottom of an open flat space, of twenty acres or more, called “the Long
Green”—a very beautiful play-ground for the children.

In the river, a short distance from the shore, lying quietly at anchor,
with her small boat dancing at her stern, was a large sloop—the Sally
Lloyd; called by that name in honor of a favorite daughter of the
colonel. The sloop and the mill were wondrous things, full of thoughts
and ideas. A child cannot well look at such objects without _thinking_.

Then here were a great many houses; human habitations, full of the
mysteries of life at every stage of it. There was the little red house,
up the road, occupied by Mr. Sevier, the overseer. A little nearer to
my old master’s, stood a very long, rough, low building, literally
alive with slaves, of all ages, conditions and sizes. This was called
“the Longe Quarter.” Perched upon a hill, across the Long Green, was a
very tall, dilapidated, old brick building—the architectural dimensions
of which proclaimed its erection for a different purpose—now occupied
by slaves, in a similar manner to the Long Quarter. Besides these,
there were numerous other slave houses and huts, scattered around in
the neighborhood, every nook and corner of which was completely
occupied. Old master’s house, a long, brick building, plain, but
substantial, stood in the center of the plantation life, and
constituted one independent establishment on the premises of Col.
Lloyd.

Besides these dwellings, there were barns, stables, store-houses, and
tobacco-houses; blacksmiths’ shops, wheelwrights’ shops, coopers’
shops—all objects of interest; but, above all, there stood the grandest
building my eyes had then ever beheld, called, by every one on the
plantation, the “Great House.” This was occupied by Col. Lloyd and his
family. They occupied it; _I_ enjoyed it. The great house was
surrounded by numerous and variously shaped out-buildings. There were
kitchens, wash-houses, dairies, summer-house, green-houses, hen-houses,
turkey-houses, pigeon-houses, and arbors, of many sizes and devices,
all neatly painted, and altogether interspersed with grand old trees,
ornamental and primitive, which afforded delightful shade in summer,
and imparted to the scene a high degree of stately beauty. The great
house itself was a large, white, wooden building, with wings on three
sides of it. In front, a large portico, extending the entire length of
the building, and supported by a long range of columns, gave to the
whole establishment an air of solemn grandeur. It was a treat to my
young and gradually opening mind, to behold this elaborate exhibition
of wealth, power, and vanity. The carriage entrance to the house was a
large gate, more than a quarter of a mile distant from it; the
intermediate space was a beautiful lawn, very neatly trimmed, and
watched with the greatest care. It was dotted thickly over with
delightful trees, shrubbery, and flowers. The road, or lane, from the
gate to the great house, was richly paved with white pebbles from the
beach, and, in its course, formed a complete circle around the
beautiful lawn. Carriages going in and retiring from the great house,
made the circuit of the lawn, and their passengers were permitted to
behold a scene of almost Eden-like beauty. Outside this select
inclosure, were parks, where as about the residences of the English
nobility—rabbits, deer, and other wild game, might be seen, peering and
playing about, with none to molest them or make them afraid. The tops
of the stately poplars were often covered with the red-winged
black-birds, making all nature vocal with the joyous life and beauty of
their wild, warbling notes. These all belonged to me, as well as to
Col. Edward Lloyd, and for a time I greatly enjoyed them.

A short distance from the great house, were the stately mansions of the
dead, a place of somber aspect. Vast tombs, embowered beneath the
weeping willow and the fir tree, told of the antiquities of the Lloyd
family, as well as of their wealth. Superstition was rife among the
slaves about this family burying ground. Strange sights had been seen
there by some of the older slaves. Shrouded ghosts, riding on great
black horses, had been seen to enter; balls of fire had been seen to
fly there at midnight, and horrid sounds had been repeatedly heard.
Slaves know enough of the rudiments of theology to believe that those
go to hell who die slaveholders; and they often fancy such persons
wishing themselves back again, to wield the lash. Tales of sights and
sounds, strange and terrible, connected with the huge black tombs, were
a very great security to the grounds about them, for few of the slaves
felt like approaching them even in the day time. It was a dark, gloomy
and forbidding place, and it was difficult to feel that the spirits of
the sleeping dust there deposited, reigned with the blest in the realms
of eternal peace.

The business of twenty or thirty farms was transacted at this, called,
by way of eminence, “great house farm.” These farms all belonged to
Col. Lloyd, as did, also, the slaves upon them. Each farm was under the
management of an overseer. As I have said of the overseer of the home
plantation, so I may say of the overseers on the smaller ones; they
stand between the slave and all civil constitutions—their word is law,
and is implicitly obeyed.

The colonel, at this time, was reputed to be, and he apparently was,
very rich. His slaves, alone, were an immense fortune. These, small and
great, could not have been fewer than one thousand in number, and
though scarcely a month passed without the sale of one or more lots to
the Georgia traders, there was no apparent diminution in the number of
his human stock: the home plantation merely groaned at a removal of the
young increase, or human crop, then proceeded as lively as ever.
Horse-shoeing, cart-mending, plow-repairing, coopering, grinding, and
weaving, for all the neighboring farms, were performed here, and slaves
were employed in all these branches. “Uncle Tony” was the blacksmith;
“Uncle Harry” was the cartwright; “Uncle Abel” was the shoemaker; and
all these had hands to assist them in their several departments.

These mechanics were called “uncles” by all the younger slaves, not
because they really sustained that relationship to any, but according
to plantation _etiquette_, as a mark of respect, due from the younger
to the older slaves. Strange, and even ridiculous as it may seem, among
a people so uncultivated, and with so many stern trials to look in the
face, there is not to be found, among any people, a more rigid
enforcement of the law of respect to elders, than they maintain. I set
this down as partly constitutional with my race, and partly
conventional. There is no better material in the world for making a
gentleman, than is furnished in the African. He shows to others, and
exacts for himself, all the tokens of respect which he is compelled to
manifest toward his master. A young slave must approach the company of
the older with hat in hand, and woe betide him, if he fails to
acknowledge a favor, of any sort, with the accustomed _“tank’ee,”_ &c.
So uniformly are good manners enforced among slaves, I can easily
detect a “bogus” fugitive by his manners.

Among other slave notabilities of the plantation, was one called by
everybody Uncle Isaac Copper. It is seldom that a slave gets a surname
from anybody in Maryland; and so completely has the south shaped the
manners of the north, in this respect, that even abolitionists make
very little of the surname of a Negro. The only improvement on the
“Bills,” “Jacks,” “Jims,” and “Neds” of the south, observable here is,
that “William,” “John,” “James,” “Edward,” are substituted. It goes
against the grain to treat and address a Negro precisely as they would
treat and address a white man. But, once in a while, in slavery as in
the free states, by some extraordinary circumstance, the Negro has a
surname fastened to him, and holds it against all conventionalities.
This was the case with Uncle Isaac Copper. When the “uncle” was
dropped, he generally had the prefix “doctor,” in its stead. He was our
doctor of medicine, and doctor of divinity as well. Where he took his
degree I am unable to say, for he was not very communicative to
inferiors, and I was emphatically such, being but a boy seven or eight
years old. He was too well established in his profession to permit
questions as to his native skill, or his attainments. One qualification
he undoubtedly had—he was a confirmed _cripple;_ and he could neither
work, nor would he bring anything if offered for sale in the market.
The old man, though lame, was no sluggard. He was a man that made his
crutches do him good service. He was always on the alert, looking up
the sick, and all such as were supposed to need his counsel. His
remedial prescriptions embraced four articles. For diseases of the
body, _Epsom salts and castor oil;_ for those of the soul, _the Lord’s
Prayer_, and _hickory switches_!

I was not long at Col. Lloyd’s before I was placed under the care of
Doctor Issac Copper. I was sent to him with twenty or thirty other
children, to learn the “Lord’s Prayer.” I found the old gentleman
seated on a huge three-legged oaken stool, armed with several large
hickory switches; and, from his position, he could reach—lame as he
was—any boy in the room. After standing awhile to learn what was
expected of us, the old gentleman, in any other than a devotional tone,
commanded us to kneel down. This done, he commenced telling us to say
everything he said. “Our Father”—this was repeated after him with
promptness and uniformity; “Who art in heaven”—was less promptly and
uniformly repeated; and the old gentleman paused in the prayer, to give
us a short lecture upon the consequences of inattention, both immediate
and future, and especially those more immediate. About these he was
absolutely certain, for he held in his right hand the means of bringing
all his predictions and warnings to pass. On he proceeded with the
prayer; and we with our thick tongues and unskilled ears, followed him
to the best of our ability. This, however, was not sufficient to please
the old gentleman. Everybody, in the south, wants the privilege of
whipping somebody else. Uncle Isaac shared the common passion of his
country, and, therefore, seldom found any means of keeping his
disciples in order short of flogging. “Say everything I say;” and bang
would come the switch on some poor boy’s undevotional head. _“What you
looking at there”—“Stop that pushing”_—and down again would come the
lash.

The whip is all in all. It is supposed to secure obedience to the
slaveholder, and is held as a sovereign remedy among the slaves
themselves, for every form of disobedience, temporal or spiritual.
Slaves, as well as slaveholders, use it with an unsparing hand. Our
devotions at Uncle Isaac’s combined too much of the tragic and comic,
to make them very salutary in a spiritual point of view; and it is due
to truth to say, I was often a truant when the time for attending the
praying and flogging of Doctor Isaac Copper came on.

The windmill under the care of Mr. Kinney, a kind hearted old
Englishman, was to me a source of infinite interest and pleasure. The
old man always seemed pleased when he saw a troop of darkey little
urchins, with their tow-linen shirts fluttering in the breeze,
approaching to view and admire the whirling wings of his wondrous
machine. From the mill we could see other objects of deep interest.
These were, the vessels from St. Michael’s, on their way to Baltimore.
It was a source of much amusement to view the flowing sails and
complicated rigging, as the little crafts dashed by, and to speculate
upon Baltimore, as to the kind and quality of the place. With so many
sources of interest around me, the reader may be prepared to learn that
I began to think very highly of Col. L.‘s plantation. It was just a
place to my boyish taste. There were fish to be caught in the creek, if
one only had a hook and line; and crabs, clams and oysters were to be
caught by wading, digging and raking for them. Here was a field for
industry and enterprise, strongly inviting; and the reader may be
assured that I entered upon it with spirit.

Even the much dreaded old master, whose merciless fiat had brought me
from Tuckahoe, gradually, to my mind, parted with his terrors. Strange
enough, his reverence seemed to take no particular notice of me, nor of
my coming. Instead of leaping out and devouring me, he scarcely seemed
conscious of my presence. The fact is, he was occupied with matters
more weighty and important than either looking after or vexing me. He
probably thought as little of my advent, as he would have thought of
the addition of a single pig to his stock!

As the chief butler on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, his duties were
numerous and perplexing. In almost all important matters he answered in
Col. Lloyd’s stead. The overseers of all the farms were in some sort
under him, and received the law from his mouth. The colonel himself
seldom addressed an overseer, or allowed an overseer to address him.
Old master carried the keys of all store houses; measured out the
allowance for each slave at the end of every month; superintended the
storing of all goods brought to the plantation; dealt out the raw
material to all the handicraftsmen; shipped the grain, tobacco, and all
saleable produce of the plantation to market, and had the general
oversight of the coopers’ shop, wheelwrights’ shop, blacksmiths’ shop,
and shoemakers’ shop. Besides the care of these, he often had business
for the plantation which required him to be absent two and three days.

Thus largely employed, he had little time, and perhaps as little
disposition, to interfere with the children individually. What he was
to Col. Lloyd, he made Aunt Katy to him. When he had anything to say or
do about us, it was said or done in a wholesale manner; disposing of us
in classes or sizes, leaving all minor details to Aunt Katy, a person
of whom the reader has already received no very favorable impression.
Aunt Katy was a woman who never allowed herself to act greatly within
the margin of power granted to her, no matter how broad that authority
might be. Ambitious, ill-tempered and cruel, she found in her present
position an ample field for the exercise of her ill-omened qualities.
She had a strong hold on old master she was considered a first rate
cook, and she really was very industrious. She was, therefore, greatly
favored by old master, and as one mark of his favor, she was the only
mother who was permitted to retain her children around her. Even to
these children she was often fiendish in her brutality. She pursued her
son Phil, one day, in my presence, with a huge butcher knife, and dealt
a blow with its edge which left a shocking gash on his arm, near the
wrist. For this, old master did sharply rebuke her, and threatened that
if she ever should do the like again, he would take the skin off her
back. Cruel, however, as Aunt Katy was to her own children, at times
she was not destitute of maternal feeling, as I often had occasion to
know, in the bitter pinches of hunger I had to endure. Differing from
the practice of Col. Lloyd, old master, instead of allowing so much for
each slave, committed the allowance for all to the care of Aunt Katy,
to be divided after cooking it, amongst us. The allowance, consisting
of coarse corn-meal, was not very abundant—indeed, it was very slender;
and in passing through Aunt Katy’s hands, it was made more slender
still, for some of us. William, Phil and Jerry were her children, and
it is not to accuse her too severely, to allege that she was often
guilty of starving myself and the other children, while she was
literally cramming her own. Want of food was my chief trouble the first
summer at my old master’s. Oysters and clams would do very well, with
an occasional supply of bread, but they soon failed in the absence of
bread. I speak but the simple truth, when I say, I have often been so
pinched with hunger, that I have fought with the dog—“Old Nep”—for the
smallest crumbs that fell from the kitchen table, and have been glad
when I won a single crumb in the combat. Many times have I followed,
with eager step, the waiting-girl when she went out to shake the table
cloth, to get the crumbs and small bones flung out for the cats. The
water, in which meat had been boiled, was as eagerly sought for by me.
It was a great thing to get the privilege of dipping a piece of bread
in such water; and the skin taken from rusty bacon, was a positive
luxury. Nevertheless, I sometimes got full meals and kind words from
sympathizing old slaves, who knew my sufferings, and received the
comforting assurance that I should be a man some day. “Never mind,
honey—better day comin’,” was even then a solace, a cheering
consolation to me in my troubles. Nor were all the kind words I
received from slaves. I had a friend in the parlor, as well, and one to
whom I shall be glad to do justice, before I have finished this part of
my story.

I was not long at old master’s, before I learned that his surname was
Anthony, and that he was generally called “Captain Anthony”—a title
which he probably acquired by sailing a craft in the Chesapeake Bay.
Col. Lloyd’s slaves never called Capt. Anthony “old master,” but always
Capt. Anthony; and _me_ they called “Captain Anthony Fred.” There is
not, probably, in the whole south, a plantation where the English
language is more imperfectly spoken than on Col. Lloyd’s. It is a
mixture of Guinea and everything else you please. At the time of which
I am now writing, there were slaves there who had been brought from the
coast of Africa. They never used the “s” in indication of the
possessive case. “Cap’n Ant’ney Tom,” “Lloyd Bill,” “Aunt Rose Harry,”
means “Captain Anthony’s Tom,” “Lloyd’s Bill,” &c. _“Oo you dem long
to?”_ means, “Whom do you belong to?” _“Oo dem got any peachy?”_ means,
“Have you got any peaches?” I could scarcely understand them when I
first went among them, so broken was their speech; and I am persuaded
that I could not have been dropped anywhere on the globe, where I could
reap less, in the way of knowledge, from my immediate associates, than
on this plantation. Even “MAS’ DANIEL,” by his association with his
father’s slaves, had measurably adopted their dialect and their ideas,
so far as they had ideas to be adopted. The equality of nature is
strongly asserted in childhood, and childhood requires children for
associates. _Color_ makes no difference with a child. Are you a child
with wants, tastes and pursuits common to children, not put on, but
natural? then, were you black as ebony you would be welcome to the
child of alabaster whiteness. The law of compensation holds here, as
well as elsewhere. Mas’ Daniel could not associate with ignorance
without sharing its shade; and he could not give his black playmates
his company, without giving them his intelligence, as well. Without
knowing this, or caring about it, at the time, I, for some cause or
other, spent much of my time with Mas’ Daniel, in preference to
spending it with most of the other boys.

Mas’ Daniel was the youngest son of Col. Lloyd; his older brothers were
Edward and Murray—both grown up, and fine looking men. Edward was
especially esteemed by the children, and by me among the rest; not that
he ever said anything to us or for us, which could be called especially
kind; it was enough for us, that he never looked nor acted scornfully
toward us. There were also three sisters, all married; one to Edward
Winder; a second to Edward Nicholson; a third to Mr. Lownes.

The family of old master consisted of two sons, Andrew and Richard; his
daughter, Lucretia, and her newly married husband, Capt. Auld. This was
the house family. The kitchen family consisted of Aunt Katy, Aunt
Esther, and ten or a dozen children, most of them older than myself.
Capt. Anthony was not considered a rich slaveholder, but was pretty
well off in the world. He owned about thirty _“head”_ of slaves, and
three farms in Tuckahoe. The most valuable part of his property was his
slaves, of whom he could afford to sell one every year. This crop,
therefore, brought him seven or eight hundred dollars a year, besides
his yearly salary, and other revenue from his farms.

The idea of rank and station was rigidly maintained on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. Our family never visited the great house, and the Lloyds
never came to our home. Equal non-intercourse was observed between
Capt. Anthony’s family and that of Mr. Sevier, the overseer.

Such, kind reader, was the community, and such the place, in which my
earliest and most lasting impressions of slavery, and of slave-life,
were received; of which impressions you will learn more in the coming
chapters of this book.




CHAPTER V. _Gradual Initiation to the Mysteries of Slavery_


GROWING ACQUAINTANCE WITH OLD MASTER—HIS CHARACTER—EVILS OF
UNRESTRAINED PASSION—APPARENT TENDERNESS—OLD MASTER A MAN OF
TROUBLE—CUSTOM OF MUTTERING TO HIMSELF—NECESSITY OF BEING AWARE OF HIS
WORDS—THE SUPPOSED OBTUSENESS OF SLAVE-CHILDREN—BRUTAL OUTRAGE—DRUNKEN
OVERSEER—SLAVEHOLDER’S IMPATIENCE—WISDOM OF APPEALING TO SUPERIORS—THE
SLAVEHOLDER S WRATH BAD AS THAT OF THE OVERSEER—A BASE AND SELFISH
ATTEMPT TO BREAK UP A COURTSHIP—A HARROWING SCENE.


Although my old master—Capt. Anthony—gave me at first, (as the reader
will have already seen) very little attention, and although that little
was of a remarkably mild and gentle description, a few months only were
sufficient to convince me that mildness and gentleness were not the
prevailing or governing traits of his character. These excellent
qualities were displayed only occasionally. He could, when it suited
him, appear to be literally insensible to the claims of humanity, when
appealed to by the helpless against an aggressor, and he could himself
commit outrages, deep, dark and nameless. Yet he was not by nature
worse than other men. Had he been brought up in a free state,
surrounded by the just restraints of free society—restraints which are
necessary to the freedom of all its members, alike and equally—Capt.
Anthony might have been as humane a man, and every way as respectable,
as many who now oppose the slave system; certainly as humane and
respectable as are members of society generally. The slaveholder, as
well as the slave, is the victim of the slave system. A man’s character
greatly takes its hue and shape from the form and color of things about
him. Under the whole heavens there is no relation more unfavorable to
the development of honorable character, than that sustained by the
slaveholder to the slave. Reason is imprisoned here, and passions run
wild. Like the fires of the prairie, once lighted, they are at the
mercy of every wind, and must burn, till they have consumed all that is
combustible within their remorseless grasp. Capt. Anthony could be
kind, and, at times, he even showed an affectionate disposition. Could
the reader have seen him gently leading me by the hand—as he sometimes
did—patting me on the head, speaking to me in soft, caressing tones and
calling me his “little Indian boy,” he would have deemed him a kind old
man, and really, almost fatherly. But the pleasant moods of a
slaveholder are remarkably brittle; they are easily snapped; they
neither come often, nor remain long. His temper is subjected to
perpetual trials; but, since these trials are never borne patiently,
they add nothing to his natural stock of patience.

Old master very early impressed me with the idea that he was an unhappy
man. Even to my child’s eye, he wore a troubled, and at times, a
haggard aspect. His strange movements excited my curiosity, and
awakened my compassion. He seldom walked alone without muttering to
himself; and he occasionally stormed about, as if defying an army of
invisible foes. “He would do this, that, and the other; he’d be d—d if
he did not,”—was the usual form of his threats. Most of his leisure was
spent in walking, cursing and gesticulating, like one possessed by a
demon. Most evidently, he was a wretched man, at war with his own soul,
and with all the world around him. To be overheard by the children,
disturbed him very little. He made no more of our presence, than of
that of the ducks and geese which he met on the green. He little
thought that the little black urchins around him, could see, through
those vocal crevices, the very secrets of his heart. Slaveholders ever
underrate the intelligence with which they have to grapple. I really
understood the old man’s mutterings, attitudes and gestures, about as
well as he did himself. But slaveholders never encourage that kind of
communication, with the slaves, by which they might learn to measure
the depths of his knowledge. Ignorance is a high virtue in a human
chattel; and as the master studies to keep the slave ignorant, the
slave is cunning enough to make the master think he succeeds. The slave
fully appreciates the saying, “where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to
be wise.” When old master’s gestures were violent, ending with a
threatening shake of the head, and a sharp snap of his middle finger
and thumb, I deemed it wise to keep at a respectable distance from him;
for, at such times, trifling faults stood, in his eyes, as momentous
offenses; and, having both the power and the disposition, the victim
had only to be near him to catch the punishment, deserved or
undeserved.

One of the first circumstances that opened my eyes to the cruelty and
wickedness of slavery, and the heartlessness of my old master, was the
refusal of the latter to interpose his authority, to protect and shield
a young woman, who had been most cruelly abused and beaten by his
overseer in Tuckahoe. This overseer—a Mr. Plummer—was a man like most
of his class, little better than a human brute; and, in addition to his
general profligacy and repulsive coarseness, the creature was a
miserable drunkard. He was, probably, employed by my old master, less
on account of the excellence of his services, than for the cheap rate
at which they could be obtained. He was not fit to have the management
of a drove of mules. In a fit of drunken madness, he committed the
outrage which brought the young woman in question down to my old
master’s for protection. This young woman was the daughter of Milly, an
own aunt of mine. The poor girl, on arriving at our house, presented a
pitiable appearance. She had left in haste, and without preparation;
and, probably, without the knowledge of Mr. Plummer. She had traveled
twelve miles, bare-footed, bare-necked and bare-headed. Her neck and
shoulders were covered with scars, newly made; and not content with
marring her neck and shoulders, with the cowhide, the cowardly brute
had dealt her a blow on the head with a hickory club, which cut a
horrible gash, and left her face literally covered with blood. In this
condition, the poor young woman came down, to implore protection at the
hands of my old master. I expected to see him boil over with rage at
the revolting deed, and to hear him fill the air with curses upon the
brutual Plummer; but I was disappointed. He sternly told her, in an
angry tone, he “believed she deserved every bit of it,” and, if she did
not go home instantly, he would himself take the remaining skin from
her neck and back. Thus was the poor girl compelled to return, without
redress, and perhaps to receive an additional flogging for daring to
appeal to old master against the overseer.

Old master seemed furious at the thought of being troubled by such
complaints. I did not, at that time, understand the philosophy of his
treatment of my cousin. It was stern, unnatural, violent. Had the man
no bowels of compassion? Was he dead to all sense of humanity? No. I
think I now understand it. This treatment is a part of the system,
rather than a part of the man. Were slaveholders to listen to
complaints of this sort against the overseers, the luxury of owning
large numbers of slaves, would be impossible. It would do away with the
office of overseer, entirely; or, in other words, it would convert the
master himself into an overseer. It would occasion great loss of time
and labor, leaving the overseer in fetters, and without the necessary
power to secure obedience to his orders. A privilege so dangerous as
that of appeal, is, therefore, strictly prohibited; and any one
exercising it, runs a fearful hazard. Nevertheless, when a slave has
nerve enough to exercise it, and boldly approaches his master, with a
well-founded complaint against an overseer, though he may be repulsed,
and may even have that of which he complains repeated at the time, and,
though he may be beaten by his master, as well as by the overseer, for
his temerity, in the end the policy of complaining is, generally,
vindicated by the relaxed rigor of the overseer’s treatment. The latter
becomes more careful, and less disposed to use the lash upon such
slaves thereafter. It is with this final result in view, rather than
with any expectation of immediate good, that the outraged slave is
induced to meet his master with a complaint. The overseer very
naturally dislikes to have the ear of the master disturbed by
complaints; and, either upon this consideration, or upon advice and
warning privately given him by his employers, he generally modifies the
rigor of his rule, after an outbreak of the kind to which I have been
referring.

Howsoever the slaveholder may allow himself to act toward his slave,
and, whatever cruelty he may deem it wise, for example’s sake, or for
the gratification of his humor, to inflict, he cannot, in the absence
of all provocation, look with pleasure upon the bleeding wounds of a
defenseless slave-woman. When he drives her from his presence without
redress, or the hope of redress, he acts, generally, from motives of
policy, rather than from a hardened nature, or from innate brutality.
Yet, let but his own temper be stirred, his own passions get loose, and
the slave-owner will go _far beyond_ the overseer in cruelty. He will
convince the slave that his wrath is far more terrible and boundless,
and vastly more to be dreaded, than that of the underling overseer.
What may have been mechanically and heartlessly done by the overseer,
is now done with a will. The man who now wields the lash is
irresponsible. He may, if he pleases, cripple or kill, without fear of
consequences; except in so far as it may concern profit or loss. To a
man of violent temper—as my old master was—this was but a very slender
and inefficient restraint. I have seen him in a tempest of passion,
such as I have just described—a passion into which entered all the
bitter ingredients of pride, hatred, envy, jealousy, and the
thrist(sic) for revenge.

The circumstances which I am about to narrate, and which gave rise to
this fearful tempest of passion, are not singular nor isolated in slave
life, but are common in every slaveholding community in which I have
lived. They are incidental to the relation of master and slave, and
exist in all sections of slave-holding countries.

The reader will have noticed that, in enumerating the names of the
slaves who lived with my old master, _Esther_ is mentioned. This was a
young woman who possessed that which is ever a curse to the slave-girl;
namely—personal beauty. She was tall, well formed, and made a fine
appearance. The daughters of Col. Lloyd could scarcely surpass her in
personal charms. Esther was courted by Ned Roberts, and he was as fine
looking a young man, as she was a woman. He was the son of a favorite
slave of Col. Lloyd. Some slaveholders would have been glad to promote
the marriage of two such persons; but, for some reason or other, my old
master took it upon him to break up the growing intimacy between Esther
and Edward. He strictly ordered her to quit the company of said
Roberts, telling her that he would punish her severely if he ever found
her again in Edward’s company. This unnatural and heartless order was,
of course, broken. A woman’s love is not to be annihilated by the
peremptory command of any one, whose breath is in his nostrils. It was
impossible to keep Edward and Esther apart. Meet they would, and meet
they did. Had old master been a man of honor and purity, his motives,
in this matter, might have been viewed more favorably. As it was, his
motives were as abhorrent, as his methods were foolish and
contemptible. It was too evident that he was not concerned for the
girl’s welfare. It is one of the damning characteristics of the slave
system, that it robs its victims of every earthly incentive to a holy
life. The fear of God, and the hope of heaven, are found sufficient to
sustain many slave-women, amidst the snares and dangers of their
strange lot; but, this side of God and heaven, a slave-woman is at the
mercy of the power, caprice and passion of her owner. Slavery provides
no means for the honorable continuance of the race. Marriage as
imposing obligations on the parties to it—has no existence here, except
in such hearts as are purer and higher than the standard morality
around them. It is one of the consolations of my life, that I know of
many honorable instances of persons who maintained their honor, where
all around was corrupt.

Esther was evidently much attached to Edward, and abhorred—as she had
reason to do—the tyrannical and base behavior of old master. Edward was
young, and fine looking, and he loved and courted her. He might have
been her husband, in the high sense just alluded to; but WHO and _what_
was this old master? His attentions were plainly brutal and selfish,
and it was as natural that Esther should loathe him, as that she should
love Edward. Abhorred and circumvented as he was, old master, having
the power, very easily took revenge. I happened to see this exhibition
of his rage and cruelty toward Esther. The time selected was singular.
It was early in the morning, when all besides was still, and before any
of the family, in the house or kitchen, had left their beds. I saw but
few of the shocking preliminaries, for the cruel work had begun before
I awoke. I was probably awakened by the shrieks and piteous cries of
poor Esther. My sleeping place was on the floor of a little, rough
closet, which opened into the kitchen; and through the cracks of its
unplaned boards, I could distinctly see and hear what was going on,
without being seen by old master. Esther’s wrists were firmly tied, and
the twisted rope was fastened to a strong staple in a heavy wooden
joist above, near the fireplace. Here she stood, on a bench, her arms
tightly drawn over her breast. Her back and shoulders were bare to the
waist. Behind her stood old master, with cowskin in hand, preparing his
barbarous work with all manner of harsh, coarse, and tantalizing
epithets. The screams of his victim were most piercing. He was cruelly
deliberate, and protracted the torture, as one who was delighted with
the scene. Again and again he drew the hateful whip through his hand,
adjusting it with a view of dealing the most pain-giving blow. Poor
Esther had never yet been severely whipped, and her shoulders were
plump and tender. Each blow, vigorously laid on, brought screams as
well as blood. _“Have mercy; Oh! have mercy”_ she cried; “_I won’t do
so no more;”_ but her piercing cries seemed only to increase his fury.
His answers to them are too coarse and blasphemous to be produced here.
The whole scene, with all its attendants, was revolting and shocking,
to the last degree; and when the motives of this brutal castigation are
considered,—language has no power to convey a just sense of its awful
criminality. After laying on some thirty or forty stripes, old master
untied his suffering victim, and let her get down. She could scarcely
stand, when untied. From my heart I pitied her, and—child though I
was—the outrage kindled in me a feeling far from peaceful; but I was
hushed, terrified, stunned, and could do nothing, and the fate of
Esther might be mine next. The scene here described was often repeated
in the case of poor Esther, and her life, as I knew it, was one of
wretchedness.




CHAPTER VI. _Treatment of Slaves on Lloyd’s Plantation_


EARLY REFLECTIONS ON SLAVERY—PRESENTIMENT OF ONE DAY BEING A
FREEMAN—COMBAT BETWEEN AN OVERSEER AND A SLAVEWOMAN—THE ADVANTAGES OF
RESISTANCE—ALLOWANCE DAY ON THE HOME PLANTATION—THE SINGING OF
SLAVES—AN EXPLANATION—THE SLAVES FOOD AND CLOTHING—NAKED CHILDREN—LIFE
IN THE QUARTER—DEPRIVATION OF SLEEP—NURSING CHILDREN CARRIED TO THE
FIELD—DESCRIPTION OF THE COWSKIN—THE ASH-CAKE—MANNER OF MAKING IT—THE
DINNER HOUR—THE CONTRAST.


The heart-rending incidents, related in the foregoing chapter, led me,
thus early, to inquire into the nature and history of slavery. _Why am
I a slave? Why are some people slaves, and others masters? Was there
ever a time this was not so? How did the relation commence?_ These were
the perplexing questions which began now to claim my thoughts, and to
exercise the weak powers of my mind, for I was still but a child, and
knew less than children of the same age in the free states. As my
questions concerning these things were only put to children a little
older, and little better informed than myself, I was not rapid in
reaching a solid footing. By some means I learned from these inquiries
that _“God, up in the sky,”_ made every body; and that he made _white_
people to be masters and mistresses, and _black_ people to be slaves.
This did not satisfy me, nor lessen my interest in the subject. I was
told, too, that God was good, and that He knew what was best for me,
and best for everybody. This was less satisfactory than the first
statement; because it came, point blank, against all my notions of
goodness. It was not good to let old master cut the flesh off Esther,
and make her cry so. Besides, how did people know that God made black
people to be slaves? Did they go up in the sky and learn it? or, did He
come down and tell them so? All was dark here. It was some relief to my
hard notions of the goodness of God, that, although he made white men
to be slaveholders, he did not make them to be _bad_ slaveholders, and
that, in due time, he would punish the bad slaveholders; that he would,
when they died, send them to the bad place, where they would be “burnt
up.” Nevertheless, I could not reconcile the relation of slavery with
my crude notions of goodness.

Then, too, I found that there were puzzling exceptions to this theory
of slavery on both sides, and in the middle. I knew of blacks who were
_not_ slaves; I knew of whites who were _not_ slaveholders; and I knew
of persons who were _nearly_ white, who were slaves. _Color_,
therefore, was a very unsatisfactory basis for slavery.

Once, however, engaged in the inquiry, I was not very long in finding
out the true solution of the matter. It was not _color_, but _crime_,
not _God_, but _man_, that afforded the true explanation of the
existence of slavery; nor was I long in finding out another important
truth, viz: what man can make, man can unmake. The appalling darkness
faded away, and I was master of the subject. There were slaves here,
direct from Guinea; and there were many who could say that their
fathers and mothers were stolen from Africa—forced from their homes,
and compelled to serve as slaves. This, to me, was knowledge; but it
was a kind of knowledge which filled me with a burning hatred of
slavery, increased my suffering, and left me without the means of
breaking away from my bondage. Yet it was knowledge quite worth
possessing. I could not have been more than seven or eight years old,
when I began to make this subject my study. It was with me in the woods
and fields; along the shore of the river, and wherever my boyish
wanderings led me; and though I was, at that time, quite ignorant of
the existence of the free states, I distinctly remember being, _even
then_, most strongly impressed with the idea of being a freeman some
day. This cheering assurance was an inborn dream of my human nature a
constant menace to slavery—and one which all the powers of slavery were
unable to silence or extinguish.

Up to the time of the brutal flogging of my Aunt Esther—for she was my
own aunt—and the horrid plight in which I had seen my cousin from
Tuckahoe, who had been so badly beaten by the cruel Mr. Plummer, my
attention had not been called, especially, to the gross features of
slavery. I had, of course, heard of whippings and of savage
_rencontres_ between overseers and slaves, but I had always been out of
the way at the times and places of their occurrence. My plays and
sports, most of the time, took me from the corn and tobacco fields,
where the great body of the hands were at work, and where scenes of
cruelty were enacted and witnessed. But, after the whipping of Aunt
Esther, I saw many cases of the same shocking nature, not only in my
master’s house, but on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. One of the first which
I saw, and which greatly agitated me, was the whipping of a woman
belonging to Col. Lloyd, named Nelly. The offense alleged against
Nelly, was one of the commonest and most indefinite in the whole
catalogue of offenses usually laid to the charge of slaves, viz:
“impudence.” This may mean almost anything, or nothing at all, just
according to the caprice of the master or overseer, at the moment. But,
whatever it is, or is not, if it gets the name of “impudence,” the
party charged with it is sure of a flogging. This offense may be
committed in various ways; in the tone of an answer; in answering at
all; in not answering; in the expression of countenance; in the motion
of the head; in the gait, manner and bearing of the slave. In the case
under consideration, I can easily believe that, according to all
slaveholding standards, here was a genuine instance of impudence. In
Nelly there were all the necessary conditions for committing the
offense. She was a bright mulatto, the recognized wife of a favorite
“hand” on board Col. Lloyd’s sloop, and the mother of five sprightly
children. She was a vigorous and spirited woman, and one of the most
likely, on the plantation, to be guilty of impudence. My attention was
called to the scene, by the noise, curses and screams that proceeded
from it; and, on going a little in that direction, I came upon the
parties engaged in the skirmish. Mr. Siever, the overseer, had hold of
Nelly, when I caught sight of them; he was endeavoring to drag her
toward a tree, which endeavor Nelly was sternly resisting; but to no
purpose, except to retard the progress of the overseer’s plans.
Nelly—as I have said—was the mother of five children; three of them
were present, and though quite small (from seven to ten years old, I
should think) they gallantly came to their mother’s defense, and gave
the overseer an excellent pelting with stones. One of the little
fellows ran up, seized the overseer by the leg and bit him; but the
monster was too busily engaged with Nelly, to pay any attention to the
assaults of the children. There were numerous bloody marks on Mr.
Sevier’s face, when I first saw him, and they increased as the struggle
went on. The imprints of Nelly’s fingers were visible, and I was glad
to see them. Amidst the wild screams of the children—“_Let my mammy
go”—“let my mammy go_”—there escaped, from between the teeth of the
bullet-headed overseer, a few bitter curses, mingled with threats, that
“he would teach the d—d b—h how to give a white man impudence.” There
is no doubt that Nelly felt herself superior, in some respects, to the
slaves around her. She was a wife and a mother; her husband was a
valued and favorite slave. Besides, he was one of the first hands on
board of the sloop, and the sloop hands—since they had to represent the
plantation abroad—were generally treated tenderly. The overseer never
was allowed to whip Harry; why then should he be allowed to whip
Harry’s wife? Thoughts of this kind, no doubt, influenced her; but, for
whatever reason, she nobly resisted, and, unlike most of the slaves,
seemed determined to make her whipping cost Mr. Sevier as much as
possible. The blood on his (and her) face, attested her skill, as well
as her courage and dexterity in using her nails. Maddened by her
resistance, I expected to see Mr. Sevier level her to the ground by a
stunning blow; but no; like a savage bull-dog—which he resembled both
in temper and appearance—he maintained his grip, and steadily dragged
his victim toward the tree, disregarding alike her blows, and the cries
of the children for their mother’s release. He would, doubtless, have
knocked her down with his hickory stick, but that such act might have
cost him his place. It is often deemed advisable to knock a _man_ slave
down, in order to tie him, but it is considered cowardly and
inexcusable, in an overseer, thus to deal with a _woman_. He is
expected to tie her up, and to give her what is called, in southern
parlance, a “genteel flogging,” without any very great outlay of
strength or skill. I watched, with palpitating interest, the course of
the preliminary struggle, and was saddened by every new advantage
gained over her by the ruffian. There were times when she seemed likely
to get the better of the brute, but he finally overpowered her, and
succeeded in getting his rope around her arms, and in firmly tying her
to the tree, at which he had been aiming. This done, and Nelly was at
the mercy of his merciless lash; and now, what followed, I have no
heart to describe. The cowardly creature made good his every threat;
and wielded the lash with all the hot zest of furious revenge. The
cries of the woman, while undergoing the terrible infliction, were
mingled with those of the children, sounds which I hope the reader may
never be called upon to hear. When Nelly was untied, her back was
covered with blood. The red stripes were all over her shoulders. She
was whipped—severely whipped; but she was not subdued, for she
continued to denounce the overseer, and to call him every vile name. He
had bruised her flesh, but had left her invincible spirit undaunted.
Such floggings are seldom repeated by the same overseer. They prefer to
whip those who are most easily whipped. The old doctrine that
submission is the very best cure for outrage and wrong, does not hold
good on the slave plantation. He is whipped oftenest, who is whipped
easiest; and that slave who has the courage to stand up for himself
against the overseer, although he may have many hard stripes at the
first, becomes, in the end, a freeman, even though he sustain the
formal relation of a slave. “You can shoot me but you can’t whip me,”
said a slave to Rigby Hopkins; and the result was that he was neither
whipped nor shot. If the latter had been his fate, it would have been
less deplorable than the living and lingering death to which cowardly
and slavish souls are subjected. I do not know that Mr. Sevier ever
undertook to whip Nelly again. He probably never did, for it was not
long after his attempt to subdue her, that he was taken sick, and died.
The wretched man died as he had lived, unrepentant; and it was
said—with how much truth I know not—that in the very last hours of his
life, his ruling passion showed itself, and that when wrestling with
death, he was uttering horrid oaths, and flourishing the cowskin, as
though he was tearing the flesh off some helpless slave. One thing is
certain, that when he was in health, it was enough to chill the blood,
and to stiffen the hair of an ordinary man, to hear Mr. Sevier talk.
Nature, or his cruel habits, had given to his face an expression of
unusual savageness, even for a slave-driver. Tobacco and rage had worn
his teeth short, and nearly every sentence that escaped their
compressed grating, was commenced or concluded with some outburst of
profanity. His presence made the field alike the field of blood, and of
blasphemy. Hated for his cruelty, despised for his cowardice, his death
was deplored by no one outside his own house—if indeed it was deplored
there; it was regarded by the slaves as a merciful interposition of
Providence. Never went there a man to the grave loaded with heavier
curses. Mr. Sevier’s place was promptly taken by a Mr. Hopkins, and the
change was quite a relief, he being a very different man. He was, in
all respects, a better man than his predecessor; as good as any man can
be, and yet be an overseer. His course was characterized by no
extraordinary cruelty; and when he whipped a slave, as he sometimes
did, he seemed to take no especial pleasure in it, but, on the
contrary, acted as though he felt it to be a mean business. Mr. Hopkins
stayed but a short time; his place much to the regret of the slaves
generally—was taken by a Mr. Gore, of whom more will be said hereafter.
It is enough, for the present, to say, that he was no improvement on
Mr. Sevier, except that he was less noisy and less profane.

I have already referred to the business-like aspect of Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. This business-like appearance was much increased on the two
days at the end of each month, when the slaves from the different farms
came to get their monthly allowance of meal and meat. These were gala
days for the slaves, and there was much rivalry among them as to _who_
should be elected to go up to the great house farm for the allowance,
and, indeed, to attend to any business at this (for them) the capital.
The beauty and grandeur of the place, its numerous slave population,
and the fact that Harry, Peter and Jake the sailors of the sloop—almost
always kept, privately, little trinkets which they bought at Baltimore,
to sell, made it a privilege to come to the great house farm. Being
selected, too, for this office, was deemed a high honor. It was taken
as a proof of confidence and favor; but, probably, the chief motive of
the competitors for the place, was, a desire to break the dull monotony
of the field, and to get beyond the overseer’s eye and lash. Once on
the road with an ox team, and seated on the tongue of his cart, with no
overseer to look after him, the slave was comparatively free; and, if
thoughtful, he had time to think. Slaves are generally expected to sing
as well as to work. A silent slave is not liked by masters or
overseers. _“Make a noise,” “make a noise,”_ and _“bear a hand,”_ are
the words usually addressed to the slaves when there is silence amongst
them. This may account for the almost constant singing heard in the
southern states. There was, generally, more or less singing among the
teamsters, as it was one means of letting the overseer know where they
were, and that they were moving on with the work. But, on allowance
day, those who visited the great house farm were peculiarly excited and
noisy. While on their way, they would make the dense old woods, for
miles around, reverberate with their wild notes. These were not always
merry because they were wild. On the contrary, they were mostly of a
plaintive cast, and told a tale of grief and sorrow. In the most
boisterous outbursts of rapturous sentiment, there was ever a tinge of
deep melancholy. I have never heard any songs like those anywhere since
I left slavery, except when in Ireland. There I heard the same _wailing
notes_, and was much affected by them. It was during the famine of
1845-6. In all the songs of the slaves, there was ever some expression
in praise of the great house farm; something which would flatter the
pride of the owner, and, possibly, draw a favorable glance from him.

I am going away to the great house farm,
O yea!  O yea!  O yea!
My old master is a good old master,
O yea!  O yea!  O yea!


This they would sing, with other words of their own improvising—jargon
to others, but full of meaning to themselves. I have sometimes thought,
that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress truly
spiritual-minded men and women with the soul-crushing and death-dealing
character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of its mere
physical cruelties. They speak to the heart and to the soul of the
thoughtful. I cannot better express my sense of them now, than ten
years ago, when, in sketching my life, I thus spoke of this feature of
my plantation experience:

I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meanings of those rude,
and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle, so
that I neither saw or heard as those without might see and hear. They
told a tale which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension;
they were tones, loud, long and deep, breathing the prayer and
complaint of souls boiling over with the bitterest anguish. Every tone
was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliverance
from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always depressed my
spirits, and filled my heart with ineffable sadness. The mere
recurrence, even now, afflicts my spirit, and while I am writing these
lines, my tears are falling. To those songs I trace my first glimmering
conceptions of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get
rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my
hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds.
If any one wishes to be impressed with a sense of the soul-killing
power of slavery, let him go to Col. Lloyd’s plantation, and, on
allowance day, place himself in the deep, pine woods, and there let
him, in silence, thoughtfully analyze the sounds that shall pass
through the chambers of his soul, and if he is not thus impressed, it
will only be because “there is no flesh in his obdurate heart.”

The remark is not unfrequently made, that slaves are the most contended
and happy laborers in the world. They dance and sing, and make all
manner of joyful noises—so they do; but it is a great mistake to
suppose them happy because they sing. The songs of the slave represent
the sorrows, rather than the joys, of his heart; and he is relieved by
them, only as an aching heart is relieved by its tears. Such is the
constitution of the human mind, that, when pressed to extremes, it
often avails itself of the most opposite methods. Extremes meet in mind
as in matter. When the slaves on board of the “Pearl” were overtaken,
arrested, and carried to prison—their hopes for freedom blasted—as they
marched in chains they sang, and found (as Emily Edmunson tells us) a
melancholy relief in singing. The singing of a man cast away on a
desolate island, might be as appropriately considered an evidence of
his contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave. Sorrow and
desolation have their songs, as well as joy and peace. Slaves sing more
to _make_ themselves happy, than to express their happiness.

It is the boast of slaveholders, that their slaves enjoy more of the
physical comforts of life than the peasantry of any country in the
world. My experience contradicts this. The men and the women slaves on
Col. Lloyd’s farm, received, as their monthly allowance of food, eight
pounds of pickled pork, or their equivalent in fish. The pork was often
tainted, and the fish was of the poorest quality—herrings, which would
bring very little if offered for sale in any northern market. With
their pork or fish, they had one bushel of Indian meal—unbolted—of
which quite fifteen per cent was fit only to feed pigs. With this, one
pint of salt was given; and this was the entire monthly allowance of a
full grown slave, working constantly in the open field, from morning
until night, every day in the month except Sunday, and living on a
fraction more than a quarter of a pound of meat per day, and less than
a peck of corn-meal per week. There is no kind of work that a man can
do which requires a better supply of food to prevent physical
exhaustion, than the field-work of a slave. So much for the slave’s
allowance of food; now for his raiment. The yearly allowance of
clothing for the slaves on this plantation, consisted of two tow-linen
shirts—such linen as the coarsest crash towels are made of; one pair of
trowsers of the same material, for summer, and a pair of trowsers and a
jacket of woolen, most slazily put together, for winter; one pair of
yarn stockings, and one pair of shoes of the coarsest description. The
slave’s entire apparel could not have cost more than eight dollars per
year. The allowance of food and clothing for the little children, was
committed to their mothers, or to the older slavewomen having the care
of them. Children who were unable to work in the field, had neither
shoes, stockings, jackets nor trowsers given them. Their clothing
consisted of two coarse tow-linen shirts—already described—per year;
and when these failed them, as they often did, they went naked until
the next allowance day. Flocks of little children from five to ten
years old, might be seen on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, as destitute of
clothing as any little heathen on the west coast of Africa; and this,
not merely during the summer months, but during the frosty weather of
March. The little girls were no better off than the boys; all were
nearly in a state of nudity.

As to beds to sleep on, they were known to none of the field hands;
nothing but a coarse blanket—not so good as those used in the north to
cover horses—was given them, and this only to the men and women. The
children stuck themselves in holes and corners, about the quarters;
often in the corner of the huge chimneys, with their feet in the ashes
to keep them warm. The want of beds, however, was not considered a very
great privation. Time to sleep was of far greater importance, for, when
the day’s work is done, most of the slaves have their washing, mending
and cooking to do; and, having few or none of the ordinary facilities
for doing such things, very many of their sleeping hours are consumed
in necessary preparations for the duties of the coming day.

The sleeping apartments—if they may be called such—have little regard
to comfort or decency. Old and young, male and female, married and
single, drop down upon the common clay floor, each covering up with his
or her blanket,—the only protection they have from cold or exposure.
The night, however, is shortened at both ends. The slaves work often as
long as they can see, and are late in cooking and mending for the
coming day; and, at the first gray streak of morning, they are summoned
to the field by the driver’s horn.

More slaves are whipped for oversleeping than for any other fault.
Neither age nor sex finds any favor. The overseer stands at the quarter
door, armed with stick and cowskin, ready to whip any who may be a few
minutes behind time. When the horn is blown, there is a rush for the
door, and the hindermost one is sure to get a blow from the overseer.
Young mothers who worked in the field, were allowed an hour, about ten
o’clock in the morning, to go home to nurse their children. Sometimes
they were compelled to take their children with them, and to leave them
in the corner of the fences, to prevent loss of time in nursing them.
The overseer generally rides about the field on horseback. A cowskin
and a hickory stick are his constant companions. The cowskin is a kind
of whip seldom seen in the northern states. It is made entirely of
untanned, but dried, ox hide, and is about as hard as a piece of
well-seasoned live oak. It is made of various sizes, but the usual
length is about three feet. The part held in the hand is nearly an inch
in thickness; and, from the extreme end of the butt or handle, the
cowskin tapers its whole length to a point. This makes it quite elastic
and springy. A blow with it, on the hardest back, will gash the flesh,
and make the blood start. Cowskins are painted red, blue and green, and
are the favorite slave whip. I think this whip worse than the
“cat-o’nine-tails.” It condenses the whole strength of the arm to a
single point, and comes with a spring that makes the air whistle. It is
a terrible instrument, and is so handy, that the overseer can always
have it on his person, and ready for use. The temptation to use it is
ever strong; and an overseer can, if disposed, always have cause for
using it. With him, it is literally a word and a blow, and, in most
cases, the blow comes first.

As a general rule, slaves do not come to the quarters for either
breakfast or dinner, but take their “ash cake” with them, and eat it in
the field. This was so on the home plantation; probably, because the
distance from the quarter to the field, was sometimes two, and even
three miles.

The dinner of the slaves consisted of a huge piece of ash cake, and a
small piece of pork, or two salt herrings. Not having ovens, nor any
suitable cooking utensils, the slaves mixed their meal with a little
water, to such thickness that a spoon would stand erect in it; and,
after the wood had burned away to coals and ashes, they would place the
dough between oak leaves and lay it carefully in the ashes, completely
covering it; hence, the bread is called ash cake. The surface of this
peculiar bread is covered with ashes, to the depth of a sixteenth part
of an inch, and the ashes, certainly, do not make it very grateful to
the teeth, nor render it very palatable. The bran, or coarse part of
the meal, is baked with the fine, and bright scales run through the
bread. This bread, with its ashes and bran, would disgust and choke a
northern man, but it is quite liked by the slaves. They eat it with
avidity, and are more concerned about the quantity than about the
quality. They are far too scantily provided for, and are worked too
steadily, to be much concerned for the quality of their food. The few
minutes allowed them at dinner time, after partaking of their coarse
repast, are variously spent. Some lie down on the “turning row,” and go
to sleep; others draw together, and talk; and others are at work with
needle and thread, mending their tattered garments. Sometimes you may
hear a wild, hoarse laugh arise from a circle, and often a song. Soon,
however, the overseer comes dashing through the field. _“Tumble up!
Tumble up_, and to _work, work,”_ is the cry; and, now, from twelve
o’clock (mid-day) till dark, the human cattle are in motion, wielding
their clumsy hoes; hurried on by no hope of reward, no sense of
gratitude, no love of children, no prospect of bettering their
condition; nothing, save the dread and terror of the slave-driver’s
lash. So goes one day, and so comes and goes another.

But, let us now leave the rough usage of the field, where vulgar
coarseness and brutal cruelty spread themselves and flourish, rank as
weeds in the tropics; where a vile wretch, in the shape of a man,
rides, walks, or struts about, dealing blows, and leaving gashes on
broken-spirited men and helpless women, for thirty dollars per month—a
business so horrible, hardening and disgraceful, that, rather, than
engage in it, a decent man would blow his own brains out—and let the
reader view with me the equally wicked, but less repulsive aspects of
slave life; where pride and pomp roll luxuriously at ease; where the
toil of a thousand men supports a single family in easy idleness and
sin. This is the great house; it is the home of the LLOYDS! Some idea
of its splendor has already been given—and, it is here that we shall
find that height of luxury which is the opposite of that depth of
poverty and physical wretchedness that we have just now been
contemplating. But, there is this difference in the two extremes; viz:
that in the case of the slave, the miseries and hardships of his lot
are imposed by others, and, in the master’s case, they are imposed by
himself. The slave is a subject, subjected by others; the slaveholder
is a subject, but he is the author of his own subjection. There is more
truth in the saying, that slavery is a greater evil to the master than
to the slave, than many, who utter it, suppose. The self-executing laws
of eternal justice follow close on the heels of the evil-doer here, as
well as elsewhere; making escape from all its penalties impossible.
But, let others philosophize; it is my province here to relate and
describe; only allowing myself a word or two, occasionally, to assist
the reader in the proper understanding of the facts narrated.




CHAPTER VII. _Life in the Great House_


COMFORTS AND LUXURIES—ELABORATE EXPENDITURE—HOUSE SERVANTS—MEN SERVANTS
AND MAID SERVANTS—APPEARANCES—SLAVE ARISTOCRACY—STABLE AND CARRIAGE
HOUSE—BOUNDLESS HOSPITALITY—FRAGRANCE OF RICH DISHES—THE DECEPTIVE
CHARACTER OF SLAVERY—SLAVES SEEM HAPPY—SLAVES AND SLAVEHOLDERS ALIKE
WRETCHED—FRETFUL DISCONTENT OF SLAVEHOLDERS—FAULT-FINDING—OLD
BARNEY—HIS PROFESSION—WHIPPING—HUMILIATING SPECTACLE—CASE
EXCEPTIONAL—WILLIAM WILKS—SUPPOSED SON OF COL. LLOYD—CURIOUS
INCIDENT—SLAVES PREFER RICH MASTERS TO POOR ONES.


The close-fisted stinginess that fed the poor slave on coarse corn-meal
and tainted meat; that clothed him in crashy tow-linen, and hurried him
to toil through the field, in all weathers, with wind and rain beating
through his tattered garments; that scarcely gave even the young
slave-mother time to nurse her hungry infant in the fence corner;
wholly vanishes on approaching the sacred precincts of the great house,
the home of the Lloyds. There the scriptural phrase finds an exact
illustration; the highly favored inmates of this mansion are literally
arrayed “in purple and fine linen,” and fare sumptuously every day! The
table groans under the heavy and blood-bought luxuries gathered with
painstaking care, at home and abroad. Fields, forests, rivers and seas,
are made tributary here. Immense wealth, and its lavish expenditure,
fill the great house with all that can please the eye, or tempt the
taste. Here, appetite, not food, is the great _desideratum_. Fish,
flesh and fowl, are here in profusion. Chickens, of all breeds; ducks,
of all kinds, wild and tame, the common, and the huge Muscovite; Guinea
fowls, turkeys, geese, and pea fowls, are in their several pens, fat
and fatting for the destined vortex. The graceful swan, the mongrels,
the black-necked wild goose; partridges, quails, pheasants and pigeons;
choice water fowl, with all their strange varieties, are caught in this
huge family net. Beef, veal, mutton and venison, of the most select
kinds and quality, roll bounteously to this grand consumer. The teeming
riches of the Chesapeake bay, its rock, perch, drums, crocus, trout,
oysters, crabs, and terrapin, are drawn hither to adorn the glittering
table of the great house. The dairy, too, probably the finest on the
Eastern Shore of Maryland—supplied by cattle of the best English stock,
imported for the purpose, pours its rich donations of fragant cheese,
golden butter, and delicious cream, to heighten the attraction of the
gorgeous, unending round of feasting. Nor are the fruits of the earth
forgotten or neglected. The fertile garden, many acres in size,
constituting a separate establishment, distinct from the common
farm—with its scientific gardener, imported from Scotland (a Mr.
McDermott) with four men under his direction, was not behind, either in
the abundance or in the delicacy of its contributions to the same full
board. The tender asparagus, the succulent celery, and the delicate
cauliflower; egg plants, beets, lettuce, parsnips, peas, and French
beans, early and late; radishes, cantelopes, melons of all kinds; the
fruits and flowers of all climes and of all descriptions, from the
hardy apple of the north, to the lemon and orange of the south,
culminated at this point. Baltimore gathered figs, raisins, almonds and
juicy grapes from Spain. Wines and brandies from France; teas of
various flavor, from China; and rich, aromatic coffee from Java, all
conspired to swell the tide of high life, where pride and indolence
rolled and lounged in magnificence and satiety.

Behind the tall-backed and elaborately wrought chairs, stand the
servants, men and maidens—fifteen in number—discriminately selected,
not only with a view to their industry and faithfulness, but with
special regard to their personal appearance, their graceful agility and
captivating address. Some of these are armed with fans, and are fanning
reviving breezes toward the over-heated brows of the alabaster ladies;
others watch with eager eye, and with fawn-like step anticipate and
supply wants before they are sufficiently formed to be announced by
word or sign.

These servants constituted a sort of black aristocracy on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. They resembled the field hands in nothing, except in color,
and in this they held the advantage of a velvet-like glossiness, rich
and beautiful. The hair, too, showed the same advantage. The delicate
colored maid rustled in the scarcely worn silk of her young mistress,
while the servant men were equally well attired from the over-flowing
wardrobe of their young masters; so that, in dress, as well as in form
and feature, in manner and speech, in tastes and habits, the distance
between these favored few, and the sorrow and hunger-smitten multitudes
of the quarter and the field, was immense; and this is seldom passed
over.

Let us now glance at the stables and the carriage house, and we shall
find the same evidences of pride and luxurious extravagance. Here are
three splendid coaches, soft within and lustrous without. Here, too,
are gigs, phaetons, barouches, sulkeys and sleighs. Here are saddles
and harnesses—beautifully wrought and silver mounted—kept with every
care. In the stable you will find, kept only for pleasure, full
thirty-five horses, of the most approved blood for speed and beauty.
There are two men here constantly employed in taking care of these
horses. One of these men must be always in the stable, to answer every
call from the great house. Over the way from the stable, is a house
built expressly for the hounds—a pack of twenty-five or thirty—whose
fare would have made glad the heart of a dozen slaves. Horses and
hounds are not the only consumers of the slave’s toil. There was
practiced, at the Lloyd’s, a hospitality which would have astonished
and charmed any health-seeking northern divine or merchant, who might
have chanced to share it. Viewed from his own table, and _not_ from the
field, the colonel was a model of generous hospitality. His house was,
literally, a hotel, for weeks during the summer months. At these times,
especially, the air was freighted with the rich fumes of baking,
boiling, roasting and broiling. The odors I shared with the winds; but
the meats were under a more stringent monopoly except that,
occasionally, I got a cake from Mas’ Daniel. In Mas’ Daniel I had a
friend at court, from whom I learned many things which my eager
curiosity was excited to know. I always knew when company was expected,
and who they were, although I was an outsider, being the property, not
of Col. Lloyd, but of a servant of the wealthy colonel. On these
occasions, all that pride, taste and money could do, to dazzle and
charm, was done.

Who could say that the servants of Col. Lloyd were not well clad and
cared for, after witnessing one of his magnificent entertainments? Who
could say that they did not seem to glory in being the slaves of such a
master? Who, but a fanatic, could get up any sympathy for persons whose
every movement was agile, easy and graceful, and who evinced a
consciousness of high superiority? And who would ever venture to
suspect that Col. Lloyd was subject to the troubles of ordinary
mortals? Master and slave seem alike in their glory here? Can it all be
seeming? Alas! it may only be a sham at last! This immense wealth; this
gilded splendor; this profusion of luxury; this exemption from toil;
this life of ease; this sea of plenty; aye, what of it all? Are the
pearly gates of happiness and sweet content flung open to such suitors?
_far from it!_ The poor slave, on his hard, pine plank, but scantily
covered with his thin blanket, sleeps more soundly than the feverish
voluptuary who reclines upon his feather bed and downy pillow. Food, to
the indolent lounger, is poison, not sustenance. Lurking beneath all
their dishes, are invisible spirits of evil, ready to feed the
self-deluded gormandizers which aches, pains, fierce temper,
uncontrolled passions, dyspepsia, rheumatism, lumbago and gout; and of
these the Lloyds got their full share. To the pampered love of ease,
there is no resting place. What is pleasant today, is repulsive
tomorrow; what is soft now, is hard at another time; what is sweet in
the morning, is bitter in the evening. Neither to the wicked, nor to
the idler, is there any solid peace: _“Troubled, like the restless
sea.”_

I had excellent opportunities of witnessing the restless discontent and
the capricious irritation of the Lloyds. My fondness for horses—not
peculiar to me more than to other boys attracted me, much of the time,
to the stables. This establishment was especially under the care of
“old” and “young” Barney—father and son. Old Barney was a fine looking
old man, of a brownish complexion, who was quite portly, and wore a
dignified aspect for a slave. He was, evidently, much devoted to his
profession, and held his office an honorable one. He was a farrier as
well as an ostler; he could bleed, remove lampers from the mouths of
the horses, and was well instructed in horse medicines. No one on the
farm knew, so well as Old Barney, what to do with a sick horse. But his
gifts and acquirements were of little advantage to him. His office was
by no means an enviable one. He often got presents, but he got stripes
as well; for in nothing was Col. Lloyd more unreasonable and exacting,
than in respect to the management of his pleasure horses. Any supposed
inattention to these animals were sure to be visited with degrading
punishment. His horses and dogs fared better than his men. Their beds
must be softer and cleaner than those of his human cattle. No excuse
could shield Old Barney, if the colonel only suspected something wrong
about his horses; and, consequently, he was often punished when
faultless. It was absolutely painful to listen to the many unreasonable
and fretful scoldings, poured out at the stable, by Col. Lloyd, his
sons and sons-in-law. Of the latter, he had three—Messrs. Nicholson,
Winder and Lownes. These all lived at the great house a portion of the
year, and enjoyed the luxury of whipping the servants when they
pleased, which was by no means unfrequently. A horse was seldom brought
out of the stable to which no objection could be raised. “There was
dust in his hair;” “there was a twist in his reins;” “his mane did not
lie straight;” “he had not been properly grained;” “his head did not
look well;” “his fore-top was not combed out;” “his fetlocks had not
been properly trimmed;” something was always wrong. Listening to
complaints, however groundless, Barney must stand, hat in hand, lips
sealed, never answering a word. He must make no reply, no explanation;
the judgment of the master must be deemed infallible, for his power is
absolute and irresponsible. In a free state, a master, thus complaining
without cause, of his ostler, might be told—“Sir, I am sorry I cannot
please you, but, since I have done the best I can, your remedy is to
dismiss me.” Here, however, the ostler must stand, listen and tremble.
One of the most heart-saddening and humiliating scenes I ever
witnessed, was the whipping of Old Barney, by Col. Lloyd himself. Here
were two men, both advanced in years; there were the silvery locks of
Col. L., and there was the bald and toil-worn brow of Old Barney;
master and slave; superior and inferior here, but _equals_ at the bar
of God; and, in the common course of events, they must both soon meet
in another world, in a world where all distinctions, except those based
on obedience and disobedience, are blotted out forever. “Uncover your
head!” said the imperious master; he was obeyed. “Take off your jacket,
you old rascal!” and off came Barney’s jacket. “Down on your knees!”
down knelt the old man, his shoulders bare, his bald head glistening in
the sun, and his aged knees on the cold, damp ground. In his humble and
debasing attitude, the master—that master to whom he had given the best
years and the best strength of his life—came forward, and laid on
thirty lashes, with his horse whip. The old man bore it patiently, to
the last, answering each blow with a slight shrug of the shoulders, and
a groan. I cannot think that Col. Lloyd succeeded in marring the flesh
of Old Barney very seriously, for the whip was a light, riding whip;
but the spectacle of an aged man—a husband and a father—humbly kneeling
before a worm of the dust, surprised and shocked me at the time; and
since I have grown old enough to think on the wickedness of slavery,
few facts have been of more value to me than this, to which I was a
witness. It reveals slavery in its true color, and in its maturity of
repulsive hatefulness. I owe it to truth, however, to say, that this
was the first and the last time I ever saw Old Barney, or any other
slave, compelled to kneel to receive a whipping.

I saw, at the stable, another incident, which I will relate, as it is
illustrative of a phase of slavery to which I have already referred in
another connection. Besides two other coachmen, Col. Lloyd owned one
named William, who, strangely enough, was often called by his surname,
Wilks, by white and colored people on the home plantation. Wilks was a
very fine looking man. He was about as white as anybody on the
plantation; and in manliness of form, and comeliness of features, he
bore a very striking resemblance to Mr. Murray Lloyd. It was whispered,
and pretty generally admitted as a fact, that William Wilks was a son
of Col. Lloyd, by a highly favored slave-woman, who was still on the
plantation. There were many reasons for believing this whisper, not
only in William’s appearance, but in the undeniable freedom which he
enjoyed over all others, and his apparent consciousness of being
something more than a slave to his master. It was notorious, too, that
William had a deadly enemy in Murray Lloyd, whom he so much resembled,
and that the latter greatly worried his father with importunities to
sell William. Indeed, he gave his father no rest until he did sell him,
to Austin Woldfolk, the great slave-trader at that time. Before selling
him, however, Mr. L. tried what giving William a whipping would do,
toward making things smooth; but this was a failure. It was a
compromise, and defeated itself; for, immediately after the infliction,
the heart-sickened colonel atoned to William for the abuse, by giving
him a gold watch and chain. Another fact, somewhat curious, is, that
though sold to the remorseless _Woldfolk_, taken in irons to Baltimore
and cast into prison, with a view to being driven to the south,
William, by _some_ means—always a mystery to me—outbid all his
purchasers, paid for himself, _and now resides in Baltimore, a_
FREEMAN. Is there not room to suspect, that, as the gold watch was
presented to atone for the whipping, a purse of gold was given him by
the same hand, with which to effect his purchase, as an atonement for
the indignity involved in selling his own flesh and blood. All the
circumstances of William, on the great house farm, show him to have
occupied a different position from the other slaves, and, certainly,
there is nothing in the supposed hostility of slaveholders to
amalgamation, to forbid the supposition that William Wilks was the son
of Edward Lloyd. _Practical_ amalgamation is common in every
neighborhood where I have been in slavery.

Col. Lloyd was not in the way of knowing much of the real opinions and
feelings of his slaves respecting him. The distance between him and
them was far too great to admit of such knowledge. His slaves were so
numerous, that he did not know them when he saw them. Nor, indeed, did
all his slaves know him. In this respect, he was inconveniently rich.
It is reported of him, that, while riding along the road one day, he
met a colored man, and addressed him in the usual way of speaking to
colored people on the public highways of the south: “Well, boy, who do
you belong to?” “To Col. Lloyd,” replied the slave. “Well, does the
colonel treat you well?” “No, sir,” was the ready reply. “What? does he
work you too hard?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, don’t he give enough to eat?”
“Yes, sir, he gives me enough, such as it is.” The colonel, after
ascertaining where the slave belonged, rode on; the slave also went on
about his business, not dreaming that he had been conversing with his
master. He thought, said and heard nothing more of the matter, until
two or three weeks afterwards. The poor man was then informed by his
overseer, that, for having found fault with his master, he was now to
be sold to a Georgia trader. He was immediately chained and handcuffed;
and thus, without a moment’s warning he was snatched away, and forever
sundered from his family and friends, by a hand more unrelenting than
that of death. _This_ is the penalty of telling the simple truth, in
answer to a series of plain questions. It is partly in consequence of
such facts, that slaves, when inquired of as to their condition and the
character of their masters, almost invariably say they are contented,
and that their masters are kind. Slaveholders have been known to send
spies among their slaves, to ascertain, if possible, their views and
feelings in regard to their condition. The frequency of this had the
effect to establish among the slaves the maxim, that a still tongue
makes a wise head. They suppress the truth rather than take the
consequence of telling it, and, in so doing, they prove themselves a
part of the human family. If they have anything to say of their master,
it is, generally, something in his favor, especially when speaking to
strangers. I was frequently asked, while a slave, if I had a kind
master, and I do not remember ever to have given a negative reply. Nor
did I, when pursuing this course, consider myself as uttering what was
utterly false; for I always measured the kindness of my master by the
standard of kindness set up by slaveholders around us. However, slaves
are like other people, and imbibe similar prejudices. They are apt to
think _their condition_ better than that of others. Many, under the
influence of this prejudice, think their own masters are better than
the masters of other slaves; and this, too, in some cases, when the
very reverse is true. Indeed, it is not uncommon for slaves even to
fall out and quarrel among themselves about the relative kindness of
their masters, contending for the superior goodness of his own over
that of others. At the very same time, they mutually execrate their
masters, when viewed separately. It was so on our plantation. When Col.
Lloyd’s slaves met those of Jacob Jepson, they seldom parted without a
quarrel about their masters; Col. Lloyd’s slaves contending that he was
the richest, and Mr. Jepson’s slaves that he was the smartest, man of
the two. Col. Lloyd’s slaves would boost his ability to buy and sell
Jacob Jepson; Mr. Jepson’s slaves would boast his ability to whip Col.
Lloyd. These quarrels would almost always end in a fight between the
parties; those that beat were supposed to have gained the point at
issue. They seemed to think that the greatness of their masters was
transferable to themselves. To be a SLAVE, was thought to be bad
enough; but to be a _poor man’s_ slave, was deemed a disgrace, indeed.




CHAPTER VIII. _A Chapter of Horrors_


AUSTIN GORE—A SKETCH OF HIS CHARACTER—OVERSEERS AS A CLASS—THEIR
PECULIAR CHARACTERISTICS—THE MARKED INDIVIDUALITY OF AUSTIN GORE—HIS
SENSE OF DUTY—HOW HE WHIPPED—MURDER OF POOR DENBY—HOW IT
OCCURRED—SENSATION—HOW GORE MADE PEACE WITH COL. LLOYD—THE MURDER
UNPUNISHED—ANOTHER DREADFUL MURDER NARRATED—NO LAWS FOR THE PROTECTION
OF SLAVES CAN BE ENFORCED IN THE SOUTHERN STATES.


As I have already intimated elsewhere, the slaves on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation, whose hard lot, under Mr. Sevier, the reader has already
noticed and deplored, were not permitted to enjoy the comparatively
moderate rule of Mr. Hopkins. The latter was succeeded by a very
different man. The name of the new overseer was Austin Gore. Upon this
individual I would fix particular attention; for under his rule there
was more suffering from violence and bloodshed than had—according to
the older slaves ever been experienced before on this plantation. I
confess, I hardly know how to bring this man fitly before the reader.
He was, it is true, an overseer, and possessed, to a large extent, the
peculiar characteristics of his class; yet, to call him merely an
overseer, would not give the reader a fair notion of the man. I speak
of overseers as a class. They are such. They are as distinct from the
slaveholding gentry of the south, as are the fishwomen of Paris, and
the coal-heavers of London, distinct from other members of society.
They constitute a separate fraternity at the south, not less marked
than is the fraternity of Park Lane bullies in New York. They have been
arranged and classified by that great law of attraction, which
determines the spheres and affinities of men; which ordains, that men,
whose malign and brutal propensities predominate over their moral and
intellectual endowments, shall, naturally, fall into those employments
which promise the largest gratification to those predominating
instincts or propensities. The office of overseer takes this raw
material of vulgarity and brutality, and stamps it as a distinct class
of southern society. But, in this class, as in all other classes, there
are characters of marked individuality, even while they bear a general
resemblance to the mass. Mr. Gore was one of those, to whom a general
characterization would do no manner of justice. He was an overseer; but
he was something more. With the malign and tyrannical qualities of an
overseer, he combined something of the lawful master. He had the
artfulness and the mean ambition of his class; but he was wholly free
from the disgusting swagger and noisy bravado of his fraternity. There
was an easy air of independence about him; a calm self-possession, and
a sternness of glance, which might well daunt hearts less timid than
those of poor slaves, accustomed from childhood and through life to
cower before a driver’s lash. The home plantation of Col. Lloyd
afforded an ample field for the exercise of the qualifications for
overseership, which he possessed in such an eminent degree.

Mr. Gore was one of those overseers, who could torture the slightest
word or look into impudence; he had the nerve, not only to resent, but
to punish, promptly and severely. He never allowed himself to be
answered back, by a slave. In this, he was as lordly and as imperious
as Col. Edward Lloyd, himself; acting always up to the maxim,
practically maintained by slaveholders, that it is better that a dozen
slaves suffer under the lash, without fault, than that the master or
the overseer should _seem_ to have been wrong in the presence of the
slave. _Everything must be absolute here_. Guilty or not guilty, it is
enough to be accused, to be sure of a flogging. The very presence of
this man Gore was painful, and I shunned him as I would have shunned a
rattlesnake. His piercing, black eyes, and sharp, shrill voice, ever
awakened sensations of terror among the slaves. For so young a man (I
describe him as he was, twenty-five or thirty years ago) Mr. Gore was
singularly reserved and grave in the presence of slaves. He indulged in
no jokes, said no funny things, and kept his own counsels. Other
overseers, how brutal soever they might be, were, at times, inclined to
gain favor with the slaves, by indulging a little pleasantry; but Gore
was never known to be guilty of any such weakness. He was always the
cold, distant, unapproachable _overseer_ of Col. Edward Lloyd’s
plantation, and needed no higher pleasure than was involved in a
faithful discharge of the duties of his office. When he whipped, he
seemed to do so from a sense of duty, and feared no consequences. What
Hopkins did reluctantly, Gore did with alacrity. There was a stern
will, an iron-like reality, about this Gore, which would have easily
made him the chief of a band of pirates, had his environments been
favorable to such a course of life. All the coolness, savage barbarity
and freedom from moral restraint, which are necessary in the character
of a pirate-chief, centered, I think, in this man Gore. Among many
other deeds of shocking cruelty which he perpetrated, while I was at
Mr. Lloyd’s, was the murder of a young colored man, named Denby. He was
sometimes called Bill Denby, or Demby; (I write from sound, and the
sounds on Lloyd’s plantation are not very certain.) I knew him well. He
was a powerful young man, full of animal spirits, and, so far as I
know, he was among the most valuable of Col. Lloyd’s slaves. In
something—I know not what—he offended this Mr. Austin Gore, and, in
accordance with the custom of the latter, he under took to flog him. He
gave Denby but few stripes; the latter broke away from him and plunged
into the creek, and, standing there to the depth of his neck in water,
he refused to come out at the order of the overseer; whereupon, for
this refusal, _Gore shot him dead!_ It is said that Gore gave Denby
three calls, telling him that if he did not obey the last call, he
would shoot him. When the third call was given, Denby stood his ground
firmly; and this raised the question, in the minds of the by-standing
slaves—“Will he dare to shoot?” Mr. Gore, without further parley, and
without making any further effort to induce Denby to come out of the
water, raised his gun deliberately to his face, took deadly aim at his
standing victim, and, in an instant, poor Denby was numbered with the
dead. His mangled body sank out of sight, and only his warm, red blood
marked the place where he had stood.

This devilish outrage, this fiendish murder, produced, as it was well
calculated to do, a tremendous sensation. A thrill of horror flashed
through every soul on the plantation, if I may except the guilty wretch
who had committed the hell-black deed. While the slaves generally were
panic-struck, and howling with alarm, the murderer himself was calm and
collected, and appeared as though nothing unusual had happened. The
atrocity roused my old master, and he spoke out, in reprobation of it;
but the whole thing proved to be less than a nine days’ wonder. Both
Col. Lloyd and my old master arraigned Gore for his cruelty in the
matter, but this amounted to nothing. His reply, or explanation—as I
remember to have heard it at the time was, that the extraordinary
expedient was demanded by necessity; that Denby had become
unmanageable; that he had set a dangerous example to the other slaves;
and that, without some such prompt measure as that to which he had
resorted, were adopted, there would be an end to all rule and order on
the plantation. That very convenient covert for all manner of cruelty
and outrage that cowardly alarm-cry, that the slaves would _“take the
place,”_ was pleaded, in extenuation of this revolting crime, just as
it had been cited in defense of a thousand similar ones. He argued,
that if one slave refused to be corrected, and was allowed to escape
with his life, when he had been told that he should lose it if he
persisted in his course, the other slaves would soon copy his example;
the result of which would be, the freedom of the slaves, and the
enslavement of the whites. I have every reason to believe that Mr.
Gore’s defense, or explanation, was deemed satisfactory—at least to
Col. Lloyd. He was continued in his office on the plantation. His fame
as an overseer went abroad, and his horrid crime was not even submitted
to judicial investigation. The murder was committed in the presence of
slaves, and they, of course, could neither institute a suit, nor
testify against the murderer. His bare word would go further in a court
of law, than the united testimony of ten thousand black witnesses.

All that Mr. Gore had to do, was to make his peace with Col. Lloyd.
This done, and the guilty perpetrator of one of the most foul murders
goes unwhipped of justice, and uncensured by the community in which he
lives. Mr. Gore lived in St. Michael’s, Talbot county, when I left
Maryland; if he is still alive he probably yet resides there; and I
have no reason to doubt that he is now as highly esteemed, and as
greatly respected, as though his guilty soul had never been stained
with innocent blood. I am well aware that what I have now written will
by some be branded as false and malicious. It will be denied, not only
that such a thing ever did transpire, as I have now narrated, but that
such a thing could happen in _Maryland_. I can only say—believe it or
not—that I have said nothing but the literal truth, gainsay it who may.

I speak advisedly when I say this,—that killing a slave, or any colored
person, in Talbot county, Maryland, is not treated as a crime, either
by the courts or the community. Mr. Thomas Lanman, ship carpenter, of
St. Michael’s, killed two slaves, one of whom he butchered with a
hatchet, by knocking his brains out. He used to boast of the commission
of the awful and bloody deed. I have heard him do so, laughingly,
saying, among other things, that he was the only benefactor of his
country in the company, and that when “others would do as much as he
had done, we should be relieved of the d—d niggers.”

As an evidence of the reckless disregard of human life where the life
is that of a slave I may state the notorious fact, that the wife of Mr.
Giles Hicks, who lived but a short distance from Col. Lloyd’s, with her
own hands murdered my wife’s cousin, a young girl between fifteen and
sixteen years of age—mutilating her person in a most shocking manner.
The atrocious woman, in the paroxysm of her wrath, not content with
murdering her victim, literally mangled her face, and broke her breast
bone. Wild, however, and infuriated as she was, she took the precaution
to cause the slave-girl to be buried; but the facts of the case coming
abroad, very speedily led to the disinterment of the remains of the
murdered slave-girl. A coroner’s jury was assembled, who decided that
the girl had come to her death by severe beating. It was ascertained
that the offense for which this girl was thus hurried out of the world,
was this: she had been set that night, and several preceding nights, to
mind Mrs. Hicks’s baby, and having fallen into a sound sleep, the baby
cried, waking Mrs. Hicks, but not the slave-girl. Mrs. Hicks, becoming
infuriated at the girl’s tardiness, after calling several times, jumped
from her bed and seized a piece of fire-wood from the fireplace; and
then, as she lay fast asleep, she deliberately pounded in her skull and
breast-bone, and thus ended her life. I will not say that this most
horrid murder produced no sensation in the community. It _did_ produce
a sensation; but, incredible to tell, the moral sense of the community
was blunted too entirely by the ordinary nature of slavery horrors, to
bring the murderess to punishment. A warrant was issued for her arrest,
but, for some reason or other, that warrant was never served. Thus did
Mrs. Hicks not only escape condign punishment, but even the pain and
mortification of being arraigned before a court of justice.

Whilst I am detailing the bloody deeds that took place during my stay
on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, I will briefly narrate another dark
transaction, which occurred about the same time as the murder of Denby
by Mr. Gore.

On the side of the river Wye, opposite from Col. Lloyd’s, there lived a
Mr. Beal Bondley, a wealthy slaveholder. In the direction of his land,
and near the shore, there was an excellent oyster fishing ground, and
to this, some of the slaves of Col. Lloyd occasionally resorted in
their little canoes, at night, with a view to make up the deficiency of
their scanty allowance of food, by the oysters that they could easily
get there. This, Mr. Bondley took it into his head to regard as a
trespass, and while an old man belonging to Col. Lloyd was engaged in
catching a few of the many millions of oysters that lined the bottom of
that creek, to satisfy his hunger, the villainous Mr. Bondley, lying in
ambush, without the slightest ceremony, discharged the contents of his
musket into the back and shoulders of the poor old man. As good fortune
would have it, the shot did not prove mortal, and Mr. Bondley came
over, the next day, to see Col. Lloyd—whether to pay him for his
property, or to justify himself for what he had done, I know not; but
this I _can_ say, the cruel and dastardly transaction was speedily
hushed up; there was very little said about it at all, and nothing was
publicly done which looked like the application of the principle of
justice to the man whom _chance_, only, saved from being an actual
murderer. One of the commonest sayings to which my ears early became
accustomed, on Col. Lloyd’s plantation and elsewhere in Maryland, was,
that it was _“worth but half a cent to kill a nigger, and a half a cent
to bury him;”_ and the facts of my experience go far to justify the
practical truth of this strange proverb. Laws for the protection of the
lives of the slaves, are, as they must needs be, utterly incapable of
being enforced, where the very parties who are nominally protected, are
not permitted to give evidence, in courts of law, against the only
class of persons from whom abuse, outrage and murder might be
reasonably apprehended. While I heard of numerous murders committed by
slaveholders on the Eastern Shores of Maryland, I never knew a solitary
instance in which a slaveholder was either hung or imprisoned for
having murdered a slave. The usual pretext for killing a slave is, that
the slave has offered resistance. Should a slave, when assaulted, but
raise his hand in self defense, the white assaulting party is fully
justified by southern, or Maryland, public opinion, in shooting the
slave down. Sometimes this is done, simply because it is alleged that
the slave has been saucy. But here I leave this phase of the society of
my early childhood, and will relieve the kind reader of these
heart-sickening details.




CHAPTER IX. _Personal Treatment_


MISS LUCRETIA—HER KINDNESS—HOW IT WAS MANIFESTED—“IKE”—A BATTLE WITH
HIM—THE CONSEQUENCES THEREOF—MISS LUCRETIA’S BALSAM—BREAD—HOW I
OBTAINED IT—BEAMS OF SUNLIGHT AMIDST THE GENERAL DARKNESS—SUFFERING
FROM COLD—HOW WE TOOK OUR MEALS—ORDERS TO PREPARE FOR
BALTIMORE—OVERJOYED AT THE THOUGHT OF QUITTING THE
PLANTATION—EXTRAORDINARY CLEANSING—COUSIN TOM’S VERSION OF
BALTIMORE—ARRIVAL THERE—KIND RECEPTION GIVEN ME BY MRS. SOPHIA
AULD—LITTLE TOMMY—MY NEW POSITION—MY NEW DUTIES—A TURNING POINT IN MY
HISTORY.


I have nothing cruel or shocking to relate of my own personal
experience, while I remained on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, at the home of
my old master. An occasional cuff from Aunt Katy, and a regular
whipping from old master, such as any heedless and mischievous boy
might get from his father, is all that I can mention of this sort. I
was not old enough to work in the field, and, there being little else
than field work to perform, I had much leisure. The most I had to do,
was, to drive up the cows in the evening, to keep the front yard clean,
and to perform small errands for my young mistress, Lucretia Auld. I
have reasons for thinking this lady was very kindly disposed toward me,
and, although I was not often the object of her attention, I constantly
regarded her as my friend, and was always glad when it was my privilege
to do her a service. In a family where there was so much that was
harsh, cold and indifferent, the slightest word or look of kindness
passed, with me, for its full value. Miss Lucretia—as we all continued
to call her long after her marriage—had bestowed upon me such words and
looks as taught me that she pitied me, if she did not love me. In
addition to words and looks, she sometimes gave me a piece of bread and
butter; a thing not set down in the bill of fare, and which must have
been an extra ration, planned aside from either Aunt Katy or old
master, solely out of the tender regard and friendship she had for me.
Then, too, I one day got into the wars with Uncle Able’s son, “Ike,”
and had got sadly worsted; in fact, the little rascal had struck me
directly in the forehead with a sharp piece of cinder, fused with iron,
from the old blacksmith’s forge, which made a cross in my forehead very
plainly to be seen now. The gash bled very freely, and I roared very
loudly and betook myself home. The coldhearted Aunt Katy paid no
attention either to my wound or my roaring, except to tell me it served
me right; I had no business with Ike; it was good for me; I would now
keep away _“from dem Lloyd niggers.”_ Miss Lucretia, in this state of
the case, came forward; and, in quite a different spirit from that
manifested by Aunt Katy, she called me into the parlor (an extra
privilege of itself) and, without using toward me any of the
hard-hearted and reproachful epithets of my kitchen tormentor, she
quietly acted the good Samaritan. With her own soft hand she washed the
blood from my head and face, fetched her own balsam bottle, and with
the balsam wetted a nice piece of white linen, and bound up my head.
The balsam was not more healing to the wound in my head, than her
kindness was healing to the wounds in my spirit, made by the unfeeling
words of Aunt Katy. After this, Miss Lucretia was my friend. I felt her
to be such; and I have no doubt that the simple act of binding up my
head, did much to awaken in her mind an interest in my welfare. It is
quite true, that this interest was never very marked, and it seldom
showed itself in anything more than in giving me a piece of bread when
I was hungry; but this was a great favor on a slave plantation, and I
was the only one of the children to whom such attention was paid. When
very hungry, I would go into the back yard and play under Miss
Lucretia’s window. When pretty severely pinched by hunger, I had a
habit of singing, which the good lady very soon came to understand as a
petition for a piece of bread. When I sung under Miss Lucretia’s
window, I was very apt to get well paid for my music. The reader will
see that I now had two friends, both at important points—Mas’ Daniel at
the great house, and Miss Lucretia at home. From Mas’ Daniel I got
protection from the bigger boys; and from Miss Lucretia I got bread, by
singing when I was hungry, and sympathy when I was abused by that
termagant, who had the reins of government in the kitchen. For such
friendship I felt deeply grateful, and bitter as are my recollections
of slavery, I love to recall any instances of kindness, any sunbeams of
humane treatment, which found way to my soul through the iron grating
of my house of bondage. Such beams seem all the brighter from the
general darkness into which they penetrate, and the impression they
make is vividly distinct and beautiful.

As I have before intimated, I was seldom whipped—and never severely—by
my old master. I suffered little from the treatment I received, except
from hunger and cold. These were my two great physical troubles. I
could neither get a sufficiency of food nor of clothing; but I suffered
less from hunger than from cold. In hottest summer and coldest winter,
I was kept almost in a state of nudity; no shoes, no stockings, no
jacket, no trowsers; nothing but coarse sackcloth or tow-linen, made
into a sort of shirt, reaching down to my knees. This I wore night and
day, changing it once a week. In the day time I could protect myself
pretty well, by keeping on the sunny side of the house; and in bad
weather, in the corner of the kitchen chimney. The great difficulty
was, to keep warm during the night. I had no bed. The pigs in the pen
had leaves, and the horses in the stable had straw, but the children
had no beds. They lodged anywhere in the ample kitchen. I slept,
generally, in a little closet, without even a blanket to cover me. In
very cold weather. I sometimes got down the bag in which corn-meal was
usually carried to the mill, and crawled into that. Sleeping there,
with my head in and feet out, I was partly protected, though not
comfortable. My feet have been so cracked with the frost, that the pen
with which I am writing might be laid in the gashes. The manner of
taking our meals at old master’s, indicated but little refinement. Our
corn-meal mush, when sufficiently cooled, was placed in a large wooden
tray, or trough, like those used in making maple sugar here in the
north. This tray was set down, either on the floor of the kitchen, or
out of doors on the ground; and the children were called, like so many
pigs; and like so many pigs they would come, and literally devour the
mush—some with oyster shells, some with pieces of shingles, and none
with spoons. He that eat fastest got most, and he that was strongest
got the best place; and few left the trough really satisfied. I was the
most unlucky of any, for Aunt Katy had no good feeling for me; and if I
pushed any of the other children, or if they told her anything
unfavorable of me, she always believed the worst, and was sure to whip
me.

As I grew older and more thoughtful, I was more and more filled with a
sense of my wretchedness. The cruelty of Aunt Katy, the hunger and cold
I suffered, and the terrible reports of wrong and outrage which came to
my ear, together with what I almost daily witnessed, led me, when yet
but eight or nine years old, to wish I had never been born. I used to
contrast my condition with the black-birds, in whose wild and sweet
songs I fancied them so happy! Their apparent joy only deepened the
shades of my sorrow. There are thoughtful days in the lives of
children—at least there were in mine when they grapple with all the
great, primary subjects of knowledge, and reach, in a moment,
conclusions which no subsequent experience can shake. I was just as
well aware of the unjust, unnatural and murderous character of slavery,
when nine years old, as I am now. Without any appeal to books, to laws,
or to authorities of any kind, it was enough to accept God as a father,
to regard slavery as a crime.

I was not ten years old when I left Col. Lloyd’s plantation for
Balitmore(sic). I left that plantation with inexpressible joy. I never
shall forget the ecstacy with which I received the intelligence from my
friend, Miss Lucretia, that my old master had determined to let me go
to Baltimore to live with Mr. Hugh Auld, a brother to Mr. Thomas Auld,
my old master’s son-in-law. I received this information about three
days before my departure. They were three of the happiest days of my
childhood. I spent the largest part of these three days in the creek,
washing off the plantation scurf, and preparing for my new home. Mrs.
Lucretia took a lively interest in getting me ready. She told me I must
get all the dead skin off my feet and knees, before I could go to
Baltimore, for the people there were very cleanly, and would laugh at
me if I looked dirty; and, besides, she was intending to give me a pair
of trowsers, which I should not put on unless I got all the dirt off.
This was a warning to which I was bound to take heed; for the thought
of owning a pair of trowsers, was great, indeed. It was almost a
sufficient motive, not only to induce me to scrub off the _mange_ (as
pig drovers would call it) but the skin as well. So I went at it in
good earnest, working for the first time in the hope of reward. I was
greatly excited, and could hardly consent to sleep, lest I should be
left. The ties that, ordinarily, bind children to their homes, were all
severed, or they never had any existence in my case, at least so far as
the home plantation of Col. L. was concerned. I therefore found no
severe trail at the moment of my departure, such as I had experienced
when separated from my home in Tuckahoe. My home at my old master’s was
charmless to me; it was not home, but a prison to me; on parting from
it, I could not feel that I was leaving anything which I could have
enjoyed by staying. My mother was now long dead; my grandmother was far
away, so that I seldom saw her; Aunt Katy was my unrelenting tormentor;
and my two sisters and brothers, owing to our early separation in life,
and the family-destroying power of slavery, were, comparatively,
strangers to me. The fact of our relationship was almost blotted out. I
looked for _home_ elsewhere, and was confident of finding none which I
should relish less than the one I was leaving. If, however, I found in
my new home to which I was going with such blissful
anticipations—hardship, whipping and nakedness, I had the questionable
consolation that I should not have escaped any one of these evils by
remaining under the management of Aunt Katy. Then, too, I thought,
since I had endured much in this line on Lloyd’s plantation, I could
endure as much elsewhere, and especially at Baltimore; for I had
something of the feeling about that city which is expressed in the
saying, that being “hanged in England, is better than dying a natural
death in Ireland.” I had the strongest desire to see Baltimore. My
cousin Tom—a boy two or three years older than I—had been there, and
though not fluent (he stuttered immoderately) in speech, he had
inspired me with that desire, by his eloquent description of the place.
Tom was, sometimes, Capt. Auld’s cabin boy; and when he came from
Baltimore, he was always a sort of hero amongst us, at least till his
Baltimore trip was forgotten. I could never tell him of anything, or
point out anything that struck me as beautiful or powerful, but that he
had seen something in Baltimore far surpassing it. Even the great house
itself, with all its pictures within, and pillars without, he had the
hardihood to say “was nothing to Baltimore.” He bought a trumpet (worth
six pence) and brought it home; told what he had seen in the windows of
stores; that he had heard shooting crackers, and seen soldiers; that he
had seen a steamboat; that there were ships in Baltimore that could
carry four such sloops as the “Sally Lloyd.” He said a great deal about
the market-house; he spoke of the bells ringing; and of many other
things which roused my curiosity very much; and, indeed, which
heightened my hopes of happiness in my new home.

We sailed out of Miles river for Baltimore early on a Saturday morning.
I remember only the day of the week; for, at that time, I had no
knowledge of the days of the month, nor, indeed, of the months of the
year. On setting sail, I walked aft, and gave to Col. Lloyd’s
plantation what I hoped would be the last look I should ever give to
it, or to any place like it. My strong aversion to the great farm, was
not owing to my own personal suffering, but the daily suffering of
others, and to the certainty that I must, sooner or later, be placed
under the barbarous rule of an overseer, such as the accomplished Gore,
or the brutal and drunken Plummer. After taking this last view, I
quitted the quarter deck, made my way to the bow of the sloop, and
spent the remainder of the day in looking ahead; interesting myself in
what was in the distance, rather than what was near by or behind. The
vessels, sweeping along the bay, were very interesting objects. The
broad bay opened like a shoreless ocean on my boyish vision, filling me
with wonder and admiration.

Late in the afternoon, we reached Annapolis, the capital of the state,
stopping there not long enough to admit of my going ashore. It was the
first large town I had ever seen; and though it was inferior to many a
factory village in New England, my feelings, on seeing it, were excited
to a pitch very little below that reached by travelers at the first
view of Rome. The dome of the state house was especially imposing, and
surpassed in grandeur the appearance of the great house. The great
world was opening upon me very rapidly, and I was eagerly acquainting
myself with its multifarious lessons.

We arrived in Baltimore on Sunday morning, and landed at Smith’s wharf,
not far from Bowly’s wharf. We had on board the sloop a large flock of
sheep, for the Baltimore market; and, after assisting in driving them
to the slaughter house of Mr. Curtis, on Loudon Slater’s Hill, I was
speedily conducted by Rich—one of the hands belonging to the sloop—to
my new home in Alliciana street, near Gardiner’s ship-yard, on Fell’s
Point. Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Auld, my new mistress and master, were both at
home, and met me at the door with their rosy cheeked little son,
Thomas, to take care of whom was to constitute my future occupation. In
fact, it was to “little Tommy,” rather than to his parents, that old
master made a present of me; and though there was no _legal_ form or
arrangement entered into, I have no doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Auld felt
that, in due time, I should be the legal property of their bright-eyed
and beloved boy, Tommy. I was struck with the appearance, especially,
of my new mistress. Her face was lighted with the kindliest emotions;
and the reflex influence of her countenance, as well as the tenderness
with which she seemed to regard me, while asking me sundry little
questions, greatly delighted me, and lit up, to my fancy, the pathway
of my future. Miss Lucretia was kind; but my new mistress, “Miss
Sophy,” surpassed her in kindness of manner. Little Thomas was
affectionately told by his mother, that _“there was his Freddy,”_ and
that “Freddy would take care of him;” and I was told to “be kind to
little Tommy”—an injunction I scarcely needed, for I had already fallen
in love with the dear boy; and with these little ceremonies I was
initiated into my new home, and entered upon my peculiar duties, with
not a cloud above the horizon.

I may say here, that I regard my removal from Col. Lloyd’s plantation
as one of the most interesting and fortunate events of my life. Viewing
it in the light of human likelihoods, it is quite probable that, but
for the mere circumstance of being thus removed before the rigors of
slavery had fastened upon me; before my young spirit had been crushed
under the iron control of the slave-driver, instead of being, today, a
FREEMAN, I might have been wearing the galling chains of slavery. I
have sometimes felt, however, that there was something more intelligent
than _chance_, and something more certain than _luck_, to be seen in
the circumstance. If I have made any progress in knowledge; if I have
cherished any honorable aspirations, or have, in any manner, worthily
discharged the duties of a member of an oppressed people; this little
circumstance must be allowed its due weight in giving my life that
direction. I have ever regarded it as the first plain manifestation of
that

Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.


I was not the only boy on the plantation that might have been sent to
live in Baltimore. There was a wide margin from which to select. There
were boys younger, boys older, and boys of the same age, belonging to
my old master some at his own house, and some at his farm—but the high
privilege fell to my lot.

I may be deemed superstitious and egotistical, in regarding this event
as a special interposition of Divine Providence in my favor; but the
thought is a part of my history, and I should be false to the earliest
and most cherished sentiments of my soul, if I suppressed, or hesitated
to avow that opinion, although it may be characterized as irrational by
the wise, and ridiculous by the scoffer. From my earliest recollections
of serious matters, I date the entertainment of something like an
ineffaceable conviction, that slavery would not always be able to hold
me within its foul embrace; and this conviction, like a word of living
faith, strengthened me through the darkest trials of my lot. This good
spirit was from God; and to him I offer thanksgiving and praise.




CHAPTER X. _Life in Baltimore_


CITY ANNOYANCES—PLANTATION REGRETS—MY MISTRESS, MISS SOPHA—HER
HISTORY—HER KINDNESS TO ME—MY MASTER, HUGH AULD—HIS SOURNESS—MY
INCREASED SENSITIVENESS—MY COMFORTS—MY OCCUPATION—THE BANEFUL EFFECTS
OF SLAVEHOLDING ON MY DEAR AND GOOD MISTRESS—HOW SHE COMMENCED TEACHING
ME TO READ—WHY SHE CEASED TEACHING ME—CLOUDS GATHERING OVER MY BRIGHT
PROSPECTS—MASTER AULD’S EXPOSITION OF THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY OF
SLAVERY—CITY SLAVES—PLANTATION SLAVES—THE CONTRAST—EXCEPTIONS—MR.
HAMILTON’S TWO SLAVES, HENRIETTA AND MARY—MRS. HAMILTON’S CRUEL
TREATMENT OF THEM—THE PITEOUS ASPECT THEY PRESENTED—NO POWER MUST COME
BETWEEN THE SLAVE AND THE SLAVEHOLDER.


Once in Baltimore, with hard brick pavements under my feet, which
almost raised blisters, by their very heat, for it was in the height of
summer; walled in on all sides by towering brick buildings; with troops
of hostile boys ready to pounce upon me at every street corner; with
new and strange objects glaring upon me at every step, and with
startling sounds reaching my ears from all directions, I for a time
thought that, after all, the home plantation was a more desirable place
of residence than my home on Alliciana street, in Baltimore. My country
eyes and ears were confused and bewildered here; but the boys were my
chief trouble. They chased me, and called me _“Eastern Shore man,”_
till really I almost wished myself back on the Eastern Shore. I had to
undergo a sort of moral acclimation, and when that was over, I did much
better. My new mistress happily proved to be all she _seemed_ to be,
when, with her husband, she met me at the door, with a most beaming,
benignant countenance. She was, naturally, of an excellent disposition,
kind, gentle and cheerful. The supercilious contempt for the rights and
feelings of the slave, and the petulance and bad humor which generally
characterize slaveholding ladies, were all quite absent from kind
“Miss” Sophia’s manner and bearing toward me. She had, in truth, never
been a slaveholder, but had—a thing quite unusual in the south—depended
almost entirely upon her own industry for a living. To this fact the
dear lady, no doubt, owed the excellent preservation of her natural
goodness of heart, for slavery can change a saint into a sinner, and an
angel into a demon. I hardly knew how to behave toward “Miss Sopha,” as
I used to call Mrs. Hugh Auld. I had been treated as a _pig_ on the
plantation; I was treated as a _child_ now. I could not even approach
her as I had formerly approached Mrs. Thomas Auld. How could I hang
down my head, and speak with bated breath, when there was no pride to
scorn me, no coldness to repel me, and no hatred to inspire me with
fear? I therefore soon learned to regard her as something more akin to
a mother, than a slaveholding mistress. The crouching servility of a
slave, usually so acceptable a quality to the haughty slaveholder, was
not understood nor desired by this gentle woman. So far from deeming it
impudent in a slave to look her straight in the face, as some
slaveholding ladies do, she seemed ever to say, “look up, child; don’t
be afraid; see, I am full of kindness and good will toward you.” The
hands belonging to Col. Lloyd’s sloop, esteemed it a great privilege to
be the bearers of parcels or messages to my new mistress; for whenever
they came, they were sure of a most kind and pleasant reception. If
little Thomas was her son, and her most dearly beloved child, she, for
a time, at least, made me something like his half-brother in her
affections. If dear Tommy was exalted to a place on his mother’s knee,
“Feddy” was honored by a place at his mother’s side. Nor did he lack
the caressing strokes of her gentle hand, to convince him that, though
_motherless_, he was not _friendless_. Mrs. Auld was not only a
kind-hearted woman, but she was remarkably pious; frequent in her
attendance of public worship, much given to reading the bible, and to
chanting hymns of praise, when alone. Mr. Hugh Auld was altogether a
different character. He cared very little about religion, knew more of
the world, and was more of the world, than his wife. He set out,
doubtless to be—as the world goes—a respectable man, and to get on by
becoming a successful ship builder, in that city of ship building. This
was his ambition, and it fully occupied him. I was, of course, of very
little consequence to him, compared with what I was to good Mrs. Auld;
and, when he smiled upon me, as he sometimes did, the smile was
borrowed from his lovely wife, and, like all borrowed light, was
transient, and vanished with the source whence it was derived. While I
must characterize Master Hugh as being a very sour man, and of
forbidding appearance, it is due to him to acknowledge, that he was
never very cruel to me, according to the notion of cruelty in Maryland.
The first year or two which I spent in his house, he left me almost
exclusively to the management of his wife. She was my law-giver. In
hands so tender as hers, and in the absence of the cruelties of the
plantation, I became, both physically and mentally, much more sensitive
to good and ill treatment; and, perhaps, suffered more from a frown
from my mistress, than I formerly did from a cuff at the hands of Aunt
Katy. Instead of the cold, damp floor of my old master’s kitchen, I
found myself on carpets; for the corn bag in winter, I now had a good
straw bed, well furnished with covers; for the coarse corn-meal in the
morning, I now had good bread, and mush occasionally; for my poor
tow-lien shirt, reaching to my knees, I had good, clean clothes. I was
really well off. My employment was to run errands, and to take care of
Tommy; to prevent his getting in the way of carriages, and to keep him
out of harm’s way generally. Tommy, and I, and his mother, got on
swimmingly together, for a time. I say _for a time_, because the fatal
poison of irresponsible power, and the natural influence of slavery
customs, were not long in making a suitable impression on the gentle
and loving disposition of my excellent mistress. At first, Mrs. Auld
evidently regarded me simply as a child, like any other child; she had
not come to regard me as _property_. This latter thought was a thing of
conventional growth. The first was natural and spontaneous. A noble
nature, like hers, could not, instantly, be wholly perverted; and it
took several years to change the natural sweetness of her temper into
fretful bitterness. In her worst estate, however, there were, during
the first seven years I lived with her, occasional returns of her
former kindly disposition.

The frequent hearing of my mistress reading the bible for she often
read aloud when her husband was absent soon awakened my curiosity in
respect to this _mystery_ of reading, and roused in me the desire to
learn. Having no fear of my kind mistress before my eyes, (she had then
given me no reason to fear,) I frankly asked her to teach me to read;
and, without hesitation, the dear woman began the task, and very soon,
by her assistance, I was master of the alphabet, and could spell words
of three or four letters. My mistress seemed almost as proud of my
progress, as if I had been her own child; and, supposing that her
husband would be as well pleased, she made no secret of what she was
doing for me. Indeed, she exultingly told him of the aptness of her
pupil, of her intention to persevere in teaching me, and of the duty
which she felt it to teach me, at least to read _the bible_. Here arose
the first cloud over my Baltimore prospects, the precursor of drenching
rains and chilling blasts.

Master Hugh was amazed at the simplicity of his spouse, and, probably
for the first time, he unfolded to her the true philosophy of slavery,
and the peculiar rules necessary to be observed by masters and
mistresses, in the management of their human chattels. Mr. Auld
promptly forbade continuance of her instruction; telling her, in the
first place, that the thing itself was unlawful; that it was also
unsafe, and could only lead to mischief. To use his own words, further,
he said, “if you give a nigger an inch, he will take an ell;” “he
should know nothing but the will of his master, and learn to obey it.”
“if you teach that nigger—speaking of myself—how to read the bible,
there will be no keeping him;” “it would forever unfit him for the
duties of a slave;” and “as to himself, learning would do him no good,
but probably, a great deal of harm—making him disconsolate and
unhappy.” “If you learn him now to read, he’ll want to know how to
write; and, this accomplished, he’ll be running away with himself.”
Such was the tenor of Master Hugh’s oracular exposition of the true
philosophy of training a human chattel; and it must be confessed that
he very clearly comprehended the nature and the requirements of the
relation of master and slave. His discourse was the first decidedly
anti-slavery lecture to which it had been my lot to listen. Mrs. Auld
evidently felt the force of his remarks; and, like an obedient wife,
began to shape her course in the direction indicated by her husband.
The effect of his words, _on me_, was neither slight nor transitory.
His iron sentences—cold and harsh—sunk deep into my heart, and stirred
up not only my feelings into a sort of rebellion, but awakened within
me a slumbering train of vital thought. It was a new and special
revelation, dispelling a painful mystery, against which my youthful
understanding had struggled, and struggled in vain, to wit: the _white_
man’s power to perpetuate the enslavement of the _black_ man. “Very
well,” thought I; “knowledge unfits a child to be a slave.” I
instinctively assented to the proposition; and from that moment I
understood the direct pathway from slavery to freedom. This was just
what I needed; and I got it at a time, and from a source, whence I
least expected it. I was saddened at the thought of losing the
assistance of my kind mistress; but the information, so instantly
derived, to some extent compensated me for the loss I had sustained in
this direction. Wise as Mr. Auld was, he evidently underrated my
comprehension, and had little idea of the use to which I was capable of
putting the impressive lesson he was giving to his wife. _He_ wanted me
to be _a slave;_ I had already voted against that on the home
plantation of Col. Lloyd. That which he most loved I most hated; and
the very determination which he expressed to keep me in ignorance, only
rendered me the more resolute in seeking intelligence. In learning to
read, therefore, I am not sure that I do not owe quite as much to the
opposition of my master, as to the kindly assistance of my amiable
mistress. I acknowledge the benefit rendered me by the one, and by the
other; believing, that but for my mistress, I might have grown up in
ignorance.

I had resided but a short time in Baltimore, before I observed a marked
difference in the manner of treating slaves, generally, from which I
had witnessed in that isolated and out-of-the-way part of the country
where I began life. A city slave is almost a free citizen, in
Baltimore, compared with a slave on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. He is much
better fed and clothed, is less dejected in his appearance, and enjoys
privileges altogether unknown to the whip-driven slave on the
plantation. Slavery dislikes a dense population, in which there is a
majority of non-slaveholders. The general sense of decency that must
pervade such a population, does much to check and prevent those
outbreaks of atrocious cruelty, and those dark crimes without a name,
almost openly perpetrated on the plantation. He is a desperate
slaveholder who will shock the humanity of his non-slaveholding
neighbors, by the cries of the lacerated slaves; and very few in the
city are willing to incur the odium of being cruel masters. I found, in
Baltimore, that no man was more odious to the white, as well as to the
colored people, than he, who had the reputation of starving his slaves.
Work them, flog them, if need be, but don’t starve them. These are,
however, some painful exceptions to this rule. While it is quite true
that most of the slaveholders in Baltimore feed and clothe their slaves
well, there are others who keep up their country cruelties in the city.

An instance of this sort is furnished in the case of a family who lived
directly opposite to our house, and were named Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton
owned two slaves. Their names were Henrietta and Mary. They had always
been house slaves. One was aged about twenty-two, and the other about
fourteen. They were a fragile couple by nature, and the treatment they
received was enough to break down the constitution of a horse. Of all
the dejected, emaciated, mangled and excoriated creatures I ever saw,
those two girls—in the refined, church going and Christian city of
Baltimore were the most deplorable. Of stone must that heart be made,
that could look upon Henrietta and Mary, without being sickened to the
core with sadness. Especially was Mary a heart-sickening object. Her
head, neck and shoulders, were literally cut to pieces. I have
frequently felt her head, and found it nearly covered over with
festering sores, caused by the lash of her cruel mistress. I do not
know that her master ever whipped her, but I have often been an eye
witness of the revolting and brutal inflictions by Mrs. Hamilton; and
what lends a deeper shade to this woman’s conduct, is the fact, that,
almost in the very moments of her shocking outrages of humanity and
decency, she would charm you by the sweetness of her voice and her
seeming piety. She used to sit in a large rocking chair, near the
middle of the room, with a heavy cowskin, such as I have elsewhere
described; and I speak within the truth when I say, that these girls
seldom passed that chair, during the day, without a blow from that
cowskin, either upon their bare arms, or upon their shoulders. As they
passed her, she would draw her cowskin and give them a blow, saying,
_“move faster, you black jip!”_ and, again, _“take that, you black
jip!”_ continuing, _“if you don’t move faster, I will give you more.”_
Then the lady would go on, singing her sweet hymns, as though her
_righteous_ soul were sighing for the holy realms of paradise.

Added to the cruel lashings to which these poor slave-girls were
subjected—enough in themselves to crush the spirit of men—they were,
really, kept nearly half starved; they seldom knew what it was to eat a
full meal, except when they got it in the kitchens of neighbors, less
mean and stingy than the psalm-singing Mrs. Hamilton. I have seen poor
Mary contending for the offal, with the pigs in the street. So much was
the poor girl pinched, kicked, cut and pecked to pieces, that the boys
in the street knew her only by the name of _“pecked,”_ a name derived
from the scars and blotches on her neck, head and shoulders.

It is some relief to this picture of slavery in Baltimore, to say—what
is but the simple truth—that Mrs. Hamilton’s treatment of her slaves
was generally condemned, as disgraceful and shocking; but while I say
this, it must also be remembered, that the very parties who censured
the cruelty of Mrs. Hamilton, would have condemned and promptly
punished any attempt to interfere with Mrs. Hamilton’s _right_ to cut
and slash her slaves to pieces. There must be no force between the
slave and the slaveholder, to restrain the power of the one, and
protect the weakness of the other; and the cruelty of Mrs. Hamilton is
as justly chargeable to the upholders of the slave system, as
drunkenness is chargeable on those who, by precept and example, or by
indifference, uphold the drinking system.




CHAPTER XI. _“A Change Came O’er the Spirit of My Dream”_


HOW I LEARNED TO READ—MY MISTRESS—HER SLAVEHOLDING DUTIES—THEIR
DEPLORABLE EFFECTS UPON HER ORIGINALLY NOBLE NATURE—THE CONFLICT IN HER
MIND—HER FINAL OPPOSITION TO MY LEARNING TO READ—TOO LATE—SHE HAD GIVEN
ME THE INCH, I WAS RESOLVED TO TAKE THE ELL—HOW I PURSUED MY
EDUCATION—MY TUTORS—HOW I COMPENSATED THEM—WHAT PROGRESS I
MADE—SLAVERY—WHAT I HEARD SAID ABOUT IT—THIRTEEN YEARS OLD—THE
_Columbian Orator_—A RICH SCENE—A DIALOGUE—SPEECHES OF CHATHAM,
SHERIDAN, PITT AND FOX—KNOWLEDGE EVER INCREASING—MY EYES
OPENED—LIBERTY—HOW I PINED FOR IT—MY SADNESS—THE DISSATISFACTION OF MY
POOR MISTRESS—MY HATRED OF SLAVERY—ONE UPAS TREE OVERSHADOWED US BOTH.


I lived in the family of Master Hugh, at Baltimore, seven years, during
which time—as the almanac makers say of the weather—my condition was
variable. The most interesting feature of my history here, was my
learning to read and write, under somewhat marked disadvantages. In
attaining this knowledge, I was compelled to resort to indirections by
no means congenial to my nature, and which were really humiliating to
me. My mistress—who, as the reader has already seen, had begun to teach
me was suddenly checked in her benevolent design, by the strong advice
of her husband. In faithful compliance with this advice, the good lady
had not only ceased to instruct me, herself, but had set her face as a
flint against my learning to read by any means. It is due, however, to
my mistress to say, that she did not adopt this course in all its
stringency at the first. She either thought it unnecessary, or she
lacked the depravity indispensable to shutting me up in mental
darkness. It was, at least, necessary for her to have some training,
and some hardening, in the exercise of the slaveholder’s prerogative,
to make her equal to forgetting my human nature and character, and to
treating me as a thing destitute of a moral or an intellectual nature.
Mrs. Auld—my mistress—was, as I have said, a most kind and
tender-hearted woman; and, in the humanity of her heart, and the
simplicity of her mind, she set out, when I first went to live with
her, to treat me as she supposed one human being ought to treat
another.

It is easy to see, that, in entering upon the duties of a slaveholder,
some little experience is needed. Nature has done almost nothing to
prepare men and women to be either slaves or slaveholders. Nothing but
rigid training, long persisted in, can perfect the character of the one
or the other. One cannot easily forget to love freedom; and it is as
hard to cease to respect that natural love in our fellow creatures. On
entering upon the career of a slaveholding mistress, Mrs. Auld was
singularly deficient; nature, which fits nobody for such an office, had
done less for her than any lady I had known. It was no easy matter to
induce her to think and to feel that the curly-headed boy, who stood by
her side, and even leaned on her lap; who was loved by little Tommy,
and who loved little Tommy in turn; sustained to her only the relation
of a chattel. I was _more_ than that, and she felt me to be more than
that. I could talk and sing; I could laugh and weep; I could reason and
remember; I could love and hate. I was human, and she, dear lady, knew
and felt me to be so. How could she, then, treat me as a brute, without
a mighty struggle with all the noble powers of her own soul. That
struggle came, and the will and power of the husband was victorious.
Her noble soul was overthrown; but, he that overthrew it did not,
himself, escape the consequences. He, not less than the other parties,
was injured in his domestic peace by the fall.

When I went into their family, it was the abode of happiness and
contentment. The mistress of the house was a model of affection and
tenderness. Her fervent piety and watchful uprightness made it
impossible to see her without thinking and feeling—“_that woman is a
Christian_.” There was no sorrow nor suffering for which she had not a
tear, and there was no innocent joy for which she did not a smile. She
had bread for the hungry, clothes for the naked, and comfort for every
mourner that came within her reach. Slavery soon proved its ability to
divest her of these excellent qualities, and her home of its early
happiness. Conscience cannot stand much violence. Once thoroughly
broken down, _who_ is he that can repair the damage? It may be broken
toward the slave, on Sunday, and toward the master on Monday. It cannot
endure such shocks. It must stand entire, or it does not stand at all.
If my condition waxed bad, that of the family waxed not better. The
first step, in the wrong direction, was the violence done to nature and
to conscience, in arresting the benevolence that would have enlightened
my young mind. In ceasing to instruct me, she must begin to justify
herself _to_ herself; and, once consenting to take sides in such a
debate, she was riveted to her position. One needs very little
knowledge of moral philosophy, to see _where_ my mistress now landed.
She finally became even more violent in her opposition to my learning
to read, than was her husband himself. She was not satisfied with
simply doing as _well_ as her husband had commanded her, but seemed
resolved to better his instruction. Nothing appeared to make my poor
mistress—after her turning toward the downward path—more angry, than
seeing me, seated in some nook or corner, quietly reading a book or a
newspaper. I have had her rush at me, with the utmost fury, and snatch
from my hand such newspaper or book, with something of the wrath and
consternation which a traitor might be supposed to feel on being
discovered in a plot by some dangerous spy.

Mrs. Auld was an apt woman, and the advice of her husband, and her own
experience, soon demonstrated, to her entire satisfaction, that
education and slavery are incompatible with each other. When this
conviction was thoroughly established, I was most narrowly watched in
all my movements. If I remained in a separate room from the family for
any considerable length of time, I was sure to be suspected of having a
book, and was at once called upon to give an account of myself. All
this, however, was entirely _too late_. The first, and never to be
retraced, step had been taken. In teaching me the alphabet, in the days
of her simplicity and kindness, my mistress had given me the _“inch,”_
and now, no ordinary precaution could prevent me from taking the
_“ell.”_

Seized with a determination to learn to read, at any cost, I hit upon
many expedients to accomplish the desired end. The plea which I mainly
adopted, and the one by which I was most successful, was that of using
my young white playmates, with whom I met in the streets as teachers. I
used to carry, almost constantly, a copy of Webster’s spelling book in
my pocket; and, when sent of errands, or when play time was allowed me,
I would step, with my young friends, aside, and take a lesson in
spelling. I generally paid my _tuition fee_ to the boys, with bread,
which I also carried in my pocket. For a single biscuit, any of my
hungry little comrades would give me a lesson more valuable to me than
bread. Not every one, however, demanded this consideration, for there
were those who took pleasure in teaching me, whenever I had a chance to
be taught by them. I am strongly tempted to give the names of two or
three of those little boys, as a slight testimonial of the gratitude
and affection I bear them, but prudence forbids; not that it would
injure me, but it might, possibly, embarrass them; for it is almost an
unpardonable offense to do any thing, directly or indirectly, to
promote a slave’s freedom, in a slave state. It is enough to say, of my
warm-hearted little play fellows, that they lived on Philpot street,
very near Durgin & Bailey’s shipyard.

Although slavery was a delicate subject, and very cautiously talked
about among grown up people in Maryland, I frequently talked about
it—and that very freely—with the white boys. I would, sometimes, say to
them, while seated on a curb stone or a cellar door, “I wish I could be
free, as you will be when you get to be men.” “You will be free, you
know, as soon as you are twenty-one, and can go where you like, but I
am a slave for life. Have I not as good a right to be free as you
have?” Words like these, I observed, always troubled them; and I had no
small satisfaction in wringing from the boys, occasionally, that fresh
and bitter condemnation of slavery, that springs from nature, unseared
and unperverted. Of all consciences let me have those to deal with
which have not been bewildered by the cares of life. I do not remember
ever to have met with a _boy_, while I was in slavery, who defended the
slave system; but I have often had boys to console me, with the hope
that something would yet occur, by which I might be made free. Over and
over again, they have told me, that “they believed I had as good a
right to be free as _they_ had;” and that “they did not believe God
ever made any one to be a slave.” The reader will easily see, that such
little conversations with my play fellows, had no tendency to weaken my
love of liberty, nor to render me contented with my condition as a
slave.

When I was about thirteen years old, and had succeeded in learning to
read, every increase of knowledge, especially respecting the FREE
STATES, added something to the almost intolerable burden of the
thought—I AM A SLAVE FOR LIFE. To my bondage I saw no end. It was a
terrible reality, and I shall never be able to tell how sadly that
thought chafed my young spirit. Fortunately, or unfortunately, about
this time in my life, I had made enough money to buy what was then a
very popular school book, viz: the _Columbian Orator_. I bought this
addition to my library, of Mr. Knight, on Thames street, Fell’s Point,
Baltimore, and paid him fifty cents for it. I was first led to buy this
book, by hearing some little boys say they were going to learn some
little pieces out of it for the Exhibition. This volume was, indeed, a
rich treasure, and every opportunity afforded me, for a time, was spent
in diligently perusing it. Among much other interesting matter, that
which I had perused and reperused with unflagging satisfaction, was a
short dialogue between a master and his slave. The slave is represented
as having been recaptured, in a second attempt to run away; and the
master opens the dialogue with an upbraiding speech, charging the slave
with ingratitude, and demanding to know what he has to say in his own
defense. Thus upbraided, and thus called upon to reply, the slave
rejoins, that he knows how little anything that he can say will avail,
seeing that he is completely in the hands of his owner; and with noble
resolution, calmly says, “I submit to my fate.” Touched by the slave’s
answer, the master insists upon his further speaking, and recapitulates
the many acts of kindness which he has performed toward the slave, and
tells him he is permitted to speak for himself. Thus invited to the
debate, the quondam slave made a spirited defense of himself, and
thereafter the whole argument, for and against slavery, was brought
out. The master was vanquished at every turn in the argument; and
seeing himself to be thus vanquished, he generously and meekly
emancipates the slave, with his best wishes for his prosperity. It is
scarcely neccessary(sic) to say, that a dialogue, with such an origin,
and such an ending—read when the fact of my being a slave was a
constant burden of grief—powerfully affected me; and I could not help
feeling that the day might come, when the well-directed answers made by
the slave to the master, in this instance, would find their counterpart
in myself.

This, however, was not all the fanaticism which I found in this
_Columbian Orator_. I met there one of Sheridan’s mighty speeches, on
the subject of Catholic Emancipation, Lord Chatham’s speech on the
American war, and speeches by the great William Pitt and by Fox. These
were all choice documents to me, and I read them, over and over again,
with an interest that was ever increasing, because it was ever gaining
in intelligence; for the more I read them, the better I understood
them. The reading of these speeches added much to my limited stock of
language, and enabled me to give tongue to many interesting thoughts,
which had frequently flashed through my soul, and died away for want of
utterance. The mighty power and heart-searching directness of truth,
penetrating even the heart of a slaveholder, compelling him to yield up
his earthly interests to the claims of eternal justice, were finely
illustrated in the dialogue, just referred to; and from the speeches of
Sheridan, I got a bold and powerful denunciation of oppression, and a
most brilliant vindication of the rights of man. Here was, indeed, a
noble acquisition. If I ever wavered under the consideration, that the
Almighty, in some way, ordained slavery, and willed my enslavement for
his own glory, I wavered no longer. I had now penetrated the secret of
all slavery and oppression, and had ascertained their true foundation
to be in the pride, the power and the avarice of man. The dialogue and
the speeches were all redolent of the principles of liberty, and poured
floods of light on the nature and character of slavery. With a book of
this kind in my hand, my own human nature, and the facts of my
experience, to help me, I was equal to a contest with the religious
advocates of slavery, whether among the whites or among the colored
people, for blindness, in this matter, is not confined to the former. I
have met many religious colored people, at the south, who are under the
delusion that God requires them to submit to slavery, and to wear their
chains with meekness and humility. I could entertain no such nonsense
as this; and I almost lost my patience when I found any colored man
weak enough to believe such stuff. Nevertheless, the increase of
knowledge was attended with bitter, as well as sweet results. The more
I read, the more I was led to abhor and detest slavery, and my
enslavers. “Slaveholders,” thought I, “are only a band of successful
robbers, who left their homes and went into Africa for the purpose of
stealing and reducing my people to slavery.” I loathed them as the
meanest and the most wicked of men. As I read, behold! the very
discontent so graphically predicted by Master Hugh, had already come
upon me. I was no longer the light-hearted, gleesome boy, full of mirth
and play, as when I landed first at Baltimore. Knowledge had come;
light had penetrated the moral dungeon where I dwelt; and, behold!
there lay the bloody whip, for my back, and here was the iron chain;
and my good, _kind master_, he was the author of my situation. The
revelation haunted me, stung me, and made me gloomy and miserable. As I
writhed under the sting and torment of this knowledge, I almost envied
my fellow slaves their stupid contentment. This knowledge opened my
eyes to the horrible pit, and revealed the teeth of the frightful
dragon that was ready to pounce upon me, but it opened no way for my
escape. I have often wished myself a beast, or a bird—anything, rather
than a slave. I was wretched and gloomy, beyond my ability to describe.
I was too thoughtful to be happy. It was this everlasting thinking
which distressed and tormented me; and yet there was no getting rid of
the subject of my thoughts. All nature was redolent of it. Once
awakened by the silver trump of knowledge, my spirit was roused to
eternal wakefulness. Liberty! the inestimable birthright of every man,
had, for me, converted every object into an asserter of this great
right. It was heard in every sound, and beheld in every object. It was
ever present, to torment me with a sense of my wretched condition. The
more beautiful and charming were the smiles of nature, the more
horrible and desolate was my condition. I saw nothing without seeing
it, and I heard nothing without hearing it. I do not exaggerate, when I
say, that it looked from every star, smiled in every calm, breathed in
every wind, and moved in every storm.

I have no doubt that my state of mind had something to do with the
change in the treatment adopted, by my once kind mistress toward me. I
can easily believe, that my leaden, downcast, and discontented look,
was very offensive to her. Poor lady! She did not know my trouble, and
I dared not tell her. Could I have freely made her acquainted with the
real state of my mind, and given her the reasons therefor, it might
have been well for both of us. Her abuse of me fell upon me like the
blows of the false prophet upon his ass; she did not know that an
_angel_ stood in the way; and—such is the relation of master and slave
I could not tell her. Nature had made us _friends;_ slavery made us
_enemies_. My interests were in a direction opposite to hers, and we
both had our private thoughts and plans. She aimed to keep me ignorant;
and I resolved to know, although knowledge only increased my
discontent. My feelings were not the result of any marked cruelty in
the treatment I received; they sprung from the consideration of my
being a slave at all. It was _slavery_—not its mere _incidents_—that I
hated. I had been cheated. I saw through the attempt to keep me in
ignorance; I saw that slaveholders would have gladly made me believe
that they were merely acting under the authority of God, in making a
slave of me, and in making slaves of others; and I treated them as
robbers and deceivers. The feeding and clothing me well, could not
atone for taking my liberty from me. The smiles of my mistress could
not remove the deep sorrow that dwelt in my young bosom. Indeed, these,
in time, came only to deepen my sorrow. She had changed; and the reader
will see that I had changed, too. We were both victims to the same
overshadowing evil—_she_, as mistress, I, as slave. I will not censure
her harshly; she cannot censure me, for she knows I speak but the
truth, and have acted in my opposition to slavery, just as she herself
would have acted, in a reverse of circumstances.




CHAPTER XII. _Religious Nature Awakened_


ABOLITIONISTS SPOKEN OF—MY EAGERNESS TO KNOW WHAT THIS WORD MEANT—MY
CONSULTATION OF THE DICTIONARY—INCENDIARY INFORMATION—HOW AND WHERE
DERIVED—THE ENIGMA SOLVED—NATHANIEL TURNER’S INSURRECTION—THE
CHOLERA—RELIGION—FIRST AWAKENED BY A METHODIST MINISTER NAMED HANSON—MY
DEAR AND GOOD OLD COLORED FRIEND, LAWSON—HIS CHARACTER AND
OCCUPATION—HIS INFLUENCE OVER ME—OUR MUTUAL ATTACHMENT—THE COMFORT I
DERIVED FROM HIS TEACHING—NEW HOPES AND ASPIRATIONS—HEAVENLY LIGHT
AMIDST EARTHLY DARKNESS—THE TWO IRISHMEN ON THE WHARF—THEIR
CONVERSATION—HOW I LEARNED TO WRITE—WHAT WERE MY AIMS.


Whilst in the painful state of mind described in the foregoing chapter,
almost regretting my very existence, because doomed to a life of
bondage, so goaded and so wretched, at times, that I was even tempted
to destroy my own life, I was keenly sensitive and eager to know any,
and every thing that transpired, having any relation to the subject of
slavery. I was all ears, all eyes, whenever the words _slave, slavery_,
dropped from the lips of any white person, and the occasions were not
unfrequent when these words became leading ones, in high, social
debate, at our house. Every little while, I could hear Master Hugh, or
some of his company, speaking with much warmth and excitement about
_“abolitionists.”_ Of _who_ or _what_ these were, I was totally
ignorant. I found, however, that whatever they might be, they were most
cordially hated and soundly abused by slaveholders, of every grade. I
very soon discovered, too, that slavery was, in some sort, under
consideration, whenever the abolitionists were alluded to. This made
the term a very interesting one to me. If a slave, for instance, had
made good his escape from slavery, it was generally alleged, that he
had been persuaded and assisted by the abolitionists. If, also, a slave
killed his master—as was sometimes the case—or struck down his
overseer, or set fire to his master’s dwelling, or committed any
violence or crime, out of the common way, it was certain to be said,
that such a crime was the legitimate fruits of the abolition movement.
Hearing such charges often repeated, I, naturally enough, received the
impression that abolition—whatever else it might be—could not be
unfriendly to the slave, nor very friendly to the slaveholder. I
therefore set about finding out, if possible, _who_ and _what_ the
abolitionists were, and _why_ they were so obnoxious to the
slaveholders. The dictionary afforded me very little help. It taught me
that abolition was the “act of abolishing;” but it left me in ignorance
at the very point where I most wanted information—and that was, as to
the _thing_ to be abolished. A city newspaper, the _Baltimore
American_, gave me the incendiary information denied me by the
dictionary. In its columns I found, that, on a certain day, a vast
number of petitions and memorials had been presented to congress,
praying for the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia, and
for the abolition of the slave trade between the states of the Union.
This was enough. The vindictive bitterness, the marked caution, the
studied reverse, and the cumbrous ambiguity, practiced by our white
folks, when alluding to this subject, was now fully explained. Ever,
after that, when I heard the words “abolition,” or “abolition
movement,” mentioned, I felt the matter one of a personal concern; and
I drew near to listen, when I could do so, without seeming too
solicitous and prying. There was HOPE in those words. Ever and anon,
too, I could see some terrible denunciation of slavery, in our
papers—copied from abolition papers at the north—and the injustice of
such denunciation commented on. These I read with avidity. I had a deep
satisfaction in the thought, that the rascality of slaveholders was not
concealed from the eyes of the world, and that I was not alone in
abhorring the cruelty and brutality of slavery. A still deeper train of
thought was stirred. I saw that there was _fear_, as well as _rage_, in
the manner of speaking of the abolitionists. The latter, therefore, I
was compelled to regard as having some power in the country; and I felt
that they might, possibly, succeed in their designs. When I met with a
slave to whom I deemed it safe to talk on the subject, I would impart
to him so much of the mystery as I had been able to penetrate. Thus,
the light of this grand movement broke in upon my mind, by degrees; and
I must say, that, ignorant as I then was of the philosophy of that
movement, I believe in it from the first—and I believed in it, partly,
because I saw that it alarmed the consciences of slaveholders. The
insurrection of Nathaniel Turner had been quelled, but the alarm and
terror had not subsided. The cholera was on its way, and the thought
was present, that God was angry with the white people because of their
slaveholding wickedness, and, therefore, his judgments were abroad in
the land. It was impossible for me not to hope much from the abolition
movement, when I saw it supported by the Almighty, and armed with
DEATH!

Previous to my contemplation of the anti-slavery movement, and its
probable results, my mind had been seriously awakened to the subject of
religion. I was not more than thirteen years old, when I felt the need
of God, as a father and protector. My religious nature was awakened by
the preaching of a white Methodist minister, named Hanson. He thought
that all men, great and small, bond and free, were sinners in the sight
of God; that they were, by nature, rebels against His government; and
that they must repent of their sins, and be reconciled to God, through
Christ. I cannot say that I had a very distinct notion of what was
required of me; but one thing I knew very well—I was wretched, and had
no means of making myself otherwise. Moreover, I knew that I could pray
for light. I consulted a good colored man, named Charles Johnson; and,
in tones of holy affection, he told me to pray, and what to pray for. I
was, for weeks, a poor, brokenhearted mourner, traveling through the
darkness and misery of doubts and fears. I finally found that change of
heart which comes by “casting all one’s care” upon God, and by having
faith in Jesus Christ, as the Redeemer, Friend, and Savior of those who
diligently seek Him.

After this, I saw the world in a new light. I seemed to live in a new
world, surrounded by new objects, and to be animated by new hopes and
desires. I loved all mankind—slaveholders not excepted; though I
abhorred slavery more than ever. My great concern was, now, to have the
world converted. The desire for knowledge increased, and especially did
I want a thorough acquaintance with the contents of the bible. I have
gathered scattered pages from this holy book, from the filthy street
gutters of Baltimore, and washed and dried them, that in the moments of
my leisure, I might get a word or two of wisdom from them. While thus
religiously seeking knowledge, I became acquainted with a good old
colored man, named Lawson. A more devout man than he, I never saw. He
drove a dray for Mr. James Ramsey, the owner of a rope-walk on Fell’s
Point, Baltimore. This man not only prayed three time a day, but he
prayed as he walked through the streets, at his work—on his dray
everywhere. His life was a life of prayer, and his words (when he spoke
to his friends,) were about a better world. Uncle Lawson lived near
Master Hugh’s house; and, becoming deeply attached to the old man, I
went often with him to prayer-meeting, and spent much of my leisure
time with him on Sunday. The old man could read a little, and I was a
great help to him, in making out the hard words, for I was a better
reader than he. I could teach him _“the letter,”_ but he could teach me
_“the spirit;”_ and high, refreshing times we had together, in singing,
praying and glorifying God. These meetings with Uncle Lawson went on
for a long time, without the knowledge of Master Hugh or my mistress.
Both knew, however, that I had become religious, and they seemed to
respect my conscientious piety. My mistress was still a professor of
religion, and belonged to class. Her leader was no less a person than
the Rev. Beverly Waugh, the presiding elder, and now one of the bishops
of the Methodist Episcopal church. Mr. Waugh was then stationed over
Wilk street church. I am careful to state these facts, that the reader
may be able to form an idea of the precise influences which had to do
with shaping and directing my mind.

In view of the cares and anxieties incident to the life she was then
leading, and, especially, in view of the separation from religious
associations to which she was subjected, my mistress had, as I have
before stated, become lukewarm, and needed to be looked up by her
leader. This brought Mr. Waugh to our house, and gave me an opportunity
to hear him exhort and pray. But my chief instructor, in matters of
religion, was Uncle Lawson. He was my spiritual father; and I loved him
intensely, and was at his house every chance I got.

This pleasure was not long allowed me. Master Hugh became averse to my
going to Father Lawson’s, and threatened to whip me if I ever went
there again. I now felt myself persecuted by a wicked man; and I
_would_ go to Father Lawson’s, notwithstanding the threat. The good old
man had told me, that the “Lord had a great work for me to do;” and I
must prepare to do it; and that he had been shown that I must preach
the gospel. His words made a deep impression on my mind, and I verily
felt that some such work was before me, though I could not see _how_ I
should ever engage in its performance. “The good Lord,” he said, “would
bring it to pass in his own good time,” and that I must go on reading
and studying the scriptures. The advice and the suggestions of Uncle
Lawson, were not without their influence upon my character and destiny.
He threw my thoughts into a channel from which they have never entirely
diverged. He fanned my already intense love of knowledge into a flame,
by assuring me that I was to be a useful man in the world. When I would
say to him, “How can these things be and what can _I_ do?” his simple
reply was, _“Trust in the Lord.”_ When I told him that “I was a slave,
and a slave FOR LIFE,” he said, “the Lord can make you free, my dear.
All things are possible with him, only _have faith in God.”_ “Ask, and
it shall be given.” “If you want liberty,” said the good old man, “ask
the Lord for it, _in faith_, AND HE WILL GIVE IT TO YOU.”

Thus assured, and cheered on, under the inspiration of hope, I worked
and prayed with a light heart, believing that my life was under the
guidance of a wisdom higher than my own. With all other blessings
sought at the mercy seat, I always prayed that God would, of His great
mercy, and in His own good time, deliver me from my bondage.

I went, one day, on the wharf of Mr. Waters; and seeing two Irishmen
unloading a large scow of stone, or ballast I went on board, unasked,
and helped them. When we had finished the work, one of the men came to
me, aside, and asked me a number of questions, and among them, if I
were a slave. I told him “I was a slave, and a slave for life.” The
good Irishman gave his shoulders a shrug, and seemed deeply affected by
the statement. He said, “it was a pity so fine a little fellow as
myself should be a slave for life.” They both had much to say about the
matter, and expressed the deepest sympathy with me, and the most
decided hatred of slavery. They went so far as to tell me that I ought
to run away, and go to the north; that I should find friends there, and
that I would be as free as anybody. I, however, pretended not to be
interested in what they said, for I feared they might be treacherous.
White men have been known to encourage slaves to escape, and then—to
get the reward—they have kidnapped them, and returned them to their
masters. And while I mainly inclined to the notion that these men were
honest and meant me no ill, I feared it might be otherwise. I
nevertheless remembered their words and their advice, and looked
forward to an escape to the north, as a possible means of gaining the
liberty for which my heart panted. It was not my enslavement, at the
then present time, that most affected me; the being a slave _for life_,
was the saddest thought. I was too young to think of running away
immediately; besides, I wished to learn how to write, before going, as
I might have occasion to write my own pass. I now not only had the hope
of freedom, but a foreshadowing of the means by which I might, some
day, gain that inestimable boon. Meanwhile, I resolved to add to my
educational attainments the art of writing.

After this manner I began to learn to write: I was much in the ship
yard—Master Hugh’s, and that of Durgan & Bailey—and I observed that the
carpenters, after hewing and getting a piece of timber ready for use,
wrote on it the initials of the name of that part of the ship for which
it was intended. When, for instance, a piece of timber was ready for
the starboard side, it was marked with a capital “S.” A piece for the
larboard side was marked “L;” larboard forward, “L. F.;” larboard aft,
was marked “L. A.;” starboard aft, “S. A.;” and starboard forward “S.
F.” I soon learned these letters, and for what they were placed on the
timbers.

My work was now, to keep fire under the steam box, and to watch the
ship yard while the carpenters had gone to dinner. This interval gave
me a fine opportunity for copying the letters named. I soon astonished
myself with the ease with which I made the letters; and the thought was
soon present, “if I can make four, I can make more.” But having made
these easily, when I met boys about Bethel church, or any of our
play-grounds, I entered the lists with them in the art of writing, and
would make the letters which I had been so fortunate as to learn, and
ask them to “beat that if they could.” With playmates for my teachers,
fences and pavements for my copy books, and chalk for my pen and ink, I
learned the art of writing. I, however, afterward adopted various
methods of improving my hand. The most successful, was copying the
_italics_ in Webster’s spelling book, until I could make them all
without looking on the book. By this time, my little “Master Tommy” had
grown to be a big boy, and had written over a number of copy books, and
brought them home. They had been shown to the neighbors, had elicited
due praise, and were now laid carefully away. Spending my time between
the ship yard and house, I was as often the lone keeper of the latter
as of the former. When my mistress left me in charge of the house, I
had a grand time; I got Master Tommy’s copy books and a pen and ink,
and, in the ample spaces between the lines, I wrote other lines, as
nearly like his as possible. The process was a tedious one, and I ran
the risk of getting a flogging for marring the highly prized copy books
of the oldest son. In addition to those opportunities, sleeping, as I
did, in the kitchen loft—a room seldom visited by any of the family—I
got a flour barrel up there, and a chair; and upon the head of that
barrel I have written (or endeavored to write) copying from the bible
and the Methodist hymn book, and other books which had accumulated on
my hands, till late at night, and when all the family were in bed and
asleep. I was supported in my endeavors by renewed advice, and by holy
promises from the good Father Lawson, with whom I continued to meet,
and pray, and read the scriptures. Although Master Hugh was aware of my
going there, I must say, for his credit, that he never executed his
threat to whip me, for having thus, innocently, employed-my leisure
time.




CHAPTER XIII. _The Vicissitudes of Slave Life_


DEATH OF OLD MASTER’S SON RICHARD, SPEEDILY FOLLOWED BY THAT OF OLD
MASTER—VALUATION AND DIVISION OF ALL THE PROPERTY, INCLUDING THE
SLAVES—MY PRESENCE REQUIRED AT HILLSBOROUGH TO BE APPRAISED AND
ALLOTTED TO A NEW OWNER—MY SAD PROSPECTS AND GRIEF—PARTING—THE UTTER
POWERLESSNESS OF THE SLAVES TO DECIDE THEIR OWN DESTINY—A GENERAL DREAD
OF MASTER ANDREW—HIS WICKEDNESS AND CRUELTY—MISS LUCRETIA MY NEW
OWNER—MY RETURN TO BALTIMORE—JOY UNDER THE ROOF OF MASTER HUGH—DEATH OF
MRS. LUCRETIA—MY POOR OLD GRANDMOTHER—HER SAD FATE—THE LONE COT IN THE
WOODS—MASTER THOMAS AULD’S SECOND MARRIAGE—AGAIN REMOVED FROM MASTER
HUGH’S—REASONS FOR REGRETTING THE CHANGE—A PLAN OF ESCAPE ENTERTAINED.


I must now ask the reader to go with me a little back in point of time,
in my humble story, and to notice another circumstance that entered
into my slavery experience, and which, doubtless, has had a share in
deepening my horror of slavery, and increasing my hostility toward
those men and measures that practically uphold the slave system.

It has already been observed, that though I was, after my removal from
Col. Lloyd’s plantation, in _form_ the slave of Master Hugh, I was, in
_fact_, and in _law_, the slave of my old master, Capt. Anthony. Very
well.

In a very short time after I went to Baltimore, my old master’s
youngest son, Richard, died; and, in three years and six months after
his death, my old master himself died, leaving only his son, Andrew,
and his daughter, Lucretia, to share his estate. The old man died while
on a visit to his daughter, in Hillsborough, where Capt. Auld and Mrs.
Lucretia now lived. The former, having given up the command of Col.
Lloyd’s sloop, was now keeping a store in that town.

Cut off, thus unexpectedly, Capt. Anthony died intestate; and his
property must now be equally divided between his two children, Andrew
and Lucretia.

The valuation and the division of slaves, among contending heirs, is an
important incident in slave life. The character and tendencies of the
heirs, are generally well understood among the slaves who are to be
divided, and all have their aversions and preferences. But, neither
their aversions nor their preferences avail them anything.

On the death of old master, I was immediately sent for, to be valued
and divided with the other property. Personally, my concern was,
mainly, about my possible removal from the home of Master Hugh, which,
after that of my grandmother, was the most endeared to me. But, the
whole thing, as a feature of slavery, shocked me. It furnished me anew
insight into the unnatural power to which I was subjected. My
detestation of slavery, already great, rose with this new conception of
its enormity.

That was a sad day for me, a sad day for little Tommy, and a sad day
for my dear Baltimore mistress and teacher, when I left for the Eastern
Shore, to be valued and divided. We, all three, wept bitterly that day;
for we might be parting, and we feared we were parting, forever. No one
could tell among which pile of chattels I should be flung. Thus early,
I got a foretaste of that painful uncertainty which slavery brings to
the ordinary lot of mortals. Sickness, adversity and death may
interfere with the plans and purposes of all; but the slave has the
added danger of changing homes, changing hands, and of having
separations unknown to other men. Then, too, there was the intensified
degradation of the spectacle. What an assemblage! Men and women, young
and old, married and single; moral and intellectual beings, in open
contempt of their humanity, level at a blow with horses, sheep, horned
cattle and swine! Horses and men—cattle and women—pigs and children—all
holding the same rank in the scale of social existence; and all
subjected to the same narrow inspection, to ascertain their value in
gold and silver—the only standard of worth applied by slaveholders to
slaves! How vividly, at that moment, did the brutalizing power of
slavery flash before me! Personality swallowed up in the sordid idea of
property! Manhood lost in chattelhood!

After the valuation, then came the division. This was an hour of high
excitement and distressing anxiety. Our destiny was now to be _fixed
for life_, and we had no more voice in the decision of the question,
than the oxen and cows that stood chewing at the haymow. One word from
the appraisers, against all preferences or prayers, was enough to
sunder all the ties of friendship and affection, and even to separate
husbands and wives, parents and children. We were all appalled before
that power, which, to human seeming, could bless or blast us in a
moment. Added to the dread of separation, most painful to the majority
of the slaves, we all had a decided horror of the thought of falling
into the hands of Master Andrew. He was distinguished for cruelty and
intemperance.

Slaves generally dread to fall into the hands of drunken owners. Master
Andrew was almost a confirmed sot, and had already, by his reckless
mismanagement and profligate dissipation, wasted a large portion of old
master’s property. To fall into his hands, was, therefore, considered
merely as the first step toward being sold away to the far south. He
would spend his fortune in a few years, and his farms and slaves would
be sold, we thought, at public outcry; and we should be hurried away to
the cotton fields, and rice swamps, of the sunny south. This was the
cause of deep consternation.

The people of the north, and free people generally, I think, have less
attachment to the places where they are born and brought up, than have
the slaves. Their freedom to go and come, to be here and there, as they
list, prevents any extravagant attachment to any one particular place,
in their case. On the other hand, the slave is a fixture; he has no
choice, no goal, no destination; but is pegged down to a single spot,
and must take root here, or nowhere. The idea of removal elsewhere,
comes, generally, in the shape of a threat, and in punishment of crime.
It is, therefore, attended with fear and dread. A slave seldom thinks
of bettering his condition by being sold, and hence he looks upon
separation from his native place, with none of the enthusiasm which
animates the bosoms of young freemen, when they contemplate a life in
the far west, or in some distant country where they intend to rise to
wealth and distinction. Nor can those from whom they separate, give
them up with that cheerfulness with which friends and relations yield
each other up, when they feel that it is for the good of the departing
one that he is removed from his native place. Then, too, there is
correspondence, and there is, at least, the hope of reunion, because
reunion is _possible_. But, with the slave, all these mitigating
circumstances are wanting. There is no improvement in his condition
_probable_,—no correspondence _possible_,—no reunion attainable. His
going out into the world, is like a living man going into the tomb,
who, with open eyes, sees himself buried out of sight and hearing of
wife, children and friends of kindred tie.

In contemplating the likelihoods and possibilities of our
circumstances, I probably suffered more than most of my fellow
servants. I had known what it was to experience kind, and even tender
treatment; they had known nothing of the sort. Life, to them, had been
rough and thorny, as well as dark. They had—most of them—lived on my
old master’s farm in Tuckahoe, and had felt the reign of Mr. Plummer’s
rule. The overseer had written his character on the living parchment of
most of their backs, and left them callous; my back (thanks to my early
removal from the plantation to Baltimore) was yet tender. I had left a
kind mistress at Baltimore, who was almost a mother to me. She was in
tears when we parted, and the probabilities of ever seeing her again,
trembling in the balance as they did, could not be viewed without alarm
and agony. The thought of leaving that kind mistress forever, and,
worse still, of being the slave of Andrew Anthony—a man who, but a few
days before the division of the property, had, in my presence, seized
my brother Perry by the throat, dashed him on the ground, and with the
heel of his boot stamped him on the head, until the blood gushed from
his nose and ears—was terrible! This fiendish proceeding had no better
apology than the fact, that Perry had gone to play, when Master Andrew
wanted him for some trifling service. This cruelty, too, was of a piece
with his general character. After inflicting his heavy blows on my
brother, on observing me looking at him with intense astonishment, he
said, “_That_ is the way I will serve you, one of these days;” meaning,
no doubt, when I should come into his possession. This threat, the
reader may well suppose, was not very tranquilizing to my feelings. I
could see that he really thirsted to get hold of me. But I was there
only for a few days. I had not received any orders, and had violated
none, and there was, therefore, no excuse for flogging me.

At last, the anxiety and suspense were ended; and they ended, thanks to
a kind Providence, in accordance with my wishes. I fell to the portion
of Mrs. Lucretia—the dear lady who bound up my head, when the savage
Aunt Katy was adding to my sufferings her bitterest maledictions.

Capt. Thomas Auld and Mrs. Lucretia at once decided on my return to
Baltimore. They knew how sincerely and warmly Mrs. Hugh Auld was
attached to me, and how delighted Mr. Hugh’s son would be to have me
back; and, withal, having no immediate use for one so young, they
willingly let me off to Baltimore.

I need not stop here to narrate my joy on returning to Baltimore, nor
that of little Tommy; nor the tearful joy of his mother; nor the
evident saticfaction(sic) of Master Hugh. I was just one month absent
from Baltimore, before the matter was decided; and the time really
seemed full six months.

One trouble over, and on comes another. The slave’s life is full of
uncertainty. I had returned to Baltimore but a short time, when the
tidings reached me, that my friend, Mrs. Lucretia, who was only second
in my regard to Mrs. Hugh Auld, was dead, leaving her husband and only
one child—a daughter, named Amanda.

Shortly after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, strange to say, Master Andrew
died, leaving his wife and one child. Thus, the whole family of
Anthonys was swept away; only two children remained. All this happened
within five years of my leaving Col. Lloyd’s.

No alteration took place in the condition of the slaves, in consequence
of these deaths, yet I could not help feeling less secure, after the
death of my friend, Mrs. Lucretia, than I had done during her life.
While she lived, I felt that I had a strong friend to plead for me in
any emergency. Ten years ago, while speaking of the state of things in
our family, after the events just named, I used this language:

Now all the property of my old master, slaves included, was in the
hands of strangers—strangers who had nothing to do in accumulating it.
Not a slave was left free. All remained slaves, from youngest to
oldest. If any one thing in my experience, more than another, served to
deepen my conviction of the infernal character of slavery, and to fill
me with unutterable loathing of slaveholders, it was their base
ingratitude to my poor old grandmother. She had served my old master
faithfully from youth to old age. She had been the source of all his
wealth; she had peopled his plantation with slaves; she had become a
great-grandmother in his service. She had rocked him in infancy,
attended him in childhood, served him through life, and at his death
wiped from his icy brow the cold death-sweat, and closed his eyes
forever. She was nevertheless left a slave—a slave for life—a slave in
the hands of strangers; and in their hands she saw her children, her
grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren, divided, like so many
sheep, without being gratified with the small privilege of a single
word, as to their or her own destiny. And, to cap the climax of their
base ingratitude and fiendish barbarity, my grandmother, who was now
very old, having outlived my old master and all his children, having
seen the beginning and end of all of them, and her present owners
finding she was of but little value, her frame already racked with the
pains of old age, and complete helplessness fast stealing over her once
active limbs, they took her to the woods, built her a little hut, put
up a little mud-chimney, and then made her welcome to the privilege of
supporting herself there in perfect loneliness; thus virtually turning
her out to die! If my poor old grandmother now lives, she lives to
suffer in utter loneliness; she lives to remember and mourn over the
loss of children, the loss of grandchildren, and the loss of
great-grandchildren. They are, in the language of the slave’s poet,
Whittier—

Gone, gone, sold and gone,
To the rice swamp dank and lone,
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever-demon strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air:—
          Gone, gone, sold and gone
          To the rice swamp dank and lone,
          From Virginia hills and waters—
          Woe is me, my stolen daughters!


The hearth is desolate. The children, the unconscious children, who
once sang and danced in her presence, are gone. She gropes her way, in
the darkness of age, for a drink of water. Instead of the voices of her
children, she hears by day the moans of the dove, and by night the
screams of the hideous owl. All is gloom. The grave is at the door. And
now, when weighed down by the pains and aches of old age, when the head
inclines to the feet, when the beginning and ending of human existence
meet, and helpless infancy and painful old age combine together—at this
time, this most needful time, the time for the exercise of that
tenderness and affection which children only can exercise toward a
declining parent—my poor old grandmother, the devoted mother of twelve
children, is left all alone, in yonder little hut, before a few dim
embers.

Two years after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, Master Thomas married his
second wife. Her name was Rowena Hamilton, the eldest daughter of Mr.
William Hamilton, a rich slaveholder on the Eastern Shore of Maryland,
who lived about five miles from St. Michael’s, the then place of my
master’s residence.

Not long after his marriage, Master Thomas had a misunderstanding with
Master Hugh, and, as a means of punishing his brother, he ordered him
to send me home.

As the ground of misunderstanding will serve to illustrate the
character of southern chivalry, and humanity, I will relate it.

Among the children of my Aunt Milly, was a daughter, named Henny. When
quite a child, Henny had fallen into the fire, and burnt her hands so
bad that they were of very little use to her. Her fingers were drawn
almost into the palms of her hands. She could make out to do something,
but she was considered hardly worth the having—of little more value
than a horse with a broken leg. This unprofitable piece of human
property, ill shapen, and disfigured, Capt. Auld sent off to Baltimore,
making his brother Hugh welcome to her services.

After giving poor Henny a fair trial, Master Hugh and his wife came to
the conclusion, that they had no use for the crippled servant, and they
sent her back to Master Thomas. Thus, the latter took as an act of
ingratitude, on the part of his brother; and, as a mark of his
displeasure, he required him to send me immediately to St. Michael’s,
saying, if he cannot keep _“Hen,”_ he shall not have _“Fred.”_

Here was another shock to my nerves, another breaking up of my plans,
and another severance of my religious and social alliances. I was now a
big boy. I had become quite useful to several young colored men, who
had made me their teacher. I had taught some of them to read, and was
accustomed to spend many of my leisure hours with them. Our attachment
was strong, and I greatly dreaded the separation. But regrets,
especially in a slave, are unavailing. I was only a slave; my wishes
were nothing, and my happiness was the sport of my masters.

My regrets at now leaving Baltimore, were not for the same reasons as
when I before left that city, to be valued and handed over to my proper
owner. My home was not now the pleasant place it had formerly been. A
change had taken place, both in Master Hugh, and in his once pious and
affectionate wife. The influence of brandy and bad company on him, and
the influence of slavery and social isolation upon her, had wrought
disastrously upon the characters of both. Thomas was no longer “little
Tommy,” but was a big boy, and had learned to assume the airs of his
class toward me. My condition, therefore, in the house of Master Hugh,
was not, by any means, so comfortable as in former years. My
attachments were now outside of our family. They were felt to those to
whom I _imparted_ instruction, and to those little white boys from whom
I _received_ instruction. There, too, was my dear old father, the pious
Lawson, who was, in christian graces, the very counterpart of “Uncle”
Tom. The resemblance is so perfect, that he might have been the
original of Mrs. Stowe’s christian hero. The thought of leaving these
dear friends, greatly troubled me, for I was going without the hope of
ever returning to Baltimore again; the feud between Master Hugh and his
brother being bitter and irreconcilable, or, at least, supposed to be
so.

In addition to thoughts of friends from whom I was parting, as I
supposed, _forever_, I had the grief of neglected chances of escape to
brood over. I had put off running away, until now I was to be placed
where the opportunities for escaping were much fewer than in a large
city like Baltimore.

On my way from Baltimore to St. Michael’s, down the Chesapeake bay, our
sloop—the “Amanda”—was passed by the steamers plying between that city
and Philadelphia, and I watched the course of those steamers, and,
while going to St. Michael’s, I formed a plan to escape from slavery;
of which plan, and matters connected therewith the kind reader shall
learn more hereafter.




CHAPTER XIV. _Experience in St. Michael’s_


THE VILLAGE—ITS INHABITANTS—THEIR OCCUPATION AND LOW PROPENSITIES
CAPTAN(sic) THOMAS AULD—HIS CHARACTER—HIS SECOND WIFE, ROWENA—WELL
MATCHED—SUFFERINGS FROM HUNGER—OBLIGED TO TAKE FOOD—MODE OF ARGUMENT IN
VINDICATION THEREOF—NO MORAL CODE OF FREE SOCIETY CAN APPLY TO SLAVE
SOCIETY—SOUTHERN CAMP MEETING—WHAT MASTER THOMAS DID
THERE—HOPES—SUSPICIONS ABOUT HIS CONVERSION—THE RESULT—FAITH AND WORKS
ENTIRELY AT VARIANCE—HIS RISE AND PROGRESS IN THE CHURCH—POOR COUSIN
“HENNY”—HIS TREATMENT OF HER—THE METHODIST PREACHERS—THEIR UTTER
DISREGARD OF US—ONE EXCELLENT EXCEPTION—REV. GEORGE COOKMAN—SABBATH
SCHOOL—HOW BROKEN UP AND BY WHOM—A FUNERAL PALL CAST OVER ALL MY
PROSPECTS—COVEY THE NEGRO-BREAKER.


St. Michael’s, the village in which was now my new home, compared
favorably with villages in slave states, generally. There were a few
comfortable dwellings in it, but the place, as a whole, wore a dull,
slovenly, enterprise-forsaken aspect. The mass of the buildings were
wood; they had never enjoyed the artificial adornment of paint, and
time and storms had worn off the bright color of the wood, leaving them
almost as black as buildings charred by a conflagration.

St. Michael’s had, in former years, (previous to 1833, for that was the
year I went to reside there,) enjoyed some reputation as a ship
building community, but that business had almost entirely given place
to oyster fishing, for the Baltimore and Philadelphia markets—a course
of life highly unfavorable to morals, industry, and manners. Miles
river was broad, and its oyster fishing grounds were extensive; and the
fishermen were out, often, all day, and a part of the night, during
autumn, winter and spring. This exposure was an excuse for carrying
with them, in considerable quanties(sic), spirituous liquors, the then
supposed best antidote for cold. Each canoe was supplied with its jug
of rum; and tippling, among this class of the citizens of St.
Michael’s, became general. This drinking habit, in an ignorant
population, fostered coarseness, vulgarity and an indolent disregard
for the social improvement of the place, so that it was admitted, by
the few sober, thinking people who remained there, that St. Michael’s
had become a very _unsaintly_, as well as unsightly place, before I
went there to reside.

I left Baltimore for St. Michael’s in the month of March, 1833. I know
the year, because it was the one succeeding the first cholera in
Baltimore, and was the year, also, of that strange phenomenon, when the
heavens seemed about to part with its starry train. I witnessed this
gorgeous spectacle, and was awe-struck. The air seemed filled with
bright, descending messengers from the sky. It was about daybreak when
I saw this sublime scene. I was not without the suggestion, at the
moment, that it might be the harbinger of the coming of the Son of Man;
and, in my then state of mind, I was prepared to hail Him as my friend
and deliverer. I had read, that the “stars shall fall from heaven”; and
they were now falling. I was suffering much in my mind. It did seem
that every time the young tendrils of my affection became attached,
they were rudely broken by some unnatural outside power; and I was
beginning to look away to heaven for the rest denied me on earth.

But, to my story. It was now more than seven years since I had lived
with Master Thomas Auld, in the family of my old master, on Col.
Lloyd’s plantation. We were almost entire strangers to each other; for,
when I knew him at the house of my old master, it was not as a
_master_, but simply as “Captain Auld,” who had married old master’s
daughter. All my lessons concerning his temper and disposition, and the
best methods of pleasing him, were yet to be learnt. Slaveholders,
however, are not very ceremonious in approaching a slave; and my
ignorance of the new material in shape of a master was but transient.
Nor was my mistress long in making known her animus. She was not a
“Miss Lucretia,” traces of whom I yet remembered, and the more
especially, as I saw them shining in the face of little Amanda, her
daughter, now living under a step-mother’s government. I had not
forgotten the soft hand, guided by a tender heart, that bound up with
healing balsam the gash made in my head by Ike, the son of Abel. Thomas
and Rowena, I found to be a well-matched pair. _He_ was stingy, and
_she_ was cruel; and—what was quite natural in such cases—she possessed
the ability to make him as cruel as herself, while she could easily
descend to the level of his meanness. In the house of Master Thomas, I
was made—for the first time in seven years to feel the pinchings of
hunger, and this was not very easy to bear.

For, in all the changes of Master Hugh’s family, there was no change in
the bountifulness with which they supplied me with food. Not to give a
slave enough to eat, is meanness intensified, and it is so recognized
among slaveholders generally, in Maryland. The rule is, no matter how
coarse the food, only let there be enough of it. This is the theory,
and—in the part of Maryland I came from—the general practice accords
with this theory. Lloyd’s plantation was an exception, as was, also,
the house of Master Thomas Auld.

All know the lightness of Indian corn-meal, as an article of food, and
can easily judge from the following facts whether the statements I have
made of the stinginess of Master Thomas, are borne out. There were four
slaves of us in the kitchen, and four whites in the great house Thomas
Auld, Mrs. Auld, Hadaway Auld (brother of Thomas Auld) and little
Amanda. The names of the slaves in the kitchen, were Eliza, my sister;
Priscilla, my aunt; Henny, my cousin; and myself. There were eight
persons in the family. There was, each week, one half bushel of
corn-meal brought from the mill; and in the kitchen, corn-meal was
almost our exclusive food, for very little else was allowed us. Out of
this bushel of corn-meal, the family in the great house had a small
loaf every morning; thus leaving us, in the kitchen, with not quite a
half a peck per week, apiece. This allowance was less than half the
allowance of food on Lloyd’s plantation. It was not enough to subsist
upon; and we were, therefore, reduced to the wretched necessity of
living at the expense of our neighbors. We were compelled either to
beg, or to steal, and we did both. I frankly confess, that while I
hated everything like stealing, _as such_, I nevertheless did not
hesitate to take food, when I was hungry, wherever I could find it. Nor
was this practice the mere result of an unreasoning instinct; it was,
in my case, the result of a clear apprehension of the claims of
morality. I weighed and considered the matter closely, before I
ventured to satisfy my hunger by such means. Considering that my labor
and person were the property of Master Thomas, and that I was by him
deprived of the necessaries of life necessaries obtained by my own
labor—it was easy to deduce the right to supply myself with what was my
own. It was simply appropriating what was my own to the use of my
master, since the health and strength derived from such food were
exerted in _his_ service. To be sure, this was stealing, according to
the law and gospel I heard from St. Michael’s pulpit; but I had already
begun to attach less importance to what dropped from that quarter, on
that point, while, as yet, I retained my reverence for religion. It was
not always convenient to steal from master, and the same reason why I
might, innocently, steal from him, did not seem to justify me in
stealing from others. In the case of my master, it was only a question
of _removal_—the taking his meat out of one tub, and putting it into
another; the ownership of the meat was not affected by the transaction.
At first, he owned it in the _tub_, and last, he owned it in _me_. His
meat house was not always open. There was a strict watch kept on that
point, and the key was on a large bunch in Rowena’s pocket. A great
many times have we, poor creatures, been severely pinched with hunger,
when meat and bread have been moulding under the lock, while the key
was in the pocket of our mistress. This had been so when she _knew_ we
were nearly half starved; and yet, that mistress, with saintly air,
would kneel with her husband, and pray each morning that a merciful God
would bless them in basket and in store, and save them, at last, in his
kingdom. But I proceed with the argument.

It was necessary that right to steal from _others_ should be
established; and this could only rest upon a wider range of
generalization than that which supposed the right to steal from my
master.

It was sometime before I arrived at this clear right. The reader will
get some idea of my train of reasoning, by a brief statement of the
case. “I am,” thought I, “not only the slave of Thomas, but I am the
slave of society at large. Society at large has bound itself, in form
and in fact, to assist Master Thomas in robbing me of my rightful
liberty, and of the just reward of my labor; therefore, whatever rights
I have against Master Thomas, I have, equally, against those
confederated with him in robbing me of liberty. As society has marked
me out as privileged plunder, on the principle of self-preservation I
am justified in plundering in turn. Since each slave belongs to all;
all must, therefore, belong to each.”

I shall here make a profession of faith which may shock some, offend
others, and be dissented from by all. It is this: Within the bounds of
his just earnings, I hold that the slave is fully justified in helping
himself to the _gold and silver, and the best apparel of his master, or
that of any other slaveholder; and that such taking is not stealing in
any just sense of that word_.

The morality of _free_ society can have no application to _slave_
society. Slaveholders have made it almost impossible for the slave to
commit any crime, known either to the laws of God or to the laws of
man. If he steals, he takes his own; if he kills his master, he
imitates only the heroes of the revolution. Slaveholders I hold to be
individually and collectively responsible for all the evils which grow
out of the horrid relation, and I believe they will be so held at the
judgment, in the sight of a just God. Make a man a slave, and you rob
him of moral responsibility. Freedom of choice is the essence of all
accountability. But my kind readers are, probably, less concerned about
my opinions, than about that which more nearly touches my personal
experience; albeit, my opinions have, in some sort, been formed by that
experience.

Bad as slaveholders are, I have seldom met with one so entirely
destitute of every element of character capable of inspiring respect,
as was my present master, Capt. Thomas Auld.

When I lived with him, I thought him incapable of a noble action. The
leading trait in his character was intense selfishness. I think he was
fully aware of this fact himself, and often tried to conceal it. Capt.
Auld was not a _born_ slaveholder—not a birthright member of the
slaveholding oligarchy. He was only a slaveholder by _marriage-right;_
and, of all slaveholders, these latter are, _by far_, the most
exacting. There was in him all the love of domination, the pride of
mastery, and the swagger of authority, but his rule lacked the vital
element of consistency. He could be cruel; but his methods of showing
it were cowardly, and evinced his meanness rather than his spirit. His
commands were strong, his enforcement weak.

Slaves are not insensible to the whole-souled characteristics of a
generous, dashing slaveholder, who is fearless of consequences; and
they prefer a master of this bold and daring kind—even with the risk of
being shot down for impudence to the fretful, little soul, who never
uses the lash but at the suggestion of a love of gain.

Slaves, too, readily distinguish between the birthright bearing of the
original slaveholder and the assumed attitudes of the accidental
slaveholder; and while they cannot respect either, they certainly
despise the latter more than the former.

The luxury of having slaves wait upon him was something new to Master
Thomas; and for it he was wholly unprepared. He was a slaveholder,
without the ability to hold or manage his slaves. We seldom called him
“master,” but generally addressed him by his “bay craft” title—“_Capt.
Auld_.” It is easy to see that such conduct might do much to make him
appear awkward, and, consequently, fretful. His wife was especially
solicitous to have us call her husband “master.” Is your _master_ at
the store?”—“Where is your _master_?”—“Go and tell your _master”_—“I
will make your _master_ acquainted with your conduct”—she would say;
but we were inapt scholars. Especially were I and my sister Eliza inapt
in this particular. Aunt Priscilla was less stubborn and defiant in her
spirit than Eliza and myself; and, I think, her road was less rough
than ours.

In the month of August, 1833, when I had almost become desperate under
the treatment of Master Thomas, and when I entertained more strongly
than ever the oft-repeated determination to run away, a circumstance
occurred which seemed to promise brighter and better days for us all.
At a Methodist camp-meeting, held in the Bay Side (a famous place for
campmeetings) about eight miles from St. Michael’s, Master Thomas came
out with a profession of religion. He had long been an object of
interest to the church, and to the ministers, as I had seen by the
repeated visits and lengthy exhortations of the latter. He was a fish
quite worth catching, for he had money and standing. In the community
of St. Michael’s he was equal to the best citizen. He was strictly
temperate; _perhaps_, from principle, but most likely, from interest.
There was very little to do for him, to give him the appearance of
piety, and to make him a pillar in the church. Well, the camp-meeting
continued a week; people gathered from all parts of the county, and two
steamboat loads came from Baltimore. The ground was happily chosen;
seats were arranged; a stand erected; a rude altar fenced in, fronting
the preachers’ stand, with straw in it for the accommodation of
mourners. This latter would hold at least one hundred persons. In
front, and on the sides of the preachers’ stand, and outside the long
rows of seats, rose the first class of stately tents, each vieing with
the other in strength, neatness, and capacity for accommodating its
inmates. Behind this first circle of tents was another, less imposing,
which reached round the camp-ground to the speakers’ stand. Outside
this second class of tents were covered wagons, ox carts, and vehicles
of every shape and size. These served as tents to their owners. Outside
of these, huge fires were burning, in all directions, where roasting,
and boiling, and frying, were going on, for the benefit of those who
were attending to their own spiritual welfare within the circle.
_Behind_ the preachers’ stand, a narrow space was marked out for the
use of the colored people. There were no seats provided for this class
of persons; the preachers addressed them, _“over the left,”_ if they
addressed them at all. After the preaching was over, at every service,
an invitation was given to mourners to come into the pen; and, in some
cases, ministers went out to persuade men and women to come in. By one
of these ministers, Master Thomas Auld was persuaded to go inside the
pen. I was deeply interested in that matter, and followed; and, though
colored people were not allowed either in the pen or in front of the
preachers’ stand, I ventured to take my stand at a sort of half-way
place between the blacks and whites, where I could distinctly see the
movements of mourners, and especially the progress of Master Thomas.

“If he has got religion,” thought I, “he will emancipate his slaves;
and if he should not do so much as this, he will, at any rate, behave
toward us more kindly, and feed us more generously than he has
heretofore done.” Appealing to my own religious experience, and judging
my master by what was true in my own case, I could not regard him as
soundly converted, unless some such good results followed his
profession of religion.

But in my expectations I was doubly disappointed; Master Thomas was
_Master Thomas_ still. The fruits of his righteousness were to show
themselves in no such way as I had anticipated. His conversion was not
to change his relation toward men—at any rate not toward BLACK men—but
toward God. My faith, I confess, was not great. There was something in
his appearance that, in my mind, cast a doubt over his conversion.
Standing where I did, I could see his every movement. I watched
narrowly while he remained in the little pen; and although I saw that
his face was extremely red, and his hair disheveled, and though I heard
him groan, and saw a stray tear halting on his cheek, as if inquiring
“which way shall I go?”—I could not wholly confide in the genuineness
of his conversion. The hesitating behavior of that tear-drop and its
loneliness, distressed me, and cast a doubt upon the whole transaction,
of which it was a part. But people said, _“Capt. Auld had come
through,”_ and it was for me to hope for the best. I was bound to do
this, in charity, for I, too, was religious, and had been in the church
full three years, although now I was not more than sixteen years old.
Slaveholders may, sometimes, have confidence in the piety of some of
their slaves; but the slaves seldom have confidence in the piety of
their masters. _“He cant go to heaven with our blood in his skirts_,”
is a settled point in the creed of every slave; rising superior to all
teaching to the contrary, and standing forever as a fixed fact. The
highest evidence the slaveholder can give the slave of his acceptance
with God, is the emancipation of his slaves. This is proof that he is
willing to give up all to God, and for the sake of God. Not to do this,
was, in my estimation, and in the opinion of all the slaves, an
evidence of half-heartedness, and wholly inconsistent with the idea of
genuine conversion. I had read, also, somewhere in the Methodist
Discipline, the following question and answer:

“_Question_. What shall be done for the extirpation of slavery?

“_Answer_. We declare that we are much as ever convinced of the great
evil of slavery; therefore, no slaveholder shall be eligible to any
official station in our church.”

These words sounded in my ears for a long time, and encouraged me to
hope. But, as I have before said, I was doomed to disappointment.
Master Thomas seemed to be aware of my hopes and expectations
concerning him. I have thought, before now, that he looked at me in
answer to my glances, as much as to say, “I will teach you, young man,
that, though I have parted with my sins, I have not parted with my
sense. I shall hold my slaves, and go to heaven too.”

Possibly, to convince us that we must not presume _too much_ upon his
recent conversion, he became rather more rigid and stringent in his
exactions. There always was a scarcity of good nature about the man;
but now his whole countenance was _soured_ over with the seemings of
piety. His religion, therefore, neither made him emancipate his slaves,
nor caused him to treat them with greater humanity. If religion had any
effect on his character at all, it made him more cruel and hateful in
all his ways. The natural wickedness of his heart had not been removed,
but only reinforced, by the profession of religion. Do I judge him
harshly? God forbid. Facts _are_ facts. Capt. Auld made the greatest
profession of piety. His house was, literally, a house of prayer. In
the morning, and in the evening, loud prayers and hymns were heard
there, in which both himself and his wife joined; yet, _no more meal_
was brought from the mill, _no more attention_ was paid to the moral
welfare of the kitchen; and nothing was done to make us feel that the
heart of Master Thomas was one whit better than it was before he went
into the little pen, opposite to the preachers’ stand, on the camp
ground.

Our hopes (founded on the discipline) soon vanished; for the
authorities let him into the church _at once_, and before he was out of
his term of _probation_, I heard of his leading class! He distinguished
himself greatly among the brethren, and was soon an exhorter. His
progress was almost as rapid as the growth of the fabled vine of Jack’s
bean. No man was more active than he, in revivals. He would go many
miles to assist in carrying them on, and in getting outsiders
interested in religion. His house being one of the holiest, if not the
happiest in St. Michael’s, became the “preachers’ home.” These
preachers evidently liked to share Master Thomas’s hospitality; for
while he _starved us_, he _stuffed_ them. Three or four of these
ambassadors of the gospel—according to slavery—have been there at a
time; all living on the fat of the land, while we, in the kitchen, were
nearly starving. Not often did we get a smile of recognition from these
holy men. They seemed almost as unconcerned about our getting to
heaven, as they were about our getting out of slavery. To this general
charge there was one exception—the Rev. GEORGE COOKMAN. Unlike Rev.
Messrs. Storks, Ewry, Hickey, Humphrey and Cooper (all whom were on the
St. Michael’s circuit) he kindly took an interest in our temporal and
spiritual welfare. Our souls and our bodies were all alike sacred in
his sight; and he really had a good deal of genuine anti-slavery
feeling mingled with his colonization ideas. There was not a slave in
our neighborhood that did not love, and almost venerate, Mr. Cookman.
It was pretty generally believed that he had been chiefly instrumental
in bringing one of the largest slaveholders—Mr. Samuel Harrison—in that
neighborhood, to emancipate all his slaves, and, indeed, the general
impression was, that Mr. Cookman had labored faithfully with
slaveholders, whenever he met them, to induce them to emancipate their
bondmen, and that he did this as a religious duty. When this good man
was at our house, we were all sure to be called in to prayers in the
morning; and he was not slow in making inquiries as to the state of our
minds, nor in giving us a word of exhortation and of encouragement.
Great was the sorrow of all the slaves, when this faithful preacher of
the gospel was removed from the Talbot county circuit. He was an
eloquent preacher, and possessed what few ministers, south of Mason
Dixon’s line, possess, or _dare_ to show, viz: a warm and philanthropic
heart. The Mr. Cookman, of whom I speak, was an Englishman by birth,
and perished while on his way to England, on board the ill-fated
“President”. Could the thousands of slaves in Maryland know the fate of
the good man, to whose words of comfort they were so largely indebted,
they would thank me for dropping a tear on this page, in memory of
their favorite preacher, friend and benefactor.

But, let me return to Master Thomas, and to my experience, after his
conversion. In Baltimore, I could, occasionally, get into a Sabbath
school, among the free children, and receive lessons, with the rest;
but, having already learned both to read and to write, I was more of a
teacher than a pupil, even there. When, however, I went back to the
Eastern Shore, and was at the house of Master Thomas, I was neither
allowed to teach, nor to be taught. The whole community—with but a
single exception, among the whites—frowned upon everything like
imparting instruction either to slaves or to free colored persons. That
single exception, a pious young man, named Wilson, asked me, one day,
if I would like to assist him in teaching a little Sabbath school, at
the house of a free colored man in St. Michael’s, named James Mitchell.
The idea was to me a delightful one, and I told him I would gladly
devote as much of my Sabbath as I could command, to that most laudable
work. Mr. Wilson soon mustered up a dozen old spelling books, and a few
testaments; and we commenced operations, with some twenty scholars, in
our Sunday school. Here, thought I, is something worth living for; here
is an excellent chance for usefulness; and I shall soon have a company
of young friends, lovers of knowledge, like some of my Baltimore
friends, from whom I now felt parted forever.

Our first Sabbath passed delightfully, and I spent the week after very
joyously. I could not go to Baltimore, but I could make a little
Baltimore here. At our second meeting, I learned that there was some
objection to the existence of the Sabbath school; and, sure enough, we
had scarcely got at work—_good work_, simply teaching a few colored
children how to read the gospel of the Son of God—when in rushed a mob,
headed by Mr. Wright Fairbanks and Mr. Garrison West—two
class-leaders—and Master Thomas; who, armed with sticks and other
missiles, drove us off, and commanded us never to meet for such a
purpose again. One of this pious crew told me, that as for my part, I
wanted to be another Nat Turner; and if I did not look out, I should
get as many balls into me, as Nat did into him. Thus ended the infant
Sabbath school, in the town of St. Michael’s. The reader will not be
surprised when I say, that the breaking up of my Sabbath school, by
these class-leaders, and professedly holy men, did not serve to
strengthen my religious convictions. The cloud over my St. Michael’s
home grew heavier and blacker than ever.

It was not merely the agency of Master Thomas, in breaking up and
destroying my Sabbath school, that shook my confidence in the power of
southern religion to make men wiser or better; but I saw in him all the
cruelty and meanness, _after_ his conversion, which he had exhibited
before he made a profession of religion. His cruelty and meanness were
especially displayed in his treatment of my unfortunate cousin, Henny,
whose lameness made her a burden to him. I have no extraordinary
personal hard usage toward myself to complain of, against him, but I
have seen him tie up the lame and maimed woman, and whip her in a
manner most brutal, and shocking; and then, with blood-chilling
blasphemy, he would quote the passage of scripture, “That servant which
knew his lord’s will, and prepared not himself, neither did according
to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes.” Master would keep this
lacerated woman tied up by her wrists, to a bolt in the joist, three,
four and five hours at a time. He would tie her up early in the
morning, whip her with a cowskin before breakfast; leave her tied up;
go to his store, and, returning to his dinner, repeat the castigation;
laying on the rugged lash, on flesh already made raw by repeated blows.
He seemed desirous to get the poor girl out of existence, or, at any
rate, off his hands. In proof of this, he afterwards gave her away to
his sister Sarah (Mrs. Cline) but, as in the case of Master Hugh, Henny
was soon returned on his hands. Finally, upon a pretense that he could
do nothing with her (I use his own words) he “set her adrift, to take
care of herself.” Here was a recently converted man, holding, with
tight grasp, the well-framed, and able bodied slaves left him by old
master—the persons, who, in freedom, could have taken care of
themselves; yet, turning loose the only cripple among them, virtually
to starve and die.

No doubt, had Master Thomas been asked, by some pious northern brother,
_why_ he continued to sustain the relation of a slaveholder, to those
whom he retained, his answer would have been precisely the same as many
other religious slaveholders have returned to that inquiry, viz: “I
hold my slaves for their own good.”

Bad as my condition was when I lived with Master Thomas, I was soon to
experience a life far more goading and bitter. The many differences
springing up between myself and Master Thomas, owing to the clear
perception I had of his character, and the boldness with which I
defended myself against his capricious complaints, led him to declare
that I was unsuited to his wants; that my city life had affected me
perniciously; that, in fact, it had almost ruined me for every good
purpose, and had fitted me for everything that was bad. One of my
greatest faults, or offenses, was that of letting his horse get away,
and go down to the farm belonging to his father-in-law. The animal had
a liking for that farm, with which I fully sympathized. Whenever I let
it out, it would go dashing down the road to Mr. Hamilton’s, as if
going on a grand frolic. My horse gone, of course I must go after it.
The explanation of our mutual attachment to the place is the same; the
horse found there good pasturage, and I found there plenty of bread.
Mr. Hamilton had his faults, but starving his slaves was not among
them. He gave food, in abundance, and that, too, of an excellent
quality. In Mr. Hamilton’s cook—Aunt Mary—I found a most generous and
considerate friend. She never allowed me to go there without giving me
bread enough to make good the deficiencies of a day or two. Master
Thomas at last resolved to endure my behavior no longer; he could
neither keep me, nor his horse, we liked so well to be at his
father-in-law’s farm. I had now lived with him nearly nine months, and
he had given me a number of severe whippings, without any visible
improvement in my character, or my conduct; and now he was resolved to
put me out—as he said—“_to be broken._”

There was, in the Bay Side, very near the camp ground, where my master
got his religious impressions, a man named Edward Covey, who enjoyed
the execrated reputation, of being a first rate hand at breaking young
Negroes. This Covey was a poor man, a farm renter; and this reputation
(hateful as it was to the slaves and to all good men) was, at the same
time, of immense advantage to him. It enabled him to get his farm
tilled with very little expense, compared with what it would have cost
him without this most extraordinary reputation. Some slaveholders
thought it an advantage to let Mr. Covey have the government of their
slaves a year or two, almost free of charge, for the sake of the
excellent training such slaves got under his happy management! Like
some horse breakers, noted for their skill, who ride the best horses in
the country without expense, Mr. Covey could have under him, the most
fiery bloods of the neighborhood, for the simple reward of returning
them to their owners, _well broken_. Added to the natural fitness of
Mr. Covey for the duties of his profession, he was said to “enjoy
religion,” and was as strict in the cultivation of piety, as he was in
the cultivation of his farm. I was made aware of his character by some
who had been under his hand; and while I could not look forward to
going to him with any pleasure, I was glad to get away from St.
Michael’s. I was sure of getting enough to eat at Covey’s, even if I
suffered in other respects. _This_, to a hungry man, is not a prospect
to be regarded with indifference.




CHAPTER XV. _Covey, the Negro Breaker_


JOURNEY TO MY NEW MASTER’S—MEDITATIONS BY THE WAY—VIEW OF COVEY’S
RESIDENCE—THE FAMILY—MY AWKWARDNESS AS A FIELD HAND—A CRUEL BEATING—WHY
IT WAS GIVEN—DESCRIPTION OF COVEY—FIRST ADVENTURE AT OX DRIVING—HAIR
BREADTH ESCAPES—OX AND MAN ALIKE PROPERTY—COVEY’S MANNER OF PROCEEDING
TO WHIP—HARD LABOR BETTER THAN THE WHIP FOR BREAKING DOWN THE
SPIRIT—CUNNING AND TRICKERY OF COVEY—FAMILY WORSHIP—SHOCKING CONTEMPT
FOR CHASTITY—I AM BROKEN DOWN—GREAT MENTAL AGITATION IN CONTRASTING THE
FREEDOM OF THE SHIPS WITH HIS OWN SLAVERY—ANGUISH BEYOND DESCRIPTION.


The morning of the first of January, 1834, with its chilling wind and
pinching frost, quite in harmony with the winter in my own mind, found
me, with my little bundle of clothing on the end of a stick, swung
across my shoulder, on the main road, bending my way toward Covey’s,
whither I had been imperiously ordered by Master Thomas. The latter had
been as good as his word, and had committed me, without reserve, to the
mastery of Mr. Edward Covey. Eight or ten years had now passed since I
had been taken from my grandmother’s cabin, in Tuckahoe; and these
years, for the most part, I had spent in Baltimore, where—as the reader
has already seen—I was treated with comparative tenderness. I was now
about to sound profounder depths in slave life. The rigors of a field,
less tolerable than the field of battle, awaited me. My new master was
notorious for his fierce and savage disposition, and my only
consolation in going to live with him was, the certainty of finding him
precisely as represented by common fame. There was neither joy in my
heart, nor elasticity in my step, as I started in search of the
tyrant’s home. Starvation made me glad to leave Thomas Auld’s, and the
cruel lash made me dread to go to Covey’s. Escape was impossible; so,
heavy and sad, I paced the seven miles, which separated Covey’s house
from St. Michael’s—thinking much by the solitary way—averse to my
condition; but _thinking_ was all I could do. Like a fish in a net,
allowed to play for a time, I was now drawn rapidly to the shore,
secured at all points. “I am,” thought I, “but the sport of a power
which makes no account, either of my welfare or of my happiness. By a
law which I can clearly comprehend, but cannot evade nor resist, I am
ruthlessly snatched from the hearth of a fond grandmother, and hurried
away to the home of a mysterious ‘old master;’ again I am removed from
there, to a master in Baltimore; thence am I snatched away to the
Eastern Shore, to be valued with the beasts of the field, and, with
them, divided and set apart for a possessor; then I am sent back to
Baltimore; and by the time I have formed new attachments, and have
begun to hope that no more rude shocks shall touch me, a difference
arises between brothers, and I am again broken up, and sent to St.
Michael’s; and now, from the latter place, I am footing my way to the
home of a new master, where, I am given to understand, that, like a
wild young working animal, I am to be broken to the yoke of a bitter
and life-long bondage.”

With thoughts and reflections like these, I came in sight of a small
wood-colored building, about a mile from the main road, which, from the
description I had received, at starting, I easily recognized as my new
home. The Chesapeake bay—upon the jutting banks of which the little
wood-colored house was standing—white with foam, raised by the heavy
north-west wind; Poplar Island, covered with a thick, black pine
forest, standing out amid this half ocean; and Kent Point, stretching
its sandy, desert-like shores out into the foam-cested bay—were all in
sight, and deepened the wild and desolate aspect of my new home.

The good clothes I had brought with me from Baltimore were now worn
thin, and had not been replaced; for Master Thomas was as little
careful to provide us against cold, as against hunger. Met here by a
north wind, sweeping through an open space of forty miles, I was glad
to make any port; and, therefore, I speedily pressed on to the little
wood-colored house. The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Covey; Miss
Kemp (a broken-backed woman) a sister of Mrs. Covey; William Hughes,
cousin to Edward Covey; Caroline, the cook; Bill Smith, a hired man;
and myself. Bill Smith, Bill Hughes, and myself, were the working force
of the farm, which consisted of three or four hundred acres. I was now,
for the first time in my life, to be a field hand; and in my new
employment I found myself even more awkward than a green country boy
may be supposed to be, upon his first entrance into the bewildering
scenes of city life; and my awkwardness gave me much trouble. Strange
and unnatural as it may seem, I had been at my new home but three days,
before Mr. Covey (my brother in the Methodist church) gave me a bitter
foretaste of what was in reserve for me. I presume he thought, that
since he had but a single year in which to complete his work, the
sooner he began, the better. Perhaps he thought that by coming to blows
at once, we should mutually better understand our relations. But to
whatever motive, direct or indirect, the cause may be referred, I had
not been in his possession three whole days, before he subjected me to
a most brutal chastisement. Under his heavy blows, blood flowed freely,
and wales were left on my back as large as my little finger. The sores
on my back, from this flogging, continued for weeks, for they were kept
open by the rough and coarse cloth which I wore for shirting. The
occasion and details of this first chapter of my experience as a field
hand, must be told, that the reader may see how unreasonable, as well
as how cruel, my new master, Covey, was. The whole thing I found to be
characteristic of the man; and I was probably treated no worse by him
than scores of lads who had previously been committed to him, for
reasons similar to those which induced my master to place me with him.
But, here are the facts connected with the affair, precisely as they
occurred.

On one of the coldest days of the whole month of January, 1834, I was
ordered, at day break, to get a load of wood, from a forest about two
miles from the house. In order to perform this work, Mr. Covey gave me
a pair of unbroken oxen, for, it seems, his breaking abilities had not
been turned in this direction; and I may remark, in passing, that
working animals in the south, are seldom so well trained as in the
north. In due form, and with all proper ceremony, I was introduced to
this huge yoke of unbroken oxen, and was carefully told which was
“Buck,” and which was “Darby”—which was the “in hand,” and which was
the “off hand” ox. The master of this important ceremony was no less a
person than Mr. Covey, himself; and the introduction was the first of
the kind I had ever had. My life, hitherto, had led me away from horned
cattle, and I had no knowledge of the art of managing them. What was
meant by the “in ox,” as against the “off ox,” when both were equally
fastened to one cart, and under one yoke, I could not very easily
divine; and the difference, implied by the names, and the peculiar
duties of each, were alike _Greek_ to me. Why was not the “off ox”
called the “in ox?” Where and what is the reason for this distinction
in names, when there is none in the things themselves? After initiating
me into the _“woa,” “back” “gee,” “hither”_—the entire spoken language
between oxen and driver—Mr. Covey took a rope, about ten feet long and
one inch thick, and placed one end of it around the horns of the “in
hand ox,” and gave the other end to me, telling me that if the oxen
started to run away, as the scamp knew they would, I must hold on to
the rope and stop them. I need not tell any one who is acquainted with
either the strength of the disposition of an untamed ox, that this
order was about as unreasonable as a command to shoulder a mad bull! I
had never driven oxen before, and I was as awkward, as a driver, as it
is possible to conceive. It did not answer for me to plead ignorance,
to Mr. Covey; there was something in his manner that quite forbade
that. He was a man to whom a slave seldom felt any disposition to
speak. Cold, distant, morose, with a face wearing all the marks of
captious pride and malicious sternness, he repelled all advances. Covey
was not a large man; he was only about five feet ten inches in height,
I should think; short necked, round shoulders; of quick and wiry
motion, of thin and wolfish visage; with a pair of small, greenish-gray
eyes, set well back under a forehead without dignity, and constantly in
motion, and floating his passions, rather than his thoughts, in sight,
but denying them utterance in words. The creature presented an
appearance altogether ferocious and sinister, disagreeable and
forbidding, in the extreme. When he spoke, it was from the corner of
his mouth, and in a sort of light growl, like a dog, when an attempt is
made to take a bone from him. The fellow had already made me believe
him even _worse_ than he had been presented. With his directions, and
without stopping to question, I started for the woods, quite anxious to
perform my first exploit in driving, in a creditable manner. The
distance from the house to the woods gate a full mile, I should
think—was passed over with very little difficulty; for although the
animals ran, I was fleet enough, in the open field, to keep pace with
them; especially as they pulled me along at the end of the rope; but,
on reaching the woods, I was speedily thrown into a distressing plight.
The animals took fright, and started off ferociously into the woods,
carrying the cart, full tilt, against trees, over stumps, and dashing
from side to side, in a manner altogether frightful. As I held the
rope, I expected every moment to be crushed between the cart and the
huge trees, among which they were so furiously dashing. After running
thus for several minutes, my oxen were, finally, brought to a stand, by
a tree, against which they dashed themselves with great violence,
upsetting the cart, and entangling themselves among sundry young
saplings. By the shock, the body of the cart was flung in one
direction, and the wheels and tongue in another, and all in the
greatest confusion. There I was, all alone, in a thick wood, to which I
was a stranger; my cart upset and shattered; my oxen entangled, wild,
and enraged; and I, poor soul! but a green hand, to set all this
disorder right. I knew no more of oxen than the ox driver is supposed
to know of wisdom. After standing a few moments surveying the damage
and disorder, and not without a presentiment that this trouble would
draw after it others, even more distressing, I took one end of the cart
body, and, by an extra outlay of strength, I lifted it toward the
axle-tree, from which it had been violently flung; and after much
pulling and straining, I succeeded in getting the body of the cart in
its place. This was an important step out of the difficulty, and its
performance increased my courage for the work which remained to be
done. The cart was provided with an ax, a tool with which I had become
pretty well acquainted in the ship yard at Baltimore. With this, I cut
down the saplings by which my oxen were entangled, and again pursued my
journey, with my heart in my mouth, lest the oxen should again take it
into their senseless heads to cut up a caper. My fears were groundless.
Their spree was over for the present, and the rascals now moved off as
soberly as though their behavior had been natural and exemplary. On
reaching the part of the forest where I had been, the day before,
chopping wood, I filled the cart with a heavy load, as a security
against another running away. But, the neck of an ox is equal in
strength to iron. It defies all ordinary burdens, when excited. Tame
and docile to a proverb, when _well_ trained, the ox is the most sullen
and intractable of animals when but half broken to the yoke.

I now saw, in my situation, several points of similarity with that of
the oxen. They were property, so was I; they were to be broken, so was
I. Covey was to break me, I was to break them; break and be broken—such
is life.

Half the day already gone, and my face not yet homeward! It required
only two day’s experience and observation to teach me, that such
apparent waste of time would not be lightly overlooked by Covey. I
therefore hurried toward home; but, on reaching the lane gate, I met
with the crowning disaster for the day. This gate was a fair specimen
of southern handicraft. There were two huge posts, eighteen inches in
diameter, rough hewed and square, and the heavy gate was so hung on one
of these, that it opened only about half the proper distance. On
arriving here, it was necessary for me to let go the end of the rope on
the horns of the “in hand ox;” and now as soon as the gate was open,
and I let go of it to get the rope, again, off went my oxen—making
nothing of their load—full tilt; and in doing so they caught the huge
gate between the wheel and the cart body, literally crushing it to
splinters, and coming only within a few inches of subjecting me to a
similar crushing, for I was just in advance of the wheel when it struck
the left gate post. With these two hair-breadth escape, I thought I
could sucessfully(sic) explain to Mr. Covey the delay, and avert
apprehended punishment. I was not without a faint hope of being
commended for the stern resolution which I had displayed in
accomplishing the difficult task—a task which, I afterwards learned,
even Covey himself would not have undertaken, without first driving the
oxen for some time in the open field, preparatory to their going into
the woods. But, in this I was disappointed. On coming to him, his
countenance assumed an aspect of rigid displeasure, and, as I gave him
a history of the casualties of my trip, his wolfish face, with his
greenish eyes, became intensely ferocious. “Go back to the woods
again,” he said, muttering something else about wasting time. I hastily
obeyed; but I had not gone far on my way, when I saw him coming after
me. My oxen now behaved themselves with singular propriety, opposing
their present conduct to my representation of their former antics. I
almost wished, now that Covey was coming, they would do something in
keeping with the character I had given them; but no, they had already
had their spree, and they could afford now to be extra good, readily
obeying my orders, and seeming to understand them quite as well as I
did myself. On reaching the woods, my tormentor—who seemed all the way
to be remarking upon the good behavior of his oxen—came up to me, and
ordered me to stop the cart, accompanying the same with the threat that
he would now teach me how to break gates, and idle away my time, when
he sent me to the woods. Suiting the action to the word, Covey paced
off, in his own wiry fashion, to a large, black gum tree, the young
shoots of which are generally used for ox _goads_, they being
exceedingly tough. Three of these _goads_, from four to six feet long,
he cut off, and trimmed up, with his large jack-knife. This done, he
ordered me to take off my clothes. To this unreasonable order I made no
reply, but sternly refused to take off my clothing. “If you will beat
me,” thought I, “you shall do so over my clothes.” After many threats,
which made no impression on me, he rushed at me with something of the
savage fierceness of a wolf, tore off the few and thinly worn clothes I
had on, and proceeded to wear out, on my back, the heavy goads which he
had cut from the gum tree. This flogging was the first of a series of
floggings; and though very severe, it was less so than many which came
after it, and these, for offenses far lighter than the gate breaking.

I remained with Mr. Covey one year (I cannot say I _lived_ with him)
and during the first six months that I was there, I was whipped, either
with sticks or cowskins, every week. Aching bones and a sore back were
my constant companions. Frequent as the lash was used, Mr. Covey
thought less of it, as a means of breaking down my spirit, than that of
hard and long continued labor. He worked me steadily, up to the point
of my powers of endurance. From the dawn of day in the morning, till
the darkness was complete in the evening, I was kept at hard work, in
the field or the woods. At certain seasons of the year, we were all
kept in the field till eleven and twelve o’clock at night. At these
times, Covey would attend us in the field, and urge us on with words or
blows, as it seemed best to him. He had, in his life, been an overseer,
and he well understood the business of slave driving. There was no
deceiving him. He knew just what a man or boy could do, and he held
both to strict account. When he pleased, he would work himself, like a
very Turk, making everything fly before him. It was, however, scarcely
necessary for Mr. Covey to be really present in the field, to have his
work go on industriously. He had the faculty of making us feel that he
was always present. By a series of adroitly managed surprises, which he
practiced, I was prepared to expect him at any moment. His plan was,
never to approach the spot where his hands were at work, in an open,
manly and direct manner. No thief was ever more artful in his devices
than this man Covey. He would creep and crawl, in ditches and gullies;
hide behind stumps and bushes, and practice so much of the cunning of
the serpent, that Bill Smith and I—between ourselves—never called him
by any other name than _“the snake.”_ We fancied that in his eyes and
his gait we could see a snakish resemblance. One half of his
proficiency in the art of Negro breaking, consisted, I should think, in
this species of cunning. We were never secure. He could see or hear us
nearly all the time. He was, to us, behind every stump, tree, bush and
fence on the plantation. He carried this kind of trickery so far, that
he would sometimes mount his horse, and make believe he was going to
St. Michael’s; and, in thirty minutes afterward, you might find his
horse tied in the woods, and the snake-like Covey lying flat in the
ditch, with his head lifted above its edge, or in a fence corner,
watching every movement of the slaves! I have known him walk up to us
and give us special orders, as to our work, in advance, as if he were
leaving home with a view to being absent several days; and before he
got half way to the house, he would avail himself of our inattention to
his movements, to turn short on his heels, conceal himself behind a
fence corner or a tree, and watch us until the going down of the sun.
Mean and contemptible as is all this, it is in keeping with the
character which the life of a slaveholder is calculated to produce.
There is no earthly inducement, in the slave’s condition, to incite him
to labor faithfully. The fear of punishment is the sole motive for any
sort of industry, with him. Knowing this fact, as the slaveholder does,
and judging the slave by himself, he naturally concludes the slave will
be idle whenever the cause for this fear is absent. Hence, all sorts of
petty deceptions are practiced, to inspire this fear.

But, with Mr. Covey, trickery was natural. Everything in the shape of
learning or religion, which he possessed, was made to conform to this
semi-lying propensity. He did not seem conscious that the practice had
anything unmanly, base or contemptible about it. It was a part of an
important system, with him, essential to the relation of master and
slave. I thought I saw, in his very religious devotions, this
controlling element of his character. A long prayer at night made up
for the short prayer in the morning; and few men could seem more
devotional than he, when he had nothing else to do.

Mr. Covey was not content with the cold style of family worship,
adopted in these cold latitudes, which begin and end with a simple
prayer. No! the voice of praise, as well as of prayer, must be heard in
his house, night and morning. At first, I was called upon to bear some
part in these exercises; but the repeated flogging given me by Covey,
turned the whole thing into mockery. He was a poor singer, and mainly
relied on me for raising the hymn for the family, and when I failed to
do so, he was thrown into much confusion. I do not think that he ever
abused me on account of these vexations. His religion was a thing
altogether apart from his worldly concerns. He knew nothing of it as a
holy principle, directing and controlling his daily life, making the
latter conform to the requirements of the gospel. One or two facts will
illustrate his character better than a volume of generalties(sic).

I have already said, or implied, that Mr. Edward Covey was a poor man.
He was, in fact, just commencing to lay the foundation of his fortune,
as fortune is regarded in a slave state. The first condition of wealth
and respectability there, being the ownership of human property, every
nerve is strained, by the poor man, to obtain it, and very little
regard is had to the manner of obtaining it. In pursuit of this object,
pious as Mr. Covey was, he proved himself to be as unscrupulous and
base as the worst of his neighbors. In the beginning, he was only
able—as he said—“to buy one slave;” and, scandalous and shocking as is
the fact, he boasted that he bought her simply “_as a breeder_.” But
the worst is not told in this naked statement. This young woman
(Caroline was her name) was virtually compelled by Mr. Covey to abandon
herself to the object for which he had purchased her; and the result
was, the birth of twins at the end of the year. At this addition to his
human stock, both Edward Covey and his wife, Susan, were ecstatic with
joy. No one dreamed of reproaching the woman, or of finding fault with
the hired man—Bill Smith—the father of the children, for Mr. Covey
himself had locked the two up together every night, thus inviting the
result.

But I will pursue this revolting subject no further. No better
illustration of the unchaste and demoralizing character of slavery can
be found, than is furnished in the fact that this professedly Christian
slaveholder, amidst all his prayers and hymns, was shamelessly and
boastfully encouraging, and actually compelling, in his own house,
undisguised and unmitigated fornication, as a means of increasing his
human stock. I may remark here, that, while this fact will be read with
disgust and shame at the north, it will be _laughed at_, as smart and
praiseworthy in Mr. Covey, at the south; for a man is no more condemned
there for buying a woman and devoting her to this life of dishonor,
than for buying a cow, and raising stock from her. The same rules are
observed, with a view to increasing the number and quality of the
former, as of the latter.

I will here reproduce what I said of my own experience in this wretched
place, more than ten years ago:

If at any one time of my life, more than another, I was made to drink
the bitterest dregs of slavery, that time was during the first six
months of my stay with Mr. Covey. We were worked all weathers. It was
never too hot or too cold; it could never rain, blow, snow, or hail too
hard for us to work in the field. Work, work, work, was scarcely more
the order of the day than the night. The longest days were too short
for him, and the shortest nights were too long for him. I was somewhat
unmanageable when I first went there; but a few months of his
discipline tamed me. Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me. I was broken
in body, soul and spirit. My natural elasticity was crushed; my
intellect languished; the disposition to read departed; the cheerful
spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed
in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute!

Sunday was my only leisure time. I spent this in a sort of beast-like
stupor, between sleep and wake, under some large tree. At times, I
would rise up, a flash of energetic freedom would dart through my soul,
accompanied with a faint beam of hope, flickered for a moment, and then
vanished. I sank down again, mourning over my wretched condition. I was
sometimes prompted to take my life, and that of Covey, but was
prevented by a combination of hope and fear. My sufferings on this
plantation seem now like a dream rather than a stern reality.

Our house stood within a few rods of the Chesapeake bay, whose broad
bosom was ever white with sails from every quarter of the habitable
globe. Those beautiful vessels, robed in purest white, so delightful to
the eye of freemen, were to me so many shrouded ghosts, to terrify and
torment me with thoughts of my wretched condition. I have often, in the
deep stillness of a summer’s Sabbath, stood all alone upon the banks of
that noble bay, and traced, with saddened heart and tearful eye, the
countless number of sails moving off to the mighty ocean. The sight of
these always affected me powerfully. My thoughts would compel
utterance; and there, with no audience but the Almighty, I would pour
out my soul’s complaint in my rude way, with an apostrophe to the
moving multitude of ships:

“You are loosed from your moorings, and free; I am fast in my chains,
and am a slave! You move merrily before the gentle gale, and I sadly
before the bloody whip! You are freedom’s swift-winged angels, that fly
around the world; I am confined in bands of iron! O, that I were free!
O, that I were on one of your gallant decks, and under your protecting
wing! Alas! betwixt me and you the turbid waters roll. Go on, go on. O
that I could also go! Could I but swim! If I could fly! O, why was I
born a man, of whom to make a brute! The glad ship is gone; she hides
in the dim distance. I am left in the hottest hell of unending slavery.
O God, save me! God, deliver me! Let me be free! Is there any God? Why
am I a slave? I will run away. I will not stand it. Get caught, or get
clear, I’ll try it. I had as well die with ague as with fever. I have
only one life to lose. I had as well be killed running as die standing.
Only think of it; one hundred miles straight north, and I am free! Try
it? Yes! God helping me, I will. It cannot be that I shall live and die
a slave. I will take to the water. This very bay shall yet bear me into
freedom. The steamboats steered in a north-east coast from North Point.
I will do the same; and when I get to the head of the bay, I will turn
my canoe adrift, and walk straight through Delaware into Pennsylvania.
When I get there, I shall not be required to have a pass; I will travel
without being disturbed. Let but the first opportunity offer, and come
what will, I am off. Meanwhile, I will try to bear up under the yoke. I
am not the only slave in the world. Why should I fret? I can bear as
much as any of them. Besides, I am but a boy, and all boys are bound to
some one. It may be that my misery in slavery will only increase my
happiness when I get free. There is a better day coming.”

I shall never be able to narrate the mental experience through which it
was my lot to pass during my stay at Covey’s. I was completely wrecked,
changed and bewildered; goaded almost to madness at one time, and at
another reconciling myself to my wretched condition. Everything in the
way of kindness, which I had experienced at Baltimore; all my former
hopes and aspirations for usefulness in the world, and the happy
moments spent in the exercises of religion, contrasted with my then
present lot, but increased my anguish.

I suffered bodily as well as mentally. I had neither sufficient time in
which to eat or to sleep, except on Sundays. The overwork, and the
brutal chastisements of which I was the victim, combined with that
ever-gnawing and soul-devouring thought—“_I am a slave—a slave for
life—a slave with no rational ground to hope for freedom_”—rendered me
a living embodiment of mental and physical wretchedness.




CHAPTER XVI. _Another Pressure of the Tyrant’s Vice_


EXPERIENCE AT COVEY’S SUMMED UP—FIRST SIX MONTHS SEVERER THAN THE
SECOND—PRELIMINARIES TO THE CHANCE—REASONS FOR NARRATING THE
CIRCUMSTANCES—SCENE IN TREADING YARD—TAKEN ILL—UNUSUAL BRUTALITY OF
COVEY—ESCAPE TO ST. MICHAEL’S—THE PURSUIT—SUFFERING IN THE WOODS—DRIVEN
BACK AGAIN TO COVEY’S—BEARING OF MASTER THOMAS—THE SLAVE IS NEVER
SICK—NATURAL TO EXPECT SLAVES TO FEIGN SICKNESS—LAZINESS OF
SLAVEHOLDERS.


The foregoing chapter, with all its horrid incidents and shocking
features, may be taken as a fair representation of the first six months
of my life at Covey’s. The reader has but to repeat, in his own mind,
once a week, the scene in the woods, where Covey subjected me to his
merciless lash, to have a true idea of my bitter experience there,
during the first period of the breaking process through which Mr. Covey
carried me. I have no heart to repeat each separate transaction, in
which I was victim of his violence and brutality. Such a narration
would fill a volume much larger than the present one. I aim only to
give the reader a truthful impression of my slave life, without
unnecessarily affecting him with harrowing details.

As I have elsewhere intimated that my hardships were much greater
during the first six months of my stay at Covey’s, than during the
remainder of the year, and as the change in my condition was owing to
causes which may help the reader to a better understanding of human
nature, when subjected to the terrible extremities of slavery, I will
narrate the circumstances of this change, although I may seem thereby
to applaud my own courage. You have, dear reader, seen me humbled,
degraded, broken down, enslaved, and brutalized, and you understand how
it was done; now let us see the converse of all this, and how it was
brought about; and this will take us through the year 1834.

On one of the hottest days of the month of August, of the year just
mentioned, had the reader been passing through Covey’s farm, he might
have seen me at work, in what is there called the “treading yard”—a
yard upon which wheat is trodden out from the straw, by the horses’
feet. I was there, at work, feeding the “fan,” or rather bringing wheat
to the fan, while Bill Smith was feeding. Our force consisted of Bill
Hughes, Bill Smith, and a slave by the name of Eli; the latter having
been hired for this occasion. The work was simple, and required
strength and activity, rather than any skill or intelligence, and yet,
to one entirely unused to such work, it came very hard. The heat was
intense and overpowering, and there was much hurry to get the wheat,
trodden out that day, through the fan; since, if that work was done an
hour before sundown, the hands would have, according to a promise of
Covey, that hour added to their night’s rest. I was not behind any of
them in the wish to complete the day’s work before sundown, and, hence,
I struggled with all my might to get the work forward. The promise of
one hour’s repose on a week day, was sufficient to quicken my pace, and
to spur me on to extra endeavor. Besides, we had all planned to go
fishing, and I certainly wished to have a hand in that. But I was
disappointed, and the day turned out to be one of the bitterest I ever
experienced. About three o’clock, while the sun was pouring down his
burning rays, and not a breeze was stirring, I broke down; my strength
failed me; I was seized with a violent aching of the head, attended
with extreme dizziness, and trembling in every limb. Finding what was
coming, and feeling it would never do to stop work, I nerved myself up,
and staggered on until I fell by the side of the wheat fan, feeling
that the earth had fallen upon me. This brought the entire work to a
dead stand. There was work for four; each one had his part to perform,
and each part depended on the other, so that when one stopped, all were
compelled to stop. Covey, who had now become my dread, as well as my
tormentor, was at the house, about a hundred yards from where I was
fanning, and instantly, upon hearing the fan stop, he came down to the
treading yard, to inquire into the cause of our stopping. Bill Smith
told him I was sick, and that I was unable longer to bring wheat to the
fan.

I had, by this time, crawled away, under the side of a post-and-rail
fence, in the shade, and was exceeding ill. The intense heat of the
sun, the heavy dust rising from the fan, the stooping, to take up the
wheat from the yard, together with the hurrying, to get through, had
caused a rush of blood to my head. In this condition, Covey finding out
where I was, came to me; and, after standing over me a while, he asked
me what the matter was. I told him as well as I could, for it was with
difficulty that I could speak. He then gave me a savage kick in the
side, which jarred my whole frame, and commanded me to get up. The man
had obtained complete control over me; and if he had commanded me to do
any possible thing, I should, in my then state of mind, have endeavored
to comply. I made an effort to rise, but fell back in the attempt,
before gaining my feet. The brute now gave me another heavy kick, and
again told me to rise. I again tried to rise, and succeeded in gaining
my feet; but upon stooping to get the tub with which I was feeding the
fan, I again staggered and fell to the ground; and I must have so
fallen, had I been sure that a hundred bullets would have pierced me,
as the consequence. While down, in this sad condition, and perfectly
helpless, the merciless Negro breaker took up the hickory slab, with
which Hughes had been striking off the wheat to a level with the sides
of the half bushel measure (a very hard weapon) and with the sharp edge
of it, he dealt me a heavy blow on my head which made a large gash, and
caused the blood to run freely, saying, at the same time, “If _you have
got the headache, I’ll cure you_.” This done, he ordered me again to
rise, but I made no effort to do so; for I had made up my mind that it
was useless, and that the heartless monster might now do his worst; he
could but kill me, and that might put me out of my misery. Finding me
unable to rise, or rather despairing of my doing so, Covey left me,
with a view to getting on with the work without me. I was bleeding very
freely, and my face was soon covered with my warm blood. Cruel and
merciless as was the motive that dealt that blow, dear reader, the
wound was fortunate for me. Bleeding was never more efficacious. The
pain in my head speedily abated, and I was soon able to rise. Covey
had, as I have said, now left me to my fate; and the question was,
shall I return to my work, or shall I find my way to St. Michael’s, and
make Capt. Auld acquainted with the atrocious cruelty of his brother
Covey, and beseech him to get me another master? Remembering the object
he had in view, in placing me under the management of Covey, and
further, his cruel treatment of my poor crippled cousin, Henny, and his
meanness in the matter of feeding and clothing his slaves, there was
little ground to hope for a favorable reception at the hands of Capt.
Thomas Auld. Nevertheless, I resolved to go straight to Capt. Auld,
thinking that, if not animated by motives of humanity, he might be
induced to interfere on my behalf from selfish considerations. “He
cannot,” thought I, “allow his property to be thus bruised and
battered, marred and defaced; and I will go to him, and tell him the
simple truth about the matter.” In order to get to St. Michael’s, by
the most favorable and direct road, I must walk seven miles; and this,
in my sad condition, was no easy performance. I had already lost much
blood; I was exhausted by over exertion; my sides were sore from the
heavy blows planted there by the stout boots of Mr. Covey; and I was,
in every way, in an unfavorable plight for the journey. I however
watched my chance, while the cruel and cunning Covey was looking in an
opposite direction, and started off, across the field, for St.
Michael’s. This was a daring step; if it failed, it would only
exasperate Covey, and increase the rigors of my bondage, during the
remainder of my term of service under him; but the step was taken, and
I must go forward. I succeeded in getting nearly half way across the
broad field, toward the woods, before Mr. Covey observed me. I was
still bleeding, and the exertion of running had started the blood
afresh. _“Come back! Come back!”_ vociferated Covey, with threats of
what he would do if I did not return instantly. But, disregarding his
calls and his threats, I pressed on toward the woods as fast as my
feeble state would allow. Seeing no signs of my stopping, Covey caused
his horse to be brought out and saddled, as if he intended to pursue
me. The race was now to be an unequal one; and, thinking I might be
overhauled by him, if I kept the main road, I walked nearly the whole
distance in the woods, keeping far enough from the road to avoid
detection and pursuit. But, I had not gone far, before my little
strength again failed me, and I laid down. The blood was still oozing
from the wound in my head; and, for a time, I suffered more than I can
describe. There I was, in the deep woods, sick and emaciated, pursued
by a wretch whose character for revolting cruelty beggars all
opprobrious speech—bleeding, and almost bloodless. I was not without
the fear of bleeding to death. The thought of dying in the woods, all
alone, and of being torn to pieces by the buzzards, had not yet been
rendered tolerable by my many troubles and hardships, and I was glad
when the shade of the trees, and the cool evening breeze, combined with
my matted hair to stop the flow of blood. After lying there about three
quarters of an hour, brooding over the singular and mournful lot to
which I was doomed, my mind passing over the whole scale or circle of
belief and unbelief, from faith in the overruling providence of God, to
the blackest atheism, I again took up my journey toward St. Michael’s,
more weary and sad than in the morning when I left Thomas Auld’s for
the home of Mr. Covey. I was bare-footed and bare-headed, and in my
shirt sleeves. The way was through bogs and briers, and I tore my feet
often during the journey. I was full five hours in going the seven or
eight miles; partly, because of the difficulties of the way, and
partly, because of the feebleness induced by my illness, bruises and
loss of blood. On gaining my master’s store, I presented an appearance
of wretchedness and woe, fitted to move any but a heart of stone. From
the crown of my head to the sole of my feet, there were marks of blood.
My hair was all clotted with dust and blood, and the back of my shirt
was literally stiff with the same. Briers and thorns had scarred and
torn my feet and legs, leaving blood marks there. Had I escaped from a
den of tigers, I could not have looked worse than I did on reaching St.
Michael’s. In this unhappy plight, I appeared before my professedly
_Christian_ master, humbly to invoke the interposition of his power and
authority, to protect me from further abuse and violence. I had begun
to hope, during the latter part of my tedious journey toward St.
Michael’s, that Capt. Auld would now show himself in a nobler light
than I had ever before seen him. I was disappointed. I had jumped from
a sinking ship into the sea; I had fled from the tiger to something
worse. I told him all the circumstances, as well as I could; how I was
endeavoring to please Covey; how hard I was at work in the present
instance; how unwilling I sunk down under the heat, toil and pain; the
brutal manner in which Covey had kicked me in the side; the gash cut in
my head; my hesitation about troubling him (Capt. Auld) with
complaints; but, that now I felt it would not be best longer to conceal
from him the outrages committed on me from time to time by Covey. At
first, master Thomas seemed somewhat affected by the story of my
wrongs, but he soon repressed his feelings and became cold as iron. It
was impossible—as I stood before him at the first—for him to seem
indifferent. I distinctly saw his human nature asserting its conviction
against the slave system, which made cases like mine _possible;_ but,
as I have said, humanity fell before the systematic tyranny of slavery.
He first walked the floor, apparently much agitated by my story, and
the sad spectacle I presented; but, presently, it was _his_ turn to
talk. He began moderately, by finding excuses for Covey, and ending
with a full justification of him, and a passionate condemnation of me.
“He had no doubt I deserved the flogging. He did not believe I was
sick; I was only endeavoring to get rid of work. My dizziness was
laziness, and Covey did right to flog me, as he had done.” After thus
fairly annihilating me, and rousing himself by his own eloquence, he
fiercely demanded what I wished _him_ to do in the case!

With such a complete knock-down to all my hopes, as he had given me,
and feeling, as I did, my entire subjection to his power, I had very
little heart to reply. I must not affirm my innocence of the
allegations which he had piled up against me; for that would be
impudence, and would probably call down fresh violence as well as wrath
upon me. The guilt of a slave is always, and everywhere, presumed; and
the innocence of the slaveholder or the slave employer, is always
asserted. The word of the slave, against this presumption, is generally
treated as impudence, worthy of punishment. “Do you contradict me, you
rascal?” is a final silencer of counter statements from the lips of a
slave.

Calming down a little in view of my silence and hesitation, and,
perhaps, from a rapid glance at the picture of misery I presented, he
inquired again, “what I would have him do?” Thus invited a second time,
I told Master Thomas I wished him to allow me to get a new home and to
find a new master; that, as sure as I went back to live with Mr. Covey
again, I should be killed by him; that he would never forgive my coming
to him (Capt. Auld) with a complaint against him (Covey); that, since I
had lived with him, he almost crushed my spirit, and I believed that he
would ruin me for future service; that my life was not safe in his
hands. This, Master Thomas _(my brother in the church)_ regarded as
“nonsence(sic).” “There was no danger of Mr. Covey’s killing me; he was
a good man, industrious and religious, and he would not think of
removing me from that home; besides,” said he and this I found was the
most distressing thought of all to him—“if you should leave Covey now,
that your year has but half expired, I should lose your wages for the
entire year. You belong to Mr. Covey for one year, and you _must go
back_ to him, come what will. You must not trouble me with any more
stories about Mr. Covey; and if you do not go immediately home, I will
get hold of you myself.” This was just what I expected, when I found he
had _prejudged_ the case against me. “But, Sir,” I said, “I am sick and
tired, and I cannot get home to-night.” At this, he again relented, and
finally he allowed me to remain all night at St. Michael’s; but said I
must be off early in the morning, and concluded his directions by
making me swallow a huge dose of _epsom salts_—about the only medicine
ever administered to slaves.

It was quite natural for Master Thomas to presume I was feigning
sickness to escape work, for he probably thought that were _he_ in the
place of a slave with no wages for his work, no praise for well doing,
no motive for toil but the lash—he would try every possible scheme by
which to escape labor. I say I have no doubt of this; the reason is,
that there are not, under the whole heavens, a set of men who cultivate
such an intense dread of labor as do the slaveholders. The charge of
laziness against the slave is ever on their lips, and is the standing
apology for every species of cruelty and brutality. These men literally
“bind heavy burdens, grievous to be borne, and lay them on men’s
shoulders; but they, themselves, will not move them with one of their
fingers.”

My kind readers shall have, in the next chapter—what they were led,
perhaps, to expect to find in this—namely: an account of my partial
disenthrallment from the tyranny of Covey, and the marked change which
it brought about.




CHAPTER XVII. _The Last Flogging_


A SLEEPLESS NIGHT—RETURN TO COVEY’S—PURSUED BY COVEY—THE CHASE
DEFEATED—VENGEANCE POSTPONED—MUSINGS IN THE WOODS—THE
ALTERNATIVE—DEPLORABLE SPECTACLE—NIGHT IN THE WOODS—EXPECTED
ATTACK—ACCOSTED BY SANDY, A FRIEND, NOT A HUNTER—SANDY’S
HOSPITALITY—THE “ASH CAKE” SUPPER—THE INTERVIEW WITH SANDY—HIS
ADVICE—SANDY A CONJURER AS WELL AS A CHRISTIAN—THE MAGIC ROOT—STRANGE
MEETING WITH COVEY—HIS MANNER—COVEY’S SUNDAY FACE—MY DEFENSIVE
RESOLVE—THE FIGHT—THE VICTORY, AND ITS RESULTS.


Sleep itself does not always come to the relief of the weary in body,
and the broken in spirit; especially when past troubles only foreshadow
coming disasters. The last hope had been extinguished. My master, who I
did not venture to hope would protect me as _a man_, had even now
refused to protect me as _his property;_ and had cast me back, covered
with reproaches and bruises, into the hands of a stranger to that mercy
which was the soul of the religion he professed. May the reader never
spend such a night as that allotted to me, previous to the morning
which was to herald my return to the den of horrors from which I had
made a temporary escape.

I remained all night—sleep I did not—at St. Michael’s; and in the
morning (Saturday) I started off, according to the order of Master
Thomas, feeling that I had no friend on earth, and doubting if I had
one in heaven. I reached Covey’s about nine o’clock; and just as I
stepped into the field, before I had reached the house, Covey, true to
his snakish habits, darted out at me from a fence corner, in which he
had secreted himself, for the purpose of securing me. He was amply
provided with a cowskin and a rope; and he evidently intended to _tie
me up_, and to wreak his vengeance on me to the fullest extent. I
should have been an easy prey, had he succeeded in getting his hands
upon me, for I had taken no refreshment since noon on Friday; and this,
together with the pelting, excitement, and the loss of blood, had
reduced my strength. I, however, darted back into the woods, before the
ferocious hound could get hold of me, and buried myself in a thicket,
where he lost sight of me. The corn-field afforded me cover, in getting
to the woods. But for the tall corn, Covey would have overtaken me, and
made me his captive. He seemed very much chagrined that he did not
catch me, and gave up the chase, very reluctantly; for I could see his
angry movements, toward the house from which he had sallied, on his
foray.

Well, now I am clear of Covey, and of his wrathful lash, for present. I
am in the wood, buried in its somber gloom, and hushed in its solemn
silence; hid from all human eyes; shut in with nature and nature’s God,
and absent from all human contrivances. Here was a good place to pray;
to pray for help for deliverance—a prayer I had often made before. But
how could I pray? Covey could pray—Capt. Auld could pray—I would fain
pray; but doubts (arising partly from my own neglect of the means of
grace, and partly from the sham religion which everywhere prevailed,
cast in my mind a doubt upon all religion, and led me to the conviction
that prayers were unavailing and delusive) prevented my embracing the
opportunity, as a religious one. Life, in itself, had almost become
burdensome to me. All my outward relations were against me; I must stay
here and starve (I was already hungry) or go home to Covey’s, and have
my flesh torn to pieces, and my spirit humbled under the cruel lash of
Covey. This was the painful alternative presented to me. The day was
long and irksome. My physical condition was deplorable. I was weak,
from the toils of the previous day, and from the want of food and rest;
and had been so little concerned about my appearance, that I had not
yet washed the blood from my garments. I was an object of horror, even
to myself. Life, in Baltimore, when most oppressive, was a paradise to
this. What had I done, what had my parents done, that such a life as
this should be mine? That day, in the woods, I would have exchanged my
manhood for the brutehood of an ox.

Night came. I was still in the woods, unresolved what to do. Hunger had
not yet pinched me to the point of going home, and I laid myself down
in the leaves to rest; for I had been watching for hunters all day, but
not being molested during the day, I expected no disturbance during the
night. I had come to the conclusion that Covey relied upon hunger to
drive me home; and in this I was quite correct—the facts showed that he
had made no effort to catch me, since morning.

During the night, I heard the step of a man in the woods. He was coming
toward the place where I lay. A person lying still has the advantage
over one walking in the woods, in the day time, and this advantage is
much greater at night. I was not able to engage in a physical struggle,
and I had recourse to the common resort of the weak. I hid myself in
the leaves to prevent discovery. But, as the night rambler in the woods
drew nearer, I found him to be a _friend_, not an enemy; it was a slave
of Mr. William Groomes, of Easton, a kind hearted fellow, named
“Sandy.” Sandy lived with Mr. Kemp that year, about four miles from St.
Michael’s. He, like myself had been hired out by the year; but, unlike
myself, had not been hired out to be broken. Sandy was the husband of a
free woman, who lived in the lower part of _“Potpie Neck,”_ and he was
now on his way through the woods, to see her, and to spend the Sabbath
with her.

As soon as I had ascertained that the disturber of my solitude was not
an enemy, but the good-hearted Sandy—a man as famous among the slaves
of the neighborhood for his good nature, as for his good sense I came
out from my hiding place, and made myself known to him. I explained the
circumstances of the past two days, which had driven me to the woods,
and he deeply compassionated my distress. It was a bold thing for him
to shelter me, and I could not ask him to do so; for, had I been found
in his hut, he would have suffered the penalty of thirty-nine lashes on
his bare back, if not something worse. But Sandy was too generous to
permit the fear of punishment to prevent his relieving a brother
bondman from hunger and exposure; and, therefore, on his own motion, I
accompanied him to his home, or rather to the home of his wife—for the
house and lot were hers. His wife was called up—for it was now about
midnight—a fire was made, some Indian meal was soon mixed with salt and
water, and an ash cake was baked in a hurry to relieve my hunger.
Sandy’s wife was not behind him in kindness—both seemed to esteem it a
privilege to succor me; for, although I was hated by Covey and by my
master, I was loved by the colored people, because _they_ thought I was
hated for my knowledge, and persecuted because I was feared. I was the
_only_ slave _now_ in that region who could read and write. There had
been one other man, belonging to Mr. Hugh Hamilton, who could read (his
name was “Jim”), but he, poor fellow, had, shortly after my coming into
the neighborhood, been sold off to the far south. I saw Jim ironed, in
the cart, to be carried to Easton for sale—pinioned like a yearling for
the slaughter. My knowledge was now the pride of my brother slaves;
and, no doubt, Sandy felt something of the general interest in me on
that account. The supper was soon ready, and though I have feasted
since, with honorables, lord mayors and aldermen, over the sea, my
supper on ash cake and cold water, with Sandy, was the meal, of all my
life, most sweet to my taste, and now most vivid in my memory.

Supper over, Sandy and I went into a discussion of what was _possible_
for me, under the perils and hardships which now overshadowed my path.
The question was, must I go back to Covey, or must I now tempt to run
away? Upon a careful survey, the latter was found to be impossible; for
I was on a narrow neck of land, every avenue from which would bring me
in sight of pursuers. There was the Chesapeake bay to the right, and
“Pot-pie” river to the left, and St. Michael’s and its neighborhood
occupying the only space through which there was any retreat.

I found Sandy an old advisor. He was not only a religious man, but he
professed to believe in a system for which I have no name. He was a
genuine African, and had inherited some of the so-called magical
powers, said to be possessed by African and eastern nations. He told me
that he could help me; that, in those very woods, there was an herb,
which in the morning might be found, possessing all the powers required
for my protection (I put his thoughts in my own language); and that, if
I would take his advice, he would procure me the root of the herb of
which he spoke. He told me further, that if I would take that root and
wear it on my right side, it would be impossible for Covey to strike me
a blow; that with this root about my person, no white man could whip
me. He said he had carried it for years, and that he had fully tested
its virtues. He had never received a blow from a slaveholder since he
carried it; and he never expected to receive one, for he always meant
to carry that root as a protection. He knew Covey well, for Mrs. Covey
was the daughter of Mr. Kemp; and he (Sandy) had heard of the barbarous
treatment to which I was subjected, and he wanted to do something for
me.

Now all this talk about the root, was to me, very absurd and
ridiculous, if not positively sinful. I at first rejected the idea that
the simple carrying a root on my right side (a root, by the way, over
which I walked every time I went into the woods) could possess any such
magic power as he ascribed to it, and I was, therefore, not disposed to
cumber my pocket with it. I had a positive aversion to all pretenders
to _“divination.”_ It was beneath one of my intelligence to countenance
such dealings with the devil, as this power implied. But, with all my
learning—it was really precious little—Sandy was more than a match for
me. “My book learning,” he said, “had not kept Covey off me” (a
powerful argument just then) and he entreated me, with flashing eyes,
to try this. If it did me no good, it could do me no harm, and it would
cost me nothing, any way. Sandy was so earnest, and so confident of the
good qualities of this weed, that, to please him, rather than from any
conviction of its excellence, I was induced to take it. He had been to
me the good Samaritan, and had, almost providentially, found me, and
helped me when I could not help myself; how did I know but that the
hand of the Lord was in it? With thoughts of this sort, I took the
roots from Sandy, and put them in my right hand pocket.

This was, of course, Sunday morning. Sandy now urged me to go home,
with all speed, and to walk up bravely to the house, as though nothing
had happened. I saw in Sandy too deep an insight into human nature,
with all his superstition, not to have some respect for his advice; and
perhaps, too, a slight gleam or shadow of his superstition had fallen
upon me. At any rate, I started off toward Covey’s, as directed by
Sandy. Having, the previous night, poured my griefs into Sandy’s ears,
and got him enlisted in my behalf, having made his wife a sharer in my
sorrows, and having, also, become well refreshed by sleep and food, I
moved off, quite courageously, toward the much dreaded Covey’s.
Singularly enough, just as I entered his yard gate, I met him and his
wife, dressed in their Sunday best—looking as smiling as angels—on
their way to church. The manner of Covey astonished me. There was
something really benignant in his countenance. He spoke to me as never
before; told me that the pigs had got into the lot, and he wished me to
drive them out; inquired how I was, and seemed an altered man. This
extraordinary conduct of Covey, really made me begin to think that
Sandy’s herb had more virtue in it than I, in my pride, had been
willing to allow; and, had the day been other than Sunday, I should
have attributed Covey’s altered manner solely to the magic power of the
root. I suspected, however, that the _Sabbath_, and not the _root_, was
the real explanation of Covey’s manner. His religion hindered him from
breaking the Sabbath, but not from breaking my skin. He had more
respect for the _day_ than for the _man_, for whom the day was
mercifully given; for while he would cut and slash my body during the
week, he would not hesitate, on Sunday, to teach me the value of my
soul, or the way of life and salvation by Jesus Christ.

All went well with me till Monday morning; and then, whether the root
had lost its virtue, or whether my tormentor had gone deeper into the
black art than myself (as was sometimes said of him), or whether he had
obtained a special indulgence, for his faithful Sabbath day’s worship,
it is not necessary for me to know, or to inform the reader; but, this
I _may_ say—the pious and benignant smile which graced Covey’s face on
_Sunday_, wholly disappeared on _Monday_. Long before daylight, I was
called up to go and feed, rub, and curry the horses. I obeyed the call,
and would have so obeyed it, had it been made at an earilier(sic) hour,
for I had brought my mind to a firm resolve, during that Sunday’s
reflection, viz: to obey every order, however unreasonable, if it were
possible, and, if Mr. Covey should then undertake to beat me, to defend
and protect myself to the best of my ability. My religious views on the
subject of resisting my master, had suffered a serious shock, by the
savage persecution to which I had been subjected, and my hands were no
longer tied by my religion. Master Thomas’s indifference had served the
last link. I had now to this extent “backslidden” from this point in
the slave’s religious creed; and I soon had occasion to make my fallen
state known to my Sunday-pious brother, Covey.

Whilst I was obeying his order to feed and get the horses ready for the
field, and when in the act of going up the stable loft for the purpose
of throwing down some blades, Covey sneaked into the stable, in his
peculiar snake-like way, and seizing me suddenly by the leg, he brought
me to the stable floor, giving my newly mended body a fearful jar. I
now forgot my roots, and remembered my pledge to _stand up in my own
defense_. The brute was endeavoring skillfully to get a slip-knot on my
legs, before I could draw up my feet. As soon as I found what he was up
to, I gave a sudden spring (my two day’s rest had been of much service
to me,) and by that means, no doubt, he was able to bring me to the
floor so heavily. He was defeated in his plan of tying me. While down,
he seemed to think he had me very securely in his power. He little
thought he was—as the rowdies say—“in” for a “rough and tumble” fight;
but such was the fact. Whence came the daring spirit necessary to
grapple with a man who, eight-and-forty hours before, could, with his
slightest word have made me tremble like a leaf in a storm, I do not
know; at any rate, _I was resolved to fight_, and, what was better
still, I was actually hard at it. The fighting madness had come upon
me, and I found my strong fingers firmly attached to the throat of my
cowardly tormentor; as heedless of consequences, at the moment, as
though we stood as equals before the law. The very color of the man was
forgotten. I felt as supple as a cat, and was ready for the snakish
creature at every turn. Every blow of his was parried, though I dealt
no blows in turn. I was strictly on the _defensive_, preventing him
from injuring me, rather than trying to injure him. I flung him on the
ground several times, when he meant to have hurled me there. I held him
so firmly by the throat, that his blood followed my nails. He held me,
and I held him.

All was fair, thus far, and the contest was about equal. My resistance
was entirely unexpected, and Covey was taken all aback by it, for he
trembled in every limb. _“Are you going to resist_, you scoundrel?”
said he. To which, I returned a polite _“Yes sir;”_ steadily gazing my
interrogator in the eye, to meet the first approach or dawning of the
blow, which I expected my answer would call forth. But, the conflict
did not long remain thus equal. Covey soon cried out lustily for help;
not that I was obtaining any marked advantage over him, or was injuring
him, but because he was gaining none over me, and was not able, single
handed, to conquer me. He called for his cousin Hughs, to come to his
assistance, and now the scene was changed. I was compelled to give
blows, as well as to parry them; and, since I was, in any case, to
suffer for resistance, I felt (as the musty proverb goes) that “I might
as well be hanged for an old sheep as a lamb.” I was still _defensive_
toward Covey, but _aggressive_ toward Hughs; and, at the first approach
of the latter, I dealt a blow, in my desperation, which fairly sickened
my youthful assailant. He went off, bending over with pain, and
manifesting no disposition to come within my reach again. The poor
fellow was in the act of trying to catch and tie my right hand, and
while flattering himself with success, I gave him the kick which sent
him staggering away in pain, at the same time that I held Covey with a
firm hand.

Taken completely by surprise, Covey seemed to have lost his usual
strength and coolness. He was frightened, and stood puffing and
blowing, seemingly unable to command words or blows. When he saw that
poor Hughes was standing half bent with pain—his courage quite gone the
cowardly tyrant asked if I “meant to persist in my resistance.” I told
him “_I did mean to resist, come what might_;” that I had been by him
treated like a _brute_, during the last six months; and that I should
stand it _no longer_. With that, he gave me a shake, and attempted to
drag me toward a stick of wood, that was lying just outside the stable
door. He meant to knock me down with it; but, just as he leaned over to
get the stick, I seized him with both hands by the collar, and, with a
vigorous and sudden snatch, I brought my assailant harmlessly, his full
length, on the _not_ overclean ground—for we were now in the cow yard.
He had selected the place for the fight, and it was but right that he
should have all the advantges(sic) of his own selection.

By this time, Bill, the hiredman, came home. He had been to Mr.
Hemsley’s, to spend the Sunday with his nominal wife, and was coming
home on Monday morning, to go to work. Covey and I had been skirmishing
from before daybreak, till now, that the sun was almost shooting his
beams over the eastern woods, and we were still at it. I could not see
where the matter was to terminate. He evidently was afraid to let me
go, lest I should again make off to the woods; otherwise, he would
probably have obtained arms from the house, to frighten me. Holding me,
Covey called upon Bill for assistance. The scene here, had something
comic about it. “Bill,” who knew _precisely_ what Covey wished him to
do, affected ignorance, and pretended he did not know what to do. “What
shall I do, Mr. Covey,” said Bill. “Take hold of him—take hold of him!”
said Covey. With a toss of his head, peculiar to Bill, he said,
“indeed, Mr. Covey I want to go to work.” _“This is_ your work,” said
Covey; “take hold of him.” Bill replied, with spirit, “My master hired
me here, to work, and _not_ to help you whip Frederick.” It was now my
turn to speak. “Bill,” said I, “don’t put your hands on me.” To which
he replied, “My GOD! Frederick, I ain’t goin’ to tech ye,” and Bill
walked off, leaving Covey and myself to settle our matters as best we
might.

But, my present advantage was threatened when I saw Caroline (the
slave-woman of Covey) coming to the cow yard to milk, for she was a
powerful woman, and could have mastered me very easily, exhausted as I
now was. As soon as she came into the yard, Covey attempted to rally
her to his aid. Strangely—and, I may add, fortunately—Caroline was in
no humor to take a hand in any such sport. We were all in open
rebellion, that morning. Caroline answered the command of her master to
_“take hold of me,”_ precisely as Bill had answered, but in _her_, it
was at greater peril so to answer; she was the slave of Covey, and he
could do what he pleased with her. It was _not_ so with Bill, and Bill
knew it. Samuel Harris, to whom Bill belonged, did not allow his slaves
to be beaten, unless they were guilty of some crime which the law would
punish. But, poor Caroline, like myself, was at the mercy of the
merciless Covey; nor did she escape the dire effects of her refusal. He
gave her several sharp blows.

Covey at length (two hours had elapsed) gave up the contest. Letting me
go, he said—puffing and blowing at a great rate—“Now, you scoundrel, go
to your work; I would not have whipped you half so much as I have had
you not resisted.” The fact was, _he had not whipped me at all_. He had
not, in all the scuffle, drawn a single drop of blood from me. I had
drawn blood from him; and, even without this satisfaction, I should
have been victorious, because my aim had not been to injure him, but to
prevent his injuring me.

During the whole six months that I lived with Covey, after this
transaction, he never laid on me the weight of his finger in anger. He
would, occasionally, say he did not want to have to get hold of me
again—a declaration which I had no difficulty in believing; and I had a
secret feeling, which answered, “You need not wish to get hold of me
again, for you will be likely to come off worse in a second fight than
you did in the first.”

Well, my dear reader, this battle with Mr. Covey—undignified as it was,
and as I fear my narration of it is—was the turning point in my _“life
as a slave_.” It rekindled in my breast the smouldering embers of
liberty; it brought up my Baltimore dreams, and revived a sense of my
own manhood. I was a changed being after that fight. I was _nothing_
before; I WAS A MAN NOW. It recalled to life my crushed self-respect
and my self-confidence, and inspired me with a renewed determination to
be A FREEMAN. A man, without force, is without the essential dignity of
humanity. Human nature is so constituted, that it cannot _honor_ a
helpless man, although it can _pity_ him; and even this it cannot do
long, if the signs of power do not arise.

He can only understand the effect of this combat on my spirit, who has
himself incurred something, hazarded something, in repelling the unjust
and cruel aggressions of a tyrant. Covey was a tyrant, and a cowardly
one, withal. After resisting him, I felt as I had never felt before. It
was a resurrection from the dark and pestiferous tomb of slavery, to
the heaven of comparative freedom. I was no longer a servile coward,
trembling under the frown of a brother worm of the dust, but, my
long-cowed spirit was roused to an attitude of manly independence. I
had reached the point, at which I was _not afraid to die_. This spirit
made me a freeman in _fact_, while I remained a slave in _form_. When a
slave cannot be flogged he is more than half free. He has a domain as
broad as his own manly heart to defend, and he is really _“a power on
earth_.” While slaves prefer their lives, with flogging, to instant
death, they will always find Christians enough, like unto Covey, to
accommodate that preference. From this time, until that of my escape
from slavery, I was never fairly whipped. Several attempts were made to
whip me, but they were always unsuccessful. Bruises I did get, as I
shall hereafter inform the reader; but the case I have been describing,
was the end of the brutification to which slavery had subjected me.

The reader will be glad to know why, after I had so grievously offended
Mr. Covey, he did not have me taken in hand by the authorities; indeed,
why the law of Maryland, which assigns hanging to the slave who resists
his master, was not put in force against me; at any rate, why I was not
taken up, as is usual in such cases, and publicly whipped, for an
example to other slaves, and as a means of deterring me from committing
the same offense again. I confess, that the easy manner in which I got
off, for a long time, a surprise to me, and I cannot, even now, fully
explain the cause.

The only explanation I can venture to suggest, is the fact, that Covey
was, probably, ashamed to have it known and confessed that he had been
mastered by a boy of sixteen. Mr. Covey enjoyed the unbounded and very
valuable reputation, of being a first rate overseer and _Negro
breaker_. By means of this reputation, he was able to procure his hands
for _very trifling_ compensation, and with very great ease. His
interest and his pride mutually suggested the wisdom of passing the
matter by, in silence. The story that he had undertaken to whip a lad,
and had been resisted, was, of itself, sufficient to damage him; for
his bearing should, in the estimation of slaveholders, be of that
imperial order that should make such an occurrence _impossible_. I
judge from these circumstances, that Covey deemed it best to give me
the go-by. It is, perhaps, not altogether creditable to my natural
temper, that, after this conflict with Mr. Covey, I did, at times,
purposely aim to provoke him to an attack, by refusing to keep with the
other hands in the field, but I could never bully him to another
battle. I had made up my mind to do him serious damage, if he ever
again attempted to lay violent hands on me.

Hereditary bondmen, know ye not
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?




CHAPTER XVIII. _New Relations and Duties_


CHANGE OF MASTERS—BENEFITS DERIVED BY THE CHANGE—FAME OF THE FIGHT WITH
COVEY—RECKLESS UNCONCERN—MY ABHORRENCE OF SLAVERY—ABILITY TO READ A
CAUSE OF PREJUDICE—THE HOLIDAYS—HOW SPENT—SHARP HIT AT SLAVERY—EFFECTS
OF HOLIDAYS—A DEVICE OF SLAVERY—DIFFERENCE BETWEEN COVEY AND
FREELAND—AN IRRELIGIOUS MASTER PREFERRED TO A RELIGIOUS ONE—CATALOGUE
OF FLOGGABLE OFFENSES—HARD LIFE AT COVEY’S USEFUL—IMPROVED CONDITION
NOT FOLLOWED BY CONTENTMENT—CONGENIAL SOCIETY AT FREELAND’S—SABBATH
SCHOOL INSTITUTED—SECRECY NECESSARY—AFFECTIONATE RELATIONS OF TUTOR AND
PUPILS—CONFIDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP AMONG SLAVES—I DECLINE PUBLISHING
PARTICULARS OF CONVERSATIONS WITH MY FRIENDS—SLAVERY THE INVITER OF
VENGEANCE.


My term of actual service to Mr. Edward Covey ended on Christmas day,
1834. I gladly left the snakish Covey, although he was now as gentle as
a lamb. My home for the year 1835 was already secured—my next master
was already selected. There is always more or less excitement about the
matter of changing hands, but I had become somewhat reckless. I cared
very little into whose hands I fell—I meant to fight my way. Despite of
Covey, too, the report got abroad, that I was hard to whip; that I was
guilty of kicking back; that though generally a good tempered Negro, I
sometimes “_got the devil in me_.” These sayings were rife in Talbot
county, and they distinguished me among my servile brethren. Slaves,
generally, will fight each other, and die at each other’s hands; but
there are few who are not held in awe by a white man. Trained from the
cradle up, to think and feel that their masters are superior, and
invested with a sort of sacredness, there are few who can outgrow or
rise above the control which that sentiment exercises. I had now got
free from it, and the thing was known. One bad sheep will spoil a whole
flock. Among the slaves, I was a bad sheep. I hated slavery,
slaveholders, and all pertaining to them; and I did not fail to inspire
others with the same feeling, wherever and whenever opportunity was
presented. This made me a marked lad among the slaves, and a suspected
one among the slaveholders. A knowledge of my ability to read and
write, got pretty widely spread, which was very much against me.

The days between Christmas day and New Year’s, are allowed the slaves
as holidays. During these days, all regular work was suspended, and
there was nothing to do but to keep fires, and look after the stock.
This time was regarded as our own, by the grace of our masters, and we,
therefore used it, or abused it, as we pleased. Those who had families
at a distance, were now expected to visit them, and to spend with them
the entire week. The younger slaves, or the unmarried ones, were
expected to see to the cattle, and attend to incidental duties at home.
The holidays were variously spent. The sober, thinking and industrious
ones of our number, would employ themselves in manufacturing corn
brooms, mats, horse collars and baskets, and some of these were very
well made. Another class spent their time in hunting opossums, coons,
rabbits, and other game. But the majority spent the holidays in sports,
ball playing, wrestling, boxing, running foot races, dancing, and
drinking whisky; and this latter mode of spending the time was
generally most agreeable to their masters. A slave who would work
during the holidays, was thought, by his master, undeserving of
holidays. Such an one had rejected the favor of his master. There was,
in this simple act of continued work, an accusation against slaves; and
a slave could not help thinking, that if he made three dollars during
the holidays, he might make three hundred during the year. Not to be
drunk during the holidays, was disgraceful; and he was esteemed a lazy
and improvident man, who could not afford to drink whisky during
Christmas.

The fiddling, dancing and _“jubilee beating_,” was going on in all
directions. This latter performance is strictly southern. It supplies
the place of a violin, or of other musical instruments, and is played
so easily, that almost every farm has its “Juba” beater. The performer
improvises as he beats, and sings his merry songs, so ordering the
words as to have them fall pat with the movement of his hands. Among a
mass of nonsense and wild frolic, once in a while a sharp hit is given
to the meanness of slaveholders. Take the following, for an example:

_We raise de wheat,
Dey gib us de corn;
We bake de bread,
Dey gib us de cruss;
We sif de meal,
Dey gib us de huss;
We peal de meat,
Dey gib us de skin,
And dat’s de way
Dey takes us in.
We skim de pot,
Dey gib us the liquor,
And say dat’s good enough for nigger.
          Walk over! walk over!
Tom butter and de fat;
          Poor nigger you can’t get over dat;
                              Walk over_!


This is not a bad summary of the palpable injustice and fraud of
slavery, giving—as it does—to the lazy and idle, the comforts which God
designed should be given solely to the honest laborer. But to the
holiday’s.

Judging from my own observation and experience, I believe these
holidays to be among the most effective means, in the hands of
slaveholders, of keeping down the spirit of insurrection among the
slaves.

To enslave men, successfully and safely, it is necessary to have their
minds occupied with thoughts and aspirations short of the liberty of
which they are deprived. A certain degree of attainable good must be
kept before them. These holidays serve the purpose of keeping the minds
of the slaves occupied with prospective pleasure, within the limits of
slavery. The young man can go wooing; the married man can visit his
wife; the father and mother can see their children; the industrious and
money loving can make a few dollars; the great wrestler can win
laurels; the young people can meet, and enjoy each other’s society; the
drunken man can get plenty of whisky; and the religious man can hold
prayer meetings, preach, pray and exhort during the holidays. Before
the holidays, these are pleasures in prospect; after the holidays, they
become pleasures of memory, and they serve to keep out thoughts and
wishes of a more dangerous character. Were slaveholders at once to
abandon the practice of allowing their slaves these liberties,
periodically, and to keep them, the year round, closely confined to the
narrow circle of their homes, I doubt not that the south would blaze
with insurrections. These holidays are conductors or safety valves to
carry off the explosive elements inseparable from the human mind, when
reduced to the condition of slavery. But for these, the rigors of
bondage would become too severe for endurance, and the slave would be
forced up to dangerous desperation. Woe to the slaveholder when he
undertakes to hinder or to prevent the operation of these electric
conductors. A succession of earthquakes would be less destructive, than
the insurrectionary fires which would be sure to burst forth in
different parts of the south, from such interference.

Thus, the holidays, became part and parcel of the gross fraud, wrongs
and inhumanity of slavery. Ostensibly, they are institutions of
benevolence, designed to mitigate the rigors of slave life, but,
practically, they are a fraud, instituted by human selfishness, the
better to secure the ends of injustice and oppression. The slave’s
happiness is not the end sought, but, rather, the master’s safety. It
is not from a generous unconcern for the slave’s labor that this
cessation from labor is allowed, but from a prudent regard to the
safety of the slave system. I am strengthened in this opinion, by the
fact, that most slaveholders like to have their slaves spend the
holidays in such a manner as to be of no real benefit to the slaves. It
is plain, that everything like rational enjoyment among the slaves, is
frowned upon; and only those wild and low sports, peculiar to
semi-civilized people, are encouraged. All the license allowed, appears
to have no other object than to disgust the slaves with their temporary
freedom, and to make them as glad to return to their work, as they were
to leave it. By plunging them into exhausting depths of drunkenness and
dissipation, this effect is almost certain to follow. I have known
slaveholders resort to cunning tricks, with a view of getting their
slaves deplorably drunk. A usual plan is, to make bets on a slave, that
he can drink more whisky than any other; and so to induce a rivalry
among them, for the mastery in this degradation. The scenes, brought
about in this way, were often scandalous and loathsome in the extreme.
Whole multitudes might be found stretched out in brutal drunkenness, at
once helpless and disgusting. Thus, when the slave asks for a few hours
of virtuous freedom, his cunning master takes advantage of his
ignorance, and cheers him with a dose of vicious and revolting
dissipation, artfully labeled with the name of LIBERTY. We were induced
to drink, I among the rest, and when the holidays were over, we all
staggered up from our filth and wallowing, took a long breath, and went
away to our various fields of work; feeling, upon the whole, rather
glad to go from that which our masters artfully deceived us into the
belief was freedom, back again to the arms of slavery. It was not what
we had taken it to be, nor what it might have been, had it not been
abused by us. It was about as well to be a slave to _master_, as to be
a slave to _rum_ and _whisky._

I am the more induced to take this view of the holiday system, adopted
by slaveholders, from what I know of their treatment of slaves, in
regard to other things. It is the commonest thing for them to try to
disgust their slaves with what they do not want them to have, or to
enjoy. A slave, for instance, likes molasses; he steals some; to cure
him of the taste for it, his master, in many cases, will go away to
town, and buy a large quantity of the _poorest_ quality, and set it
before his slave, and, with whip in hand, compel him to eat it, until
the poor fellow is made to sicken at the very thought of molasses. The
same course is often adopted to cure slaves of the disagreeable and
inconvenient practice of asking for more food, when their allowance has
failed them. The same disgusting process works well, too, in other
things, but I need not cite them. When a slave is drunk, the
slaveholder has no fear that he will plan an insurrection; no fear that
he will escape to the north. It is the sober, thinking slave who is
dangerous, and needs the vigilance of his master, to keep him a slave.
But, to proceed with my narrative.

On the first of January, 1835, I proceeded from St. Michael’s to Mr.
William Freeland’s, my new home. Mr. Freeland lived only three miles
from St. Michael’s, on an old worn out farm, which required much labor
to restore it to anything like a self-supporting establishment.

I was not long in finding Mr. Freeland to be a very different man from
Mr. Covey. Though not rich, Mr. Freeland was what may be called a
well-bred southern gentleman, as different from Covey, as a
well-trained and hardened Negro breaker is from the best specimen of
the first families of the south. Though Freeland was a slaveholder, and
shared many of the vices of his class, he seemed alive to the sentiment
of honor. He had some sense of justice, and some feelings of humanity.
He was fretful, impulsive and passionate, but I must do him the justice
to say, he was free from the mean and selfish characteristics which
distinguished the creature from which I had now, happily, escaped. He
was open, frank, imperative, and practiced no concealments, disdaining
to play the spy. In all this, he was the opposite of the crafty Covey.

Among the many advantages gained in my change from Covey’s to
Freeland’s—startling as the statement may be—was the fact that the
latter gentleman made no profession of religion. I assert _most
unhesitatingly_, that the religion of the south—as I have observed it
and proved it—is a mere covering for the most horrid crimes; the
justifier of the most appalling barbarity; a sanctifier of the most
hateful frauds; and a secure shelter, under which the darkest, foulest,
grossest, and most infernal abominations fester and flourish. Were I
again to be reduced to the condition of a slave, _next_ to that
calamity, I should regard the fact of being the slave of a religious
slaveholder, the greatest that could befall me. For all slaveholders
with whom I have ever met, religious slaveholders are the worst. I have
found them, almost invariably, the vilest, meanest and basest of their
class. Exceptions there may be, but this is true of religious
slaveholders, _as a class_. It is not for me to explain the fact.
Others may do that; I simply state it as a fact, and leave the
theological, and psychological inquiry, which it raises, to be decided
by others more competent than myself. Religious slaveholders, like
religious persecutors, are ever extreme in their malice and violence.
Very near my new home, on an adjoining farm, there lived the Rev.
Daniel Weeden, who was both pious and cruel after the real Covey
pattern. Mr. Weeden was a local preacher of the Protestant Methodist
persuasion, and a most zealous supporter of the ordinances of religion,
generally. This Weeden owned a woman called “Ceal,” who was a standing
proof of his mercilessness. Poor Ceal’s back, always scantily clothed,
was kept literally raw, by the lash of this religious man and gospel
minister. The most notoriously wicked man—so called in distinction from
church members—could hire hands more easily than this brute. When sent
out to find a home, a slave would never enter the gates of the preacher
Weeden, while a sinful sinner needed a hand. Be have ill, or behave
well, it was the known maxim of Weeden, that it is the duty of a master
to use the lash. If, for no other reason, he contended that this was
essential to remind a slave of his condition, and of his master’s
authority. The good slave must be whipped, to be _kept_ good, and the
bad slave must be whipped, to be _made_ good. Such was Weeden’s theory,
and such was his practice. The back of his slave-woman will, in the
judgment, be the swiftest witness against him.

While I am stating particular cases, I might as well immortalize
another of my neighbors, by calling him by name, and putting him in
print. He did not think that a “chiel” was near, “taking notes,” and
will, doubtless, feel quite angry at having his character touched off
in the ragged style of a slave’s pen. I beg to introduce the reader to
REV. RIGBY HOPKINS. Mr. Hopkins resides between Easton and St.
Michael’s, in Talbot county, Maryland. The severity of this man made
him a perfect terror to the slaves of his neighborhood. The peculiar
feature of his government, was, his system of whipping slaves, as he
said, _in advance_ of deserving it. He always managed to have one or
two slaves to whip on Monday morning, so as to start his hands to their
work, under the inspiration of a new assurance on Monday, that his
preaching about kindness, mercy, brotherly love, and the like, on
Sunday, did not interfere with, or prevent him from establishing his
authority, by the cowskin. He seemed to wish to assure them, that his
tears over poor, lost and ruined sinners, and his pity for them, did
not reach to the blacks who tilled his fields. This saintly Hopkins
used to boast, that he was the best hand to manage a Negro in the
county. He whipped for the smallest offenses, by way of preventing the
commission of large ones.

The reader might imagine a difficulty in finding faults enough for such
frequent whipping. But this is because you have no idea how easy a
matter it is to offend a man who is on the look-out for offenses. The
man, unaccustomed to slaveholding, would be astonished to observe how
many _foggable_ offenses there are in the slaveholder’s catalogue of
crimes; and how easy it is to commit any one of them, even when the
slave least intends it. A slaveholder, bent on finding fault, will
hatch up a dozen a day, if he chooses to do so, and each one of these
shall be of a punishable description. A mere look, word, or motion, a
mistake, accident, or want of power, are all matters for which a slave
may be whipped at any time. Does a slave look dissatisfied with his
condition? It is said, that he has the devil in him, and it must be
whipped out. Does he answer _loudly_, when spoken to by his master,
with an air of self-consciousness? Then, must he be taken down a
button-hole lower, by the lash, well laid on. Does he forget, and omit
to pull off his hat, when approaching a white person? Then, he must, or
may be, whipped for his bad manners. Does he ever venture to vindicate
his conduct, when harshly and unjustly accused? Then, he is guilty of
impudence, one of the greatest crimes in the social catalogue of
southern society. To allow a slave to escape punishment, who has
impudently attempted to exculpate himself from unjust charges,
preferred against him by some white person, is to be guilty of great
dereliction of duty. Does a slave ever venture to suggest a better way
of doing a thing, no matter what? He is, altogether, too officious—wise
above what is written—and he deserves, even if he does not get, a
flogging for his presumption. Does he, while plowing, break a plow, or
while hoeing, break a hoe, or while chopping, break an ax? No matter
what were the imperfections of the implement broken, or the natural
liabilities for breaking, the slave can be whipped for carelessness.
The _reverend_ slaveholder could always find something of this sort, to
justify him in using the lash several times during the week.
Hopkins—like Covey and Weeden—were shunned by slaves who had the
privilege (as many had) of finding their own masters at the end of each
year; and yet, there was not a man in all that section of country, who
made a louder profession of religion, than did MR. RIGBY HOPKINS.

But, to continue the thread of my story, through my experience when at
Mr. William Freeland’s.

My poor, weather-beaten bark now reached smoother water, and gentler
breezes. My stormy life at Covey’s had been of service to me. The
things that would have seemed very hard, had I gone direct to Mr.
Freeland’s, from the home of Master Thomas, were now (after the
hardships at Covey’s) “trifles light as air.” I was still a field hand,
and had come to prefer the severe labor of the field, to the enervating
duties of a house servant. I had become large and strong; and had begun
to take pride in the fact, that I could do as much hard work as some of
the older men. There is much rivalry among slaves, at times, as to
which can do the most work, and masters generally seek to promote such
rivalry. But some of us were too wise to race with each other very
long. Such racing, we had the sagacity to see, was not likely to pay.
We had our times for measuring each other’s strength, but we knew too
much to keep up the competition so long as to produce an extraordinary
day’s work. We knew that if, by extraordinary exertion, a large
quantity of work was done in one day, the fact, becoming known to the
master, might lead him to require the same amount every day. This
thought was enough to bring us to a dead halt when over so much excited
for the race.

At Mr. Freeland’s, my condition was every way improved. I was no longer
the poor scape-goat that I was when at Covey’s, where every wrong thing
done was saddled upon me, and where other slaves were whipped over my
shoulders. Mr. Freeland was too just a man thus to impose upon me, or
upon any one else.

It is quite usual to make one slave the object of especial abuse, and
to beat him often, with a view to its effect upon others, rather than
with any expectation that the slave whipped will be improved by it, but
the man with whom I now was, could descend to no such meanness and
wickedness. Every man here was held individually responsible for his
own conduct.

This was a vast improvement on the rule at Covey’s. There, I was the
general pack horse. Bill Smith was protected, by a positive prohibition
made by his rich master, and the command of the rich slaveholder is LAW
to the poor one; Hughes was favored, because of his relationship to
Covey; and the hands hired temporarily, escaped flogging, except as
they got it over my poor shoulders. Of course, this comparison refers
to the time when Covey _could_ whip me.

Mr. Freeland, like Mr. Covey, gave his hands enough to eat, but, unlike
Mr. Covey, he gave them time to take their meals; he worked us hard
during the day, but gave us the night for rest—another advantage to be
set to the credit of the sinner, as against that of the saint. We were
seldom in the field after dark in the evening, or before sunrise in the
morning. Our implements of husbandry were of the most improved pattern,
and much superior to those used at Covey’s.

Nothwithstanding the improved condition which was now mine, and the
many advantages I had gained by my new home, and my new master, I was
still restless and discontented. I was about as hard to please by a
master, as a master is by slave. The freedom from bodily torture and
unceasing labor, had given my mind an increased sensibility, and
imparted to it greater activity. I was not yet exactly in right
relations. “How be it, that was not first which is spiritual, but that
which is natural, and afterward that which is spiritual.” When entombed
at Covey’s, shrouded in darkness and physical wretchedness, temporal
wellbeing was the grand _desideratum;_ but, temporal wants supplied,
the spirit puts in its claims. Beat and cuff your slave, keep him
hungry and spiritless, and he will follow the chain of his master like
a dog; but, feed and clothe him well—work him moderately—surround him
with physical comfort—and dreams of freedom intrude. Give him a _bad_
master, and he aspires to a _good_ master; give him a good master, and
he wishes to become his _own_ master. Such is human nature. You may
hurl a man so low, beneath the level of his kind, that he loses all
just ideas of his natural position; but elevate him a little, and the
clear conception of rights arises to life and power, and leads him
onward. Thus elevated, a little, at Freeland’s, the dreams called into
being by that good man, Father Lawson, when in Baltimore, began to
visit me; and shoots from the tree of liberty began to put forth tender
buds, and dim hopes of the future began to dawn.

I found myself in congenial society, at Mr. Freeland’s. There were
Henry Harris, John Harris, Handy Caldwell, and Sandy Jenkins. 6

Henry and John were brothers, and belonged to Mr. Freeland. They were
both remarkably bright and intelligent, though neither of them could
read. Now for mischief! I had not been long at Freeland’s before I was
up to my old tricks. I early began to address my companions on the
subject of education, and the advantages of intelligence over
ignorance, and, as far as I dared, I tried to show the agency of
ignorance in keeping men in slavery. Webster’s spelling book and the
_Columbian Orator_ were looked into again. As summer came on, and the
long Sabbath days stretched themselves over our idleness, I became
uneasy, and wanted a Sabbath school, in which to exercise my gifts, and
to impart the little knowledge of letters which I possessed, to my
brother slaves. A house was hardly necessary in the summer time; I
could hold my school under the shade of an old oak tree, as well as any
where else. The thing was, to get the scholars, and to have them
thoroughly imbued with the desire to learn. Two such boys were quickly
secured, in Henry and John, and from them the contagion spread. I was
not long bringing around me twenty or thirty young men, who enrolled
themselves, gladly, in my Sabbath school, and were willing to meet me
regularly, under the trees or elsewhere, for the purpose of learning to
read. It was surprising with what ease they provided themselves with
spelling books. These were mostly the cast off books of their young
masters or mistresses. I taught, at first, on our own farm. All were
impressed with the necessity of keeping the matter as private as
possible, for the fate of the St. Michael’s attempt was notorious, and
fresh in the minds of all. Our pious masters, at St. Michael’s, must
not know that a few of their dusky brothers were learning to read the
word of God, lest they should come down upon us with the lash and
chain. We might have met to drink whisky, to wrestle, fight, and to do
other unseemly things, with no fear of interruption from the saints or
sinners of St. Michael’s.

But, to meet for the purpose of improving the mind and heart, by
learning to read the sacred scriptures, was esteemed a most dangerous
nuisance, to be instantly stopped. The slaveholders of St. Michael’s,
like slaveholders elsewhere, would always prefer to see the slaves
engaged in degrading sports, rather than to see them acting like moral
and accountable beings.

Had any one asked a religious white man, in St. Michael’s, twenty years
ago, the names of three men in that town, whose lives were most after
the pattern of our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ, the first three would
have been as follows:

GARRISON WEST, _Class Leader_.
WRIGHT FAIRBANKS, _Class Leader_.
THOMAS AULD, _Class Leader_.


And yet, these were men who ferociously rushed in upon my Sabbath
school, at St. Michael’s, armed with mob-like missiles, and I must say,
I thought him a Christian, until he took part in bloody by the lash.
This same Garrison West was my class leader, and I must say, I thought
him a Christian, until he took part in breaking up my school. He led me
no more after that. The plea for this outrage was then, as it is now
and at all times—the danger to good order. If the slaves learnt to
read, they would learn something else, and something worse. The peace
of slavery would be disturbed; slave rule would be endangered. I leave
the reader to characterize a system which is endangered by such causes.
I do not dispute the soundness of the reasoning. It is perfectly sound;
and, if slavery be _right_, Sabbath schools for teaching slaves to read
the bible are _wrong_, and ought to be put down. These Christian class
leaders were, to this extent, consistent. They had settled the
question, that slavery is _right_, and, by that standard, they
determined that Sabbath schools are wrong. To be sure, they were
Protestant, and held to the great Protestant right of every man to
_“search the scriptures”_ for himself; but, then, to all general rules,
there are _exceptions_. How convenient! What crimes may not be
committed under the doctrine of the last remark. But, my dear, class
leading Methodist brethren, did not condescend to give me a reason for
breaking up the Sabbath school at St. Michael’s; it was enough that
they had determined upon its destruction. I am, however, digressing.

After getting the school cleverly into operation, the second time
holding it in the woods, behind the barn, and in the shade of trees—I
succeeded in inducing a free colored man, who lived several miles from
our house, to permit me to hold my school in a room at his house. He,
very kindly, gave me this liberty; but he incurred much peril in doing
so, for the assemblage was an unlawful one. I shall not mention, here,
the name of this man; for it might, even now, subject him to
persecution, although the offenses were committed more than twenty
years ago. I had, at one time, more than forty scholars, all of the
right sort; and many of them succeeded in learning to read. I have met
several slaves from Maryland, who were once my scholars; and who
obtained their freedom, I doubt not, partly in consequence of the ideas
imparted to them in that school. I have had various employments during
my short life; but I look back to _none_ with more satisfaction, than
to that afforded by my Sunday school. An attachment, deep and lasting,
sprung up between me and my persecuted pupils, which made parting from
them intensely grievous; and, when I think that most of these dear
souls are yet shut up in this abject thralldom, I am overwhelmed with
grief.

Besides my Sunday school, I devoted three evenings a week to my fellow
slaves, during the winter. Let the reader reflect upon the fact, that,
in this christian country, men and women are hiding from professors of
religion, in barns, in the woods and fields, in order to learn to read
the _holy bible_. Those dear souls, who came to my Sabbath school, came
_not_ because it was popular or reputable to attend such a place, for
they came under the liability of having forty stripes laid on their
naked backs. Every moment they spend in my school, they were under this
terrible liability; and, in this respect, I was sharer with them. Their
minds had been cramped and starved by their cruel masters; the light of
education had been completely excluded; and their hard earnings had
been taken to educate their master’s children. I felt a delight in
circumventing the tyrants, and in blessing the victims of their curses.

The year at Mr. Freeland’s passed off very smoothly, to outward
seeming. Not a blow was given me during the whole year. To the credit
of Mr. Freeland—irreligious though he was—it must be stated, that he
was the best master I ever had, until I became my own master, and
assumed for myself, as I had a right to do, the responsibility of my
own existence and the exercise of my own powers. For much of the
happiness—or absence of misery—with which I passed this year with Mr.
Freeland, I am indebted to the genial temper and ardent friendship of
my brother slaves. They were, every one of them, manly, generous and
brave, yes; I say they were brave, and I will add, fine looking. It is
seldom the lot of mortals to have truer and better friends than were
the slaves on this farm. It is not uncommon to charge slaves with great
treachery toward each other, and to believe them incapable of confiding
in each other; but I must say, that I never loved, esteemed, or
confided in men, more than I did in these. They were as true as steel,
and no band of brothers could have been more loving. There were no mean
advantages taken of each other, as is sometimes the case where slaves
are situated as we were; no tattling; no giving each other bad names to
Mr. Freeland; and no elevating one at the expense of the other. We
never undertook to do any thing, of any importance, which was likely to
affect each other, without mutual consultation. We were generally a
unit, and moved together. Thoughts and sentiments were exchanged
between us, which might well be called very incendiary, by oppressors
and tyrants; and perhaps the time has not even now come, when it is
safe to unfold all the flying suggestions which arise in the minds of
intelligent slaves. Several of my friends and brothers, if yet alive,
are still in some part of the house of bondage; and though twenty years
have passed away, the suspicious malice of slavery might punish them
for even listening to my thoughts.

The slaveholder, kind or cruel, is a slaveholder still—the every hour
violator of the just and inalienable rights of man; and he is,
therefore, every hour silently whetting the knife of vengeance for his
own throat. He never lisps a syllable in commendation of the fathers of
this republic, nor denounces any attempted oppression of himself,
without inviting the knife to his own throat, and asserting the rights
of rebellion for his own slaves.

The year is ended, and we are now in the midst of the Christmas
holidays, which are kept this year as last, according to the general
description previously given.




CHAPTER XIX. _The Run-Away Plot_


NEW YEAR’S THOUGHTS AND MEDITATIONS—AGAIN BOUGHT BY FREELAND—NO
AMBITION TO BE A SLAVE—KINDNESS NO COMPENSATION FOR SLAVERY—INCIPIENT
STEPS TOWARD ESCAPE—CONSIDERATIONS LEADING THERETO—IRRECONCILABLE
HOSTILITY TO SLAVERY—SOLEMN VOW TAKEN—PLAN DIVULGED TO THE
SLAVES—_Columbian Orator—_SCHEME GAINS FAVOR, DESPITE PRO-SLAVERY
PREACHING—DANGER OF DISCOVERY—SKILL OF SLAVEHOLDERS IN READING THE
MINDS OF THEIR SLAVES—SUSPICION AND COERCION—HYMNS WITH DOUBLE
MEANING—VALUE, IN DOLLARS, OF OUR COMPANY—PRELIMINARY
CONSULTATION—PASS-WORD—CONFLICTS OF HOPE AND FEAR—DIFFICULTIES TO BE
OVERCOME—IGNORANCE OF GEOGRAPHY—SURVEY OF IMAGINARY DIFFICULTIES—EFFECT
ON OUR MINDS—PATRICK HENRY—SANDY BECOMES A DREAMER—ROUTE TO THE NORTH
LAID OUT—OBJECTIONS CONSIDERED—FRAUDS PRACTICED ON FREEMEN—PASSES
WRITTEN—ANXIETIES AS THE TIME DREW NEAR—DREAD OF FAILURE—APPEALS TO
COMRADES—STRANGE PRESENTIMENT—COINCIDENCE—THE BETRAYAL DISCOVERED—THE
MANNER OF ARRESTING US—RESISTANCE MADE BY HENRY HARRIS—ITS EFFECT—THE
UNIQUE SPEECH OF MRS. FREELAND—OUR SAD PROCESSION TO PRISON—BRUTAL
JEERS BY THE MULTITUDE ALONG THE ROAD—PASSES EATEN—THE DENIAL—SANDY TOO
WELL LOVED TO BE SUSPECTED—DRAGGED BEHIND HORSES—THE JAIL A RELIEF—A
NEW SET OF TORMENTORS—SLAVE-TRADERS—JOHN, CHARLES AND HENRY
RELEASED—ALONE IN PRISON—I AM TAKEN OUT, AND SENT TO BALTIMORE.


I am now at the beginning of the year 1836, a time favorable for
serious thoughts. The mind naturally occupies itself with the mysteries
of life in all its phases—the ideal, the real and the actual. Sober
people look both ways at the beginning of the year, surveying the
errors of the past, and providing against possible errors of the
future. I, too, was thus exercised. I had little pleasure in
retrospect, and the prospect was not very brilliant. “Notwithstanding,”
thought I, “the many resolutions and prayers I have made, in behalf of
freedom, I am, this first day of the year 1836, still a slave, still
wandering in the depths of spirit-devouring thralldom. My faculties and
powers of body and soul are not my own, but are the property of a
fellow mortal, in no sense superior to me, except that he has the
physical power to compel me to be owned and controlled by him. By the
combined physical force of the community, I am his slave—a slave for
life.” With thoughts like these, I was perplexed and chafed; they
rendered me gloomy and disconsolate. The anguish of my mind may not be
written.

At the close of the year 1835, Mr. Freeland, my temporary master, had
bought me of Capt. Thomas Auld, for the year 1836. His promptness in
securing my services, would have been flattering to my vanity, had I
been ambitious to win the reputation of being a valuable slave. Even as
it was, I felt a slight degree of complacency at the circumstance. It
showed he was as well pleased with me as a slave, as I was with him as
a master. I have already intimated my regard for Mr. Freeland, and I
may say here, in addressing northern readers—where is no selfish motive
for speaking in praise of a slaveholder—that Mr. Freeland was a man of
many excellent qualities, and to me quite preferable to any master I
ever had.

But the kindness of the slavemaster only gilds the chain of slavery,
and detracts nothing from its weight or power. The thought that men are
made for other and better uses than slavery, thrives best under the
gentle treatment of a kind master. But the grim visage of slavery can
assume no smiles which can fascinate the partially enlightened slave,
into a forgetfulness of his bondage, nor of the desirableness of
liberty.

I was not through the first month of this, my second year with the kind
and gentlemanly Mr. Freeland, before I was earnestly considering and
advising plans for gaining that freedom, which, when I was but a mere
child, I had ascertained to be the natural and inborn right of every
member of the human family. The desire for this freedom had been
benumbed, while I was under the brutalizing dominion of Covey; and it
had been postponed, and rendered inoperative, by my truly pleasant
Sunday school engagements with my friends, during the year 1835, at Mr.
Freeland’s. It had, however, never entirely subsided. I hated slavery,
always, and the desire for freedom only needed a favorable breeze, to
fan it into a blaze, at any moment. The thought of only being a
creature of the _present_ and the _past_, troubled me, and I longed to
have a _future_—a future with hope in it. To be shut up entirely to the
past and present, is abhorrent to the human mind; it is to the
soul—whose life and happiness is unceasing progress—what the prison is
to the body; a blight and mildew, a hell of horrors. The dawning of
this, another year, awakened me from my temporary slumber, and roused
into life my latent, but long cherished aspirations for freedom. I was
now not only ashamed to be contented in slavery, but ashamed to _seem_
to be contented, and in my present favorable condition, under the mild
rule of Mr. F., I am not sure that some kind reader will not condemn me
for being over ambitious, and greatly wanting in proper humility, when
I say the truth, that I now drove from me all thoughts of making the
best of my lot, and welcomed only such thoughts as led me away from the
house of bondage. The intense desires, now felt, _to be free_,
quickened by my present favorable circumstances, brought me to the
determination to act, as well as to think and speak. Accordingly, at
the beginning of this year 1836, I took upon me a solemn vow, that the
year which had now dawned upon me should not close, without witnessing
an earnest attempt, on my part, to gain my liberty. This vow only bound
me to make my escape individually; but the year spent with Mr. Freeland
had attached me, as with “hooks of steel,” to my brother slaves. The
most affectionate and confiding friendship existed between us; and I
felt it my duty to give them an opportunity to share in my virtuous
determination by frankly disclosing to them my plans and purposes.
Toward Henry and John Harris, I felt a friendship as strong as one man
can feel for another; for I could have died with and for them. To them,
therefore, with a suitable degree of caution, I began to disclose my
sentiments and plans; sounding them, the while on the subject of
running away, provided a good chance should offer. I scarcely need tell
the reader, that I did my _very best_ to imbue the minds of my dear
friends with my own views and feelings. Thoroughly awakened, now, and
with a definite vow upon me, all my little reading, which had any
bearing on the subject of human rights, was rendered available in my
communications with my friends. That (to me) gem of a book, the
_Columbian Orator_, with its eloquent orations and spicy dialogues,
denouncing oppression and slavery—telling of what had been dared, done
and suffered by men, to obtain the inestimable boon of liberty—was
still fresh in my memory, and whirled into the ranks of my speech with
the aptitude of well trained soldiers, going through the drill. The
fact is, I here began my public speaking. I canvassed, with Henry and
John, the subject of slavery, and dashed against it the condemning
brand of God’s eternal justice, which it every hour violates. My fellow
servants were neither indifferent, dull, nor inapt. Our feelings were
more alike than our opinions. All, however, were ready to act, when a
feasible plan should be proposed. “Show us _how_ the thing is to be
done,” said they, “and all is clear.”

We were all, except Sandy, quite free from slaveholding priestcraft. It
was in vain that we had been taught from the pulpit at St. Michael’s,
the duty of obedience to our masters; to recognize God as the author of
our enslavement; to regard running away an offense, alike against God
and man; to deem our enslavement a merciful and beneficial arrangement;
to esteem our condition, in this country, a paradise to that from which
we had been snatched in Africa; to consider our hard hands and dark
color as God’s mark of displeasure, and as pointing us out as the
proper subjects of slavery; that the relation of master and slave was
one of reciprocal benefits; that our work was not more serviceable to
our masters, than our master’s thinking was serviceable to us. I say,
it was in vain that the pulpit of St. Michael’s had constantly
inculcated these plausible doctrine. Nature laughed them to scorn. For
my own part, I had now become altogether too big for my chains. Father
Lawson’s solemn words, of what I ought to be, and might be, in the
providence of God, had not fallen dead on my soul. I was fast verging
toward manhood, and the prophecies of my childhood were still
unfulfilled. The thought, that year after year had passed away, and my
resolutions to run away had failed and faded—that I was _still a
slave_, and a slave, too, with chances for gaining my freedom
diminished and still diminishing—was not a matter to be slept over
easily; nor did I easily sleep over it.

But here came a new trouble. Thoughts and purposes so incendiary as
those I now cherished, could not agitate the mind long, without danger
of making themselves manifest to scrutinizing and unfriendly beholders.
I had reason to fear that my sable face might prove altogether too
transparent for the safe concealment of my hazardous enterprise. Plans
of greater moment have leaked through stone walls, and revealed their
projectors. But, here was no stone wall to hide my purpose. I would
have given my poor, tell tale face for the immoveable countenance of an
Indian, for it was far from being proof against the daily, searching
glances of those with whom I met.

It is the interest and business of slaveholders to study human nature,
with a view to practical results, and many of them attain astonishing
proficiency in discerning the thoughts and emotions of slaves. They
have to deal not with earth, wood, or stone, but with _men;_ and, by
every regard they have for their safety and prosperity, they must study
to know the material on which they are at work. So much intellect as
the slaveholder has around him, requires watching. Their safety depends
upon their vigilance. Conscious of the injustice and wrong they are
every hour perpetrating, and knowing what they themselves would do if
made the victims of such wrongs, they are looking out for the first
signs of the dread retribution of justice. They watch, therefore, with
skilled and practiced eyes, and have learned to read, with great
accuracy, the state of mind and heart of the slaves, through his sable
face. These uneasy sinners are quick to inquire into the matter, where
the slave is concerned. Unusual sobriety, apparent abstraction,
sullenness and indifference—indeed, any mood out of the common
way—afford ground for suspicion and inquiry. Often relying on their
superior position and wisdom, they hector and torture the slave into a
confession, by affecting to know the truth of their accusations. “You
have got the devil in you,” say they, “and we will whip him out of
you.” I have often been put thus to the torture, on bare suspicion.
This system has its disadvantages as well as their opposite. The slave
is sometimes whipped into the confession of offenses which he never
committed. The reader will see that the good old rule—“a man is to be
held innocent until proved to be guilty”—does not hold good on the
slave plantation. Suspicion and torture are the approved methods of
getting at the truth, here. It was necessary for me, therefore, to keep
a watch over my deportment, lest the enemy should get the better of me.

But with all our caution and studied reserve, I am not sure that Mr.
Freeland did not suspect that all was not right with us. It _did_ seem
that he watched us more narrowly, after the plan of escape had been
conceived and discussed amongst us. Men seldom see themselves as others
see them; and while, to ourselves, everything connected with our
contemplated escape appeared concealed, Mr. Freeland may have, with the
peculiar prescience of a slaveholder, mastered the huge thought which
was disturbing our peace in slavery.

I am the more inclined to think that he suspected us, because, prudent
as we were, as I now look back, I can see that we did many silly
things, very well calculated to awaken suspicion. We were, at times,
remarkably buoyant, singing hymns and making joyous exclamations,
almost as triumphant in their tone as if we reached a land of freedom
and safety. A keen observer might have detected in our repeated singing
of

_O Canaan, sweet Canaan,
I am bound for the land of Canaan,_


something more than a hope of reaching heaven. We meant to reach the
_north_—and the north was our Canaan.

_I thought I heard them say,
There were lions in the way,
I don’t expect to Star
          Much longer here._

_Run to Jesus—shun the danger—
I don’t expect to stay
          Much longer here_.


was a favorite air, and had a double meaning. In the lips of some, it
meant the expectation of a speedy summons to a world of spirits; but,
in the lips of _our_ company, it simply meant, a speedy pilgrimage
toward a free state, and deliverance from all the evils and dangers of
slavery.

I had succeeded in winning to my (what slaveholders would call wicked)
scheme, a company of five young men, the very flower of the
neighborhood, each one of whom would have commanded one thousand
dollars in the home market. At New Orleans, they would have brought
fifteen hundred dollars a piece, and, perhaps, more. The names of our
party were as follows: Henry Harris; John Harris, brother to Henry;
Sandy Jenkins, of root memory; Charles Roberts, and Henry Bailey. I was
the youngest, but one, of the party. I had, however, the advantage of
them all, in experience, and in a knowledge of letters. This gave me
great influence over them. Perhaps not one of them, left to himself,
would have dreamed of escape as a possible thing. Not one of them was
self-moved in the matter. They all wanted to be free; but the serious
thought of running away, had not entered into their minds, until I won
them to the undertaking. They all were tolerably well off—for
slaves—and had dim hopes of being set free, some day, by their masters.
If any one is to blame for disturbing the quiet of the slaves and
slave-masters of the neighborhood of St. Michael’s, _I am the man_. I
claim to be the instigator of the high crime (as the slaveholders
regard it) and I kept life in it, until life could be kept in it no
longer.

Pending the time of our contemplated departure out of our Egypt, we met
often by night, and on every Sunday. At these meetings we talked the
matter over; told our hopes and fears, and the difficulties discovered
or imagined; and, like men of sense, we counted the cost of the
enterprise to which we were committing ourselves.

These meetings must have resembled, on a small scale, the meetings of
revolutionary conspirators, in their primary condition. We were
plotting against our (so called) lawful rulers; with this difference
that we sought our own good, and not the harm of our enemies. We did
not seek to overthrow them, but to escape from them. As for Mr.
Freeland, we all liked him, and would have gladly remained with him,
_as freeman_. LIBERTY was our aim; and we had now come to think that we
had a right to liberty, against every obstacle even against the lives
of our enslavers.

We had several words, expressive of things, important to us, which we
understood, but which, even if distinctly heard by an outsider, would
convey no certain meaning. I have reasons for suppressing these
_pass-words_, which the reader will easily divine. I hated the secrecy;
but where slavery is powerful, and liberty is weak, the latter is
driven to concealment or to destruction.

The prospect was not always a bright one. At times, we were almost
tempted to abandon the enterprise, and to get back to that comparative
peace of mind, which even a man under the gallows might feel, when all
hope of escape had vanished. Quiet bondage was felt to be better than
the doubts, fears and uncertainties, which now so sadly perplexed and
disturbed us.

The infirmities of humanity, generally, were represented in our little
band. We were confident, bold and determined, at times; and, again,
doubting, timid and wavering; whistling, like the boy in the graveyard,
to keep away the spirits.

To look at the map, and observe the proximity of Eastern Shore,
Maryland, to Delaware and Pennsylvania, it may seem to the reader quite
absurd, to regard the proposed escape as a formidable undertaking. But
to _understand_, some one has said a man must _stand under_. The real
distance was great enough, but the imagined distance was, to our
ignorance, even greater. Every slaveholder seeks to impress his slave
with a belief in the boundlessness of slave territory, and of his own
almost illimitable power. We all had vague and indistinct notions of
the geography of the country.

The distance, however, is not the chief trouble. The nearer are the
lines of a slave state and the borders of a free one, the greater the
peril. Hired kidnappers infest these borders. Then, too, we knew that
merely reaching a free state did not free us; that, wherever caught, we
could be returned to slavery. We could see no spot on this side the
ocean, where we could be free. We had heard of Canada, the real Canaan
of the American bondmen, simply as a country to which the wild goose
and the swan repaired at the end of winter, to escape the heat of
summer, but not as the home of man. I knew something of theology, but
nothing of geography. I really did not, at that time, know that there
was a state of New York, or a state of Massachusetts. I had heard of
Pennsylvania, Delaware and New Jersey, and all the southern states, but
was ignorant of the free states, generally. New York city was our
northern limit, and to go there, and be forever harassed with the
liability of being hunted down and returned to slavery—with the
certainty of being treated ten times worse than we had ever been
treated before was a prospect far from delightful, and it might well
cause some hesitation about engaging in the enterprise. The case,
sometimes, to our excited visions, stood thus: At every gate through
which we had to pass, we saw a watchman; at every ferry, a guard; on
every bridge, a sentinel; and in every wood, a patrol or slave-hunter.
We were hemmed in on every side. The good to be sought, and the evil to
be shunned, were flung in the balance, and weighed against each other.
On the one hand, there stood slavery; a stern reality, glaring
frightfully upon us, with the blood of millions in his polluted
skirts—terrible to behold—greedily devouring our hard earnings and
feeding himself upon our flesh. Here was the evil from which to escape.
On the other hand, far away, back in the hazy distance, where all forms
seemed but shadows, under the flickering light of the north star—behind
some craggy hill or snow-covered mountain—stood a doubtful freedom,
half frozen, beckoning us to her icy domain. This was the good to be
sought. The inequality was as great as that between certainty and
uncertainty. This, in itself, was enough to stagger us; but when we
came to survey the untrodden road, and conjecture the many possible
difficulties, we were appalled, and at times, as I have said, were upon
the point of giving over the struggle altogether.

The reader can have little idea of the phantoms of trouble which flit,
in such circumstances, before the uneducated mind of the slave. Upon
either side, we saw grim death assuming a variety of horrid shapes.
Now, it was starvation, causing us, in a strange and friendless land,
to eat our own flesh. Now, we were contending with the waves (for our
journey was in part by water) and were drowned. Now, we were hunted by
dogs, and overtaken and torn to pieces by their merciless fangs. We
were stung by scorpions—chased by wild beasts—bitten by snakes; and,
worst of all, after having succeeded in swimming rivers—encountering
wild beasts—sleeping in the woods—suffering hunger, cold, heat and
nakedness—we supposed ourselves to be overtaken by hired kidnappers,
who, in the name of the law, and for their thrice accursed reward,
would, perchance, fire upon us—kill some, wound others, and capture
all. This dark picture, drawn by ignorance and fear, at times greatly
shook our determination, and not unfrequently caused us to

Rather bear those ills we had
Than fly to others which we knew not of.


I am not disposed to magnify this circumstance in my experience, and
yet I think I shall seem to be so disposed, to the reader. No man can
tell the intense agony which is felt by the slave, when wavering on the
point of making his escape. All that he has is at stake; and even that
which he has not, is at stake, also. The life which he has, may be
lost, and the liberty which he seeks, may not be gained.

Patrick Henry, to a listening senate, thrilled by his magic eloquence,
and ready to stand by him in his boldest flights, could say, GIVE ME
LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH, and this saying was a sublime one, even for a
freeman; but, incomparably more sublime, is the same sentiment, when
_practically_ asserted by men accustomed to the lash and chain—men
whose sensibilities must have become more or less deadened by their
bondage. With us it was a _doubtful_ liberty, at best, that we sought;
and a certain, lingering death in the rice swamps and sugar fields, if
we failed. Life is not lightly regarded by men of sane minds. It is
precious, alike to the pauper and to the prince—to the slave, and to
his master; and yet, I believe there was not one among us, who would
not rather have been shot down, than pass away life in hopeless
bondage.

In the progress of our preparations, Sandy, the root man, became
troubled. He began to have dreams, and some of them were very
distressing. One of these, which happened on a Friday night, was, to
him, of great significance; and I am quite ready to confess, that I
felt somewhat damped by it myself. He said, “I dreamed, last night,
that I was roused from sleep, by strange noises, like the voices of a
swarm of angry birds, that caused a roar as they passed, which fell
upon my ear like a coming gale over the tops of the trees. Looking up
to see what it could mean,” said Sandy, “I saw you, Frederick, in the
claws of a huge bird, surrounded by a large number of birds, of all
colors and sizes. These were all picking at you, while you, with your
arms, seemed to be trying to protect your eyes. Passing over me, the
birds flew in a south-westerly direction, and I watched them until they
were clean out of sight. Now, I saw this as plainly as I now see you;
and furder, honey, watch de Friday night dream; dare is sumpon in it,
shose you born; dare is, indeed, honey.”

I confess I did not like this dream; but I threw off concern about it,
by attributing it to the general excitement and perturbation consequent
upon our contemplated plan of escape. I could not, however, shake off
its effect at once. I felt that it boded me no good. Sandy was
unusually emphatic and oracular, and his manner had much to do with the
impression made upon me.

The plan of escape which I recommended, and to which my comrades
assented, was to take a large canoe, owned by Mr. Hamilton, and, on the
Saturday night previous to the Easter holidays, launch out into the
Chesapeake bay, and paddle for its head—a distance of seventy miles
with all our might. Our course, on reaching this point, was, to turn
the canoe adrift, and bend our steps toward the north star, till we
reached a free state.

There were several objections to this plan. One was, the danger from
gales on the bay. In rough weather, the waters of the Chesapeake are
much agitated, and there is danger, in a canoe, of being swamped by the
waves. Another objection was, that the canoe would soon be missed; the
absent persons would, at once, be suspected of having taken it; and we
should be pursued by some of the fast sailing bay craft out of St.
Michael’s. Then, again, if we reached the head of the bay, and turned
the canoe adrift, she might prove a guide to our track, and bring the
land hunters after us.

These and other objections were set aside, by the stronger ones which
could be urged against every other plan that could then be suggested.
On the water, we had a chance of being regarded as fishermen, in the
service of a master. On the other hand, by taking the land route,
through the counties adjoining Delaware, we should be subjected to all
manner of interruptions, and many very disagreeable questions, which
might give us serious trouble. Any white man is authorized to stop a
man of color, on any road, and examine him, and arrest him, if he so
desires.

By this arrangement, many abuses (considered such even by slaveholders)
occur. Cases have been known, where freemen have been called upon to
show their free papers, by a pack of ruffians—and, on the presentation
of the papers, the ruffians have torn them up, and seized their victim,
and sold him to a life of endless bondage.

The week before our intended start, I wrote a pass for each of our
party, giving them permission to visit Baltimore, during the Easter
holidays. The pass ran after this manner:

This is to certify, that I, the undersigned, have given the bearer, my
servant, John, full liberty to go to Baltimore, to spend the Easter
holidays.


W.H.
Near St. Michael’s, Talbot county, Maryland


Although we were not going to Baltimore, and were intending to land
east of North Point, in the direction where I had seen the Philadelphia
steamers go, these passes might be made useful to us in the lower part
of the bay, while steering toward Baltimore. These were not, however,
to be shown by us, until all other answers failed to satisfy the
inquirer. We were all fully alive to the importance of being calm and
self-possessed, when accosted, if accosted we should be; and we more
times than one rehearsed to each other how we should behave in the hour
of trial.

These were long, tedious days and nights. The suspense was painful, in
the extreme. To balance probabilities, where life and liberty hang on
the result, requires steady nerves. I panted for action, and was glad
when the day, at the close of which we were to start, dawned upon us.
Sleeping, the night before, was out of the question. I probably felt
more deeply than any of my companions, because I was the instigator of
the movement. The responsibility of the whole enterprise rested on my
shoulders. The glory of success, and the shame and confusion of
failure, could not be matters of indifference to me. Our food was
prepared; our clothes were packed up; we were all ready to go, and
impatient for Saturday morning—considering that the last morning of our
bondage.

I cannot describe the tempest and tumult of my brain, that morning. The
reader will please to bear in mind, that, in a slave state, an
unsuccessful runaway is not only subjected to cruel torture, and sold
away to the far south, but he is frequently execrated by the other
slaves. He is charged with making the condition of the other slaves
intolerable, by laying them all under the suspicion of their
masters—subjecting them to greater vigilance, and imposing greater
limitations on their privileges. I dreaded murmurs from this quarter.
It is difficult, too, for a slavemaster to believe that slaves escaping
have not been aided in their flight by some one of their fellow slaves.
When, therefore, a slave is missing, every slave on the place is
closely examined as to his knowledge of the undertaking; and they are
sometimes even tortured, to make them disclose what they are suspected
of knowing of such escape.

Our anxiety grew more and more intense, as the time of our intended
departure for the north drew nigh. It was truly felt to be a matter of
life and death with us; and we fully intended to _fight_ as well as
_run_, if necessity should occur for that extremity. But the trial hour
was not yet to come. It was easy to resolve, but not so easy to act. I
expected there might be some drawing back, at the last. It was natural
that there should be; therefore, during the intervening time, I lost no
opportunity to explain away difficulties, to remove doubts, to dispel
fears, and to inspire all with firmness. It was too late to look back;
and _now_ was the time to go forward. Like most other men, we had done
the talking part of our work, long and well; and the time had come to
_act_ as if we were in earnest, and meant to be as true in action as in
words. I did not forget to appeal to the pride of my comrades, by
telling them that, if after having solemnly promised to go, as they had
done, they now failed to make the attempt, they would, in effect, brand
themselves with cowardice, and might as well sit down, fold their arms,
and acknowledge themselves as fit only to be _slaves_. This detestable
character, all were unwilling to assume. Every man except Sandy (he,
much to our regret, withdrew) stood firm; and at our last meeting we
pledged ourselves afresh, and in the most solemn manner, that, at the
time appointed, we _would_ certainly start on our long journey for a
free country. This meeting was in the middle of the week, at the end of
which we were to start.

Early that morning we went, as usual, to the field, but with hearts
that beat quickly and anxiously. Any one intimately acquainted with us,
might have seen that all was not well with us, and that some monster
lingered in our thoughts. Our work that morning was the same as it had
been for several days past—drawing out and spreading manure. While thus
engaged, I had a sudden presentiment, which flashed upon me like
lightning in a dark night, revealing to the lonely traveler the gulf
before, and the enemy behind. I instantly turned to Sandy Jenkins, who
was near me, and said to him, _“Sandy, we are betrayed;_ something has
just told me so.” I felt as sure of it, as if the officers were there
in sight. Sandy said, “Man, dat is strange; but I feel just as you do.”
If my mother—then long in her grave—had appeared before me, and told me
that we were betrayed, I could not, at that moment, have felt more
certain of the fact.

In a few minutes after this, the long, low and distant notes of the
horn summoned us from the field to breakfast. I felt as one may be
supposed to feel before being led forth to be executed for some great
offense. I wanted no breakfast; but I went with the other slaves toward
the house, for form’s sake. My feelings were not disturbed as to the
right of running away; on that point I had no trouble, whatever. My
anxiety arose from a sense of the consequences of failure.

In thirty minutes after that vivid presentiment came the apprehended
crash. On reaching the house, for breakfast, and glancing my eye toward
the lane gate, the worst was at once made known. The lane gate off Mr.
Freeland’s house, is nearly a half mile from the door, and shaded by
the heavy wood which bordered the main road. I was, however, able to
descry four white men, and two colored men, approaching. The white men
were on horseback, and the colored men were walking behind, and seemed
to be tied. _“It is all over with us,”_ thought I, _“we are surely
betrayed_.” I now became composed, or at least comparatively so, and
calmly awaited the result. I watched the ill-omened company, till I saw
them enter the gate. Successful flight was impossible, and I made up my
mind to stand, and meet the evil, whatever it might be; for I was not
without a slight hope that things might turn differently from what I at
first expected. In a few moments, in came Mr. William Hamilton, riding
very rapidly, and evidently much excited. He was in the habit of riding
very slowly, and was seldom known to gallop his horse. This time, his
horse was nearly at full speed, causing the dust to roll thick behind
him. Mr. Hamilton, though one of the most resolute men in the whole
neighborhood, was, nevertheless, a remarkably mild spoken man; and,
even when greatly excited, his language was cool and circumspect. He
came to the door, and inquired if Mr. Freeland was in. I told him that
Mr. Freeland was at the barn. Off the old gentleman rode, toward the
barn, with unwonted speed. Mary, the cook, was at a loss to know what
was the matter, and I did not profess any skill in making her
understand. I knew she would have united, as readily as any one, in
cursing me for bringing trouble into the family; so I held my peace,
leaving matters to develop themselves, without my assistance. In a few
moments, Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Freeland came down from the barn to the
house; and, just as they made their appearance in the front yard, three
men (who proved to be constables) came dashing into the lane, on
horseback, as if summoned by a sign requiring quick work. A few seconds
brought them into the front yard, where they hastily dismounted, and
tied their horses. This done, they joined Mr. Freeland and Mr.
Hamilton, who were standing a short distance from the kitchen. A few
moments were spent, as if in consulting how to proceed, and then the
whole party walked up to the kitchen door. There was now no one in the
kitchen but myself and John Harris. Henry and Sandy were yet at the
barn. Mr. Freeland came inside the kitchen door, and with an agitated
voice, called me by name, and told me to come forward; that there was
some gentlemen who wished to see me. I stepped toward them, at the
door, and asked what they wanted, when the constables grabbed me, and
told me that I had better not resist; that I had been in a scrape, or
was said to have been in one; that they were merely going to take me
where I could be examined; that they were going to carry me to St.
Michael’s, to have me brought before my master. They further said,
that, in case the evidence against me was not true, I should be
acquitted. I was now firmly tied, and completely at the mercy of my
captors. Resistance was idle. They were five in number, armed to the
very teeth. When they had secured me, they next turned to John Harris,
and, in a few moments, succeeded in tying him as firmly as they had
already tied me. They next turned toward Henry Harris, who had now
returned from the barn. “Cross your hands,” said the constables, to
Henry. “I won’t” said Henry, in a voice so firm and clear, and in a
manner so determined, as for a moment to arrest all proceedings. “Won’t
you cross your hands?” said Tom Graham, the constable. “_No I won’t_,”
said Henry, with increasing emphasis. Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Freeland, and
the officers, now came near to Henry. Two of the constables drew out
their shining pistols, and swore by the name of God, that he should
cross his hands, or they would shoot him down. Each of these hired
ruffians now cocked their pistols, and, with fingers apparently on the
triggers, presented their deadly weapons to the breast of the unarmed
slave, saying, at the same time, if he did not cross his hands, they
would “blow his d—d heart out of him.”

_“Shoot! shoot me!”_ said Henry. “_You can’t kill me but once_.
Shoot!—shoot! and be d—d. _I won’t be tied_.” This, the brave fellow
said in a voice as defiant and heroic in its tone, as was the language
itself; and, at the moment of saying this, with the pistols at his very
breast, he quickly raised his arms, and dashed them from the puny hands
of his assassins, the weapons flying in opposite directions. Now came
the struggle. All hands was now rushed upon the brave fellow, and,
after beating him for some time, they succeeded in overpowering and
tying him. Henry put me to shame; he fought, and fought bravely. John
and I had made no resistance. The fact is, I never see much use in
fighting, unless there is a reasonable probability of whipping
somebody. Yet there was something almost providential in the resistance
made by the gallant Henry. But for that resistance, every soul of us
would have been hurried off to the far south. Just a moment previous to
the trouble with Henry, Mr. Hamilton _mildly_ said—and this gave me the
unmistakable clue to the cause of our arrest—“Perhaps we had now better
make a search for those protections, which we understand Frederick has
written for himself and the rest.” Had these passes been found, they
would have been point blank proof against us, and would have confirmed
all the statements of our betrayer. Thanks to the resistance of Henry,
the excitement produced by the scuffle drew all attention in that
direction, and I succeeded in flinging my pass, unobserved, into the
fire. The confusion attendant upon the scuffle, and the apprehension of
further trouble, perhaps, led our captors to forego, for the present,
any search for _“those protections” which Frederick was said to have
written for his companions_; so we were not yet convicted of the
purpose to run away; and it was evident that there was some doubt, on
the part of all, whether we had been guilty of such a purpose.

Just as we were all completely tied, and about ready to start toward
St. Michael’s, and thence to jail, Mrs. Betsey Freeland (mother to
William, who was very much attached—after the southern fashion—to Henry
and John, they having been reared from childhood in her house) came to
the kitchen door, with her hands full of biscuits—for we had not had
time to take our breakfast that morning—and divided them between Henry
and John. This done, the lady made the following parting address to me,
looking and pointing her bony finger at me. “You devil! you yellow
devil! It was you that put it into the heads of Henry and John to run
away. But for _you_, you _long legged yellow devil_, Henry and John
would never have thought of running away.” I gave the lady a look,
which called forth a scream of mingled wrath and terror, as she slammed
the kitchen door, and went in, leaving me, with the rest, in hands as
harsh as her own broken voice.

Could the kind reader have been quietly riding along the main road to
or from Easton, that morning, his eye would have met a painful sight.
He would have seen five young men, guilty of no crime, save that of
preferring _liberty_ to a life of _bondage_, drawn along the public
highway—firmly bound together—tramping through dust and heat,
bare-footed and bare-headed—fastened to three strong horses, whose
riders were armed to the teeth, with pistols and daggers—on their way
to prison, like felons, and suffering every possible insult from the
crowds of idle, vulgar people, who clustered around, and heartlessly
made their failure the occasion for all manner of ribaldry and sport.
As I looked upon this crowd of vile persons, and saw myself and friends
thus assailed and persecuted, I could not help seeing the fulfillment
of Sandy’s dream. I was in the hands of moral vultures, and firmly held
in their sharp talons, and was hurried away toward Easton, in a
south-easterly direction, amid the jeers of new birds of the same
feather, through every neighborhood we passed. It seemed to me (and
this shows the good understanding between the slaveholders and their
allies) that every body we met knew the cause of our arrest, and were
out, awaiting our passing by, to feast their vindictive eyes on our
misery and to gloat over our ruin. Some said, _I ought to be hanged_,
and others, _I ought to be burnt_, others, I ought to have the _“hide”_
taken from my back; while no one gave us a kind word or sympathizing
look, except the poor slaves, who were lifting their heavy hoes, and
who cautiously glanced at us through the post-and-rail fences, behind
which they were at work. Our sufferings, that morning, can be more
easily imagined than described. Our hopes were all blasted, at a blow.
The cruel injustice, the victorious crime, and the helplessness of
innocence, led me to ask, in my ignorance and weakness “Where now is
the God of justice and mercy? And why have these wicked men the power
thus to trample upon our rights, and to insult our feelings?” And yet,
in the next moment, came the consoling thought, _“The day of oppressor
will come at last.”_ Of one thing I could be glad—not one of my dear
friends, upon whom I had brought this great calamity, either by word or
look, reproached me for having led them into it. We were a band of
brothers, and never dearer to each other than now. The thought which
gave us the most pain, was the probable separation which would now take
place, in case we were sold off to the far south, as we were likely to
be. While the constables were looking forward, Henry and I, being
fastened together, could occasionally exchange a word, without being
observed by the kidnappers who had us in charge. “What shall I do with
my pass?” said Henry. “Eat it with your biscuit,” said I; “it won’t do
to tear it up.” We were now near St. Michael’s. The direction
concerning the passes was passed around, and executed. _“Own nothing!”_
said I. _“Own nothing!”_ was passed around and enjoined, and assented
to. Our confidence in each other was unshaken; and we were quite
resolved to succeed or fail together—as much after the calamity which
had befallen us, as before.

On reaching St. Michael’s, we underwent a sort of examination at my
master’s store, and it was evident to my mind, that Master Thomas
suspected the truthfulness of the evidence upon which they had acted in
arresting us; and that he only affected, to some extent, the
positiveness with which he asserted our guilt. There was nothing said
by any of our company, which could, in any manner, prejudice our cause;
and there was hope, yet, that we should be able to return to our
homes—if for nothing else, at least to find out the guilty man or woman
who had betrayed us.

To this end, we all denied that we had been guilty of intended flight.
Master Thomas said that the evidence he had of our intention to run
away, was strong enough to hang us, in a case of murder. “But,” said I,
“the cases are not equal. If murder were committed, some one must have
committed it—the thing is done! In our case, nothing has been done! We
have not run away. Where is the evidence against us? We were quietly at
our work.” I talked thus, with unusual freedom, to bring out the
evidence against us, for we all wanted, above all things, to know the
guilty wretch who had betrayed us, that we might have something
tangible upon which to pour the execrations. From something which
dropped, in the course of the talk, it appeared that there was but one
witness against us—and that that witness could not be produced. Master
Thomas would not tell us _who_ his informant was; but we suspected, and
suspected _one_ person _only_. Several circumstances seemed to point
SANDY out, as our betrayer. His entire knowledge of our plans his
participation in them—his withdrawal from us—his dream, and his
simultaneous presentiment that we were betrayed—the taking us, and the
leaving him—were calculated to turn suspicion toward him; and yet, we
could not suspect him. We all loved him too well to think it _possible_
that he could have betrayed us. So we rolled the guilt on other
shoulders.

We were literally dragged, that morning, behind horses, a distance of
fifteen miles, and placed in the Easton jail. We were glad to reach the
end of our journey, for our pathway had been the scene of insult and
mortification. Such is the power of public opinion, that it is hard,
even for the innocent, to feel the happy consolations of innocence,
when they fall under the maledictions of this power. How could we
regard ourselves as in the right, when all about us denounced us as
criminals, and had the power and the disposition to treat us as such.

In jail, we were placed under the care of Mr. Joseph Graham, the
sheriff of the county. Henry, and John, and myself, were placed in one
room, and Henry Baily and Charles Roberts, in another, by themselves.
This separation was intended to deprive us of the advantage of concert,
and to prevent trouble in jail.

Once shut up, a new set of tormentors came upon us. A swarm of imps, in
human shape the slave-traders, deputy slave-traders, and agents of
slave-traders—that gather in every country town of the state, watching
for chances to buy human flesh (as buzzards to eat carrion) flocked in
upon us, to ascertain if our masters had placed us in jail to be sold.
Such a set of debased and villainous creatures, I never saw before, and
hope never to see again. I felt myself surrounded as by a pack of
_fiends_, fresh from _perdition_. They laughed, leered, and grinned at
us; saying, “Ah! boys, we’ve got you, havn’t we? So you were about to
make your escape? Where were you going to?” After taunting us, and
peering at us, as long as they liked, they one by one subjected us to
an examination, with a view to ascertain our value; feeling our arms
and legs, and shaking us by the shoulders to see if we were sound and
healthy; impudently asking us, “how we would like to have them for
masters?” To such questions, we were, very much to their annoyance,
quite dumb, disdaining to answer them. For one, I detested the
whisky-bloated gamblers in human flesh; and I believe I was as much
detested by them in turn. One fellow told me, “if he had me, he would
cut the devil out of me pretty quick.”

These Negro buyers are very offensive to the genteel southern Christian
public. They are looked upon, in respectable Maryland society, as
necessary, but detestable characters. As a class, they are hardened
ruffians, made such by nature and by occupation. Their ears are made
quite familiar with the agonizing cry of outraged and woe-smitted
humanity. Their eyes are forever open to human misery. They walk amid
desecrated affections, insulted virtue, and blasted hopes. They have
grown intimate with vice and blood; they gloat over the wildest
illustrations of their soul-damning and earth-polluting business, and
are moral pests. Yes; they are a legitimate fruit of slavery; and it is
a puzzle to make out a case of greater villainy for them, than for the
slaveholders, who make such a class _possible_. They are mere hucksters
of the surplus slave produce of Maryland and Virginia coarse, cruel,
and swaggering bullies, whose very breathing is of blasphemy and blood.

Aside from these slave-buyers, who infested the prison, from time to
time, our quarters were much more comfortable than we had any right to
expect they would be. Our allowance of food was small and coarse, but
our room was the best in the jail—neat and spacious, and with nothing
about it necessarily reminding us of being in prison, but its heavy
locks and bolts and the black, iron lattice-work at the windows. We
were prisoners of state, compared with most slaves who are put into
that Easton jail. But the place was not one of contentment. Bolts, bars
and grated windows are not acceptable to freedom-loving people of any
color. The suspense, too, was painful. Every step on the stairway was
listened to, in the hope that the comer would cast a ray of light on
our fate. We would have given the hair off our heads for half a dozen
words with one of the waiters in Sol. Lowe’s hotel. Such waiters were
in the way of hearing, at the table, the probable course of things. We
could see them flitting about in their white jackets in front of this
hotel, but could speak to none of them.

Soon after the holidays were over, contrary to all our expectations,
Messrs. Hamilton and Freeland came up to Easton; not to make a bargain
with the “Georgia traders,” nor to send us up to Austin Woldfolk, as is
usual in the case of run-away slaves, but to release Charles, Henry
Harris, Henry Baily and John Harris, from prison, and this, too,
without the infliction of a single blow. I was now left entirely alone
in prison. The innocent had been taken, and the guilty left. My friends
were separated from me, and apparently forever. This circumstance
caused me more pain than any other incident connected with our capture
and imprisonment. Thirty-nine lashes on my naked and bleeding back,
would have been joyfully borne, in preference to this separation from
these, the friends of my youth. And yet, I could not but feel that I
was the victim of something like justice. Why should these young men,
who were led into this scheme by me, suffer as much as the instigator?
I felt glad that they were leased from prison, and from the dread
prospect of a life (or death I should rather say) in the rice swamps.
It is due to the noble Henry, to say, that he seemed almost as
reluctant to leave the prison with me in it, as he was to be tied and
dragged to prison. But he and the rest knew that we should, in all the
likelihoods of the case, be separated, in the event of being sold; and
since we were now completely in the hands of our owners, we all
concluded it would be best to go peaceably home.

Not until this last separation, dear reader, had I touched those
profounder depths of desolation, which it is the lot of slaves often to
reach. I was solitary in the world, and alone within the walls of a
stone prison, left to a fate of life-long misery. I had hoped and
expected much, for months before, but my hopes and expectations were
now withered and blasted. The ever dreaded slave life in Georgia,
Louisiana and Alabama—from which escape is next to impossible now, in
my loneliness, stared me in the face. The possibility of ever becoming
anything but an abject slave, a mere machine in the hands of an owner,
had now fled, and it seemed to me it had fled forever. A life of living
death, beset with the innumerable horrors of the cotton field, and the
sugar plantation, seemed to be my doom. The fiends, who rushed into the
prison when we were first put there, continued to visit me, and to ply
me with questions and with their tantalizing remarks. I was insulted,
but helpless; keenly alive to the demands of justice and liberty, but
with no means of asserting them. To talk to those imps about justice
and mercy, would have been as absurd as to reason with bears and
tigers. Lead and steel are the only arguments that they understand.

After remaining in this life of misery and despair about a week, which,
by the way, seemed a month, Master Thomas, very much to my surprise,
and greatly to my relief, came to the prison, and took me out, for the
purpose, as he said, of sending me to Alabama, with a friend of his,
who would emancipate me at the end of eight years. I was glad enough to
get out of prison; but I had no faith in the story that this friend of
Capt. Auld would emancipate me, at the end of the time indicated.
Besides, I never had heard of his having a friend in Alabama, and I
took the announcement, simply as an easy and comfortable method of
shipping me off to the far south. There was a little scandal, too,
connected with the idea of one Christian selling another to the Georgia
traders, while it was deemed every way proper for them to sell to
others. I thought this friend in Alabama was an invention, to meet this
difficulty, for Master Thomas was quite jealous of his Christian
reputation, however unconcerned he might be about his real Christian
character. In these remarks, however, it is possible that I do Master
Thomas Auld injustice. He certainly did not exhaust his power upon me,
in the case, but acted, upon the whole, very generously, considering
the nature of my offense. He had the power and the provocation to send
me, without reserve, into the very everglades of Florida, beyond the
remotest hope of emancipation; and his refusal to exercise that power,
must be set down to his credit.

After lingering about St. Michael’s a few days, and no friend from
Alabama making his appearance, to take me there, Master Thomas decided
to send me back again to Baltimore, to live with his brother Hugh, with
whom he was now at peace; possibly he became so by his profession of
religion, at the camp-meeting in the Bay Side. Master Thomas told me
that he wished me to go to Baltimore, and learn a trade; and that, if I
behaved myself properly, he would _emancipate me at twenty-five!_
Thanks for this one beam of hope in the future. The promise had but one
fault; it seemed too good to be true.




CHAPTER XX. _Apprenticeship Life_


NOTHING LOST BY THE ATTEMPT TO RUN AWAY—COMRADES IN THEIR OLD
HOMES—REASONS FOR SENDING ME AWAY—RETURN TO BALTIMORE—CONTRAST BETWEEN
TOMMY AND THAT OF HIS COLORED COMPANION—TRIALS IN GARDINER’S SHIP
YARD—DESPERATE FIGHT—ITS CAUSES—CONFLICT BETWEEN WHITE AND BLACK
LABOR—DESCRIPTION OF THE OUTRAGE—COLORED TESTIMONY NOTHING—CONDUCT OF
MASTER HUGH—SPIRIT OF SLAVERY IN BALTIMORE—MY CONDITION IMPROVES—NEW
ASSOCIATIONS—SLAVEHOLDER’S RIGHT TO TAKE HIS WAGES—HOW TO MAKE A
CONTENTED SLAVE.


Well! dear reader, I am not, as you may have already inferred, a loser
by the general upstir, described in the foregoing chapter. The little
domestic revolution, notwithstanding the sudden snub it got by the
treachery of somebody—I dare not say or think who—did not, after all,
end so disastrously, as when in the iron cage at Easton, I conceived it
would. The prospect, from that point, did look about as dark as any
that ever cast its gloom over the vision of the anxious, out-looking,
human spirit. “All is well that ends well.” My affectionate comrades,
Henry and John Harris, are still with Mr. William Freeland. Charles
Roberts and Henry Baily are safe at their homes. I have not, therefore,
any thing to regret on their account. Their masters have mercifully
forgiven them, probably on the ground suggested in the spirited little
speech of Mrs. Freeland, made to me just before leaving for the
jail—namely: that they had been allured into the wicked scheme of
making their escape, by me; and that, but for me, they would never have
dreamed of a thing so shocking! My friends had nothing to regret,
either; for while they were watched more closely on account of what had
happened, they were, doubtless, treated more kindly than before, and
got new assurances that they would be legally emancipated, some day,
provided their behavior should make them deserving, from that time
forward. Not a blow, as I learned, was struck any one of them. As for
Master William Freeland, good, unsuspecting soul, he did not believe
that we were intending to run away at all. Having given—as he
thought—no occasion to his boys to leave him, he could not think it
probable that they had entertained a design so grievous. This, however,
was not the view taken of the matter by “Mas’ Billy,” as we used to
call the soft spoken, but crafty and resolute Mr. William Hamilton. He
had no doubt that the crime had been meditated; and regarding me as the
instigator of it, he frankly told Master Thomas that he must remove me
from that neighborhood, or he would shoot me down. He would not have
one so dangerous as “Frederick” tampering with his slaves. William
Hamilton was not a man whose threat might be safely disregarded. I have
no doubt that he would have proved as good as his word, had the warning
given not been promptly taken. He was furious at the thought of such a
piece of high-handed _theft_, as we were about to perpetrate the
stealing of our own bodies and souls! The feasibility of the plan, too,
could the first steps have been taken, was marvelously plain. Besides,
this was a _new_ idea, this use of the bay. Slaves escaping, until now,
had taken to the woods; they had never dreamed of profaning and abusing
the waters of the noble Chesapeake, by making them the highway from
slavery to freedom. Here was a broad road of destruction to slavery,
which, before, had been looked upon as a wall of security by
slaveholders. But Master Billy could not get Mr. Freeland to see
matters precisely as he did; nor could he get Master Thomas so excited
as he was himself. The latter—I must say it to his credit—showed much
humane feeling in his part of the transaction, and atoned for much that
had been harsh, cruel and unreasonable in his former treatment of me
and others. His clemency was quite unusual and unlooked for. “Cousin
Tom” told me that while I was in jail, Master Thomas was very unhappy;
and that the night before his going up to release me, he had walked the
floor nearly all night, evincing great distress; that very tempting
offers had been made to him, by the Negro-traders, but he had rejected
them all, saying that _money could not tempt him to sell me to the far
south_. All this I can easily believe, for he seemed quite reluctant to
send me away, at all. He told me that he only consented to do so,
because of the very strong prejudice against me in the neighborhood,
and that he feared for my safety if I remained there.

Thus, after three years spent in the country, roughing it in the field,
and experiencing all sorts of hardships, I was again permitted to
return to Baltimore, the very place, of all others, short of a free
state, where I most desired to live. The three years spent in the
country, had made some difference in me, and in the household of Master
Hugh. “Little Tommy” was no longer _little_ Tommy; and I was not the
slender lad who had left for the Eastern Shore just three years before.
The loving relations between me and Mas’ Tommy were broken up. He was
no longer dependent on me for protection, but felt himself a _man_,
with other and more suitable associates. In childhood, he scarcely
considered me inferior to himself certainly, as good as any other boy
with whom he played; but the time had come when his _friend_ must
become his _slave_. So we were cold, and we parted. It was a sad thing
to me, that, loving each other as we had done, we must now take
different roads. To him, a thousand avenues were open. Education had
made him acquainted with all the treasures of the world, and liberty
had flung open the gates thereunto; but I, who had attended him seven
years, and had watched over him with the care of a big brother,
fighting his battles in the street, and shielding him from harm, to an
extent which had induced his mother to say, “Oh! Tommy is always safe,
when he is with Freddy,” must be confined to a single condition. He
could grow, and become a MAN; I could grow, though I could _not_ become
a man, but must remain, all my life, a minor—a mere boy. Thomas Auld,
Junior, obtained a situation on board the brig “Tweed,” and went to
sea. I know not what has become of him; he certainly has my good wishes
for his welfare and prosperity. There were few persons to whom I was
more sincerely attached than to him, and there are few in the world I
would be more pleased to meet.

Very soon after I went to Baltimore to live, Master Hugh succeeded in
getting me hired to Mr. William Gardiner, an extensive ship builder on
Fell’s Point. I was placed here to learn to calk, a trade of which I
already had some knowledge, gained while in Mr. Hugh Auld’s ship-yard,
when he was a master builder. Gardiner’s, however, proved a very
unfavorable place for the accomplishment of that object. Mr. Gardiner
was, that season, engaged in building two large man-of-war vessels,
professedly for the Mexican government. These vessels were to be
launched in the month of July, of that year, and, in failure thereof,
Mr. G. would forfeit a very considerable sum of money. So, when I
entered the ship-yard, all was hurry and driving. There were in the
yard about one hundred men; of these about seventy or eighty were
regular carpenters—privileged men. Speaking of my condition here I
wrote, years ago—and I have now no reason to vary the picture as
follows:

There was no time to learn any thing. Every man had to do that which he
knew how to do. In entering the ship-yard, my orders from Mr. Gardiner
were, to do whatever the carpenters commanded me to do. This was
placing me at the beck and call of about seventy-five men. I was to
regard all these as masters. Their word was to be my law. My situation
was a most trying one. At times I needed a dozen pair of hands. I was
called a dozen ways in the space of a single minute. Three or four
voices would strike my ear at the same moment. It was—“Fred., come help
me to cant this timber here.” “Fred., come carry this timber
yonder.”—“Fred., bring that roller here.”—“Fred., go get a fresh can of
water.”—“Fred., come help saw off the end of this timber.”—“Fred., go
quick and get the crow bar.”—“Fred., hold on the end of this
fall.”—“Fred., go to the blacksmith’s shop, and get a new punch.”—

“Hurra, Fred.! run and bring me a cold chisel.”—“I say, Fred., bear a
hand, and get up a fire as quick as lightning under that
steam-box.”—“Halloo, nigger! come, turn this grindstone.”—“Come, come!
move, move! and _bowse_ this timber forward.”—“I say, darkey, blast
your eyes, why don’t you heat up some pitch?”—“Halloo! halloo! halloo!”
(Three voices at the same time.) “Come here!—Go there!—Hold on where
you are! D—n you, if you move, I’ll knock your brains out!”

Such, dear reader, is a glance at the school which was mine, during,
the first eight months of my stay at Baltimore. At the end of the eight
months, Master Hugh refused longer to allow me to remain with Mr.
Gardiner. The circumstance which led to his taking me away, was a
brutal outrage, committed upon me by the white apprentices of the
ship-yard. The fight was a desperate one, and I came out of it most
shockingly mangled. I was cut and bruised in sundry places, and my left
eye was nearly knocked out of its socket. The facts, leading to this
barbarous outrage upon me, illustrate a phase of slavery destined to
become an important element in the overthrow of the slave system, and I
may, therefore state them with some minuteness. That phase is this:
_the conflict of slavery with the interests of the white mechanics and
laborers of the south_. In the country, this conflict is not so
apparent; but, in cities, such as Baltimore, Richmond, New Orleans,
Mobile, &c., it is seen pretty clearly. The slaveholders, with a
craftiness peculiar to themselves, by encouraging the enmity of the
poor, laboring white man against the blacks, succeeds in making the
said white man almost as much a slave as the black slave himself. The
difference between the white slave, and the black slave, is this: the
latter belongs to _one_ slaveholder, and the former belongs to _all_
the slaveholders, collectively. The white slave has taken from him, by
indirection, what the black slave has taken from him, directly, and
without ceremony. Both are plundered, and by the same plunderers. The
slave is robbed, by his master, of all his earnings, above what is
required for his bare physical necessities; and the white man is robbed
by the slave system, of the just results of his labor, because he is
flung into competition with a class of laborers who work without wages.
The competition, and its injurious consequences, will, one day, array
the nonslaveholding white people of the slave states, against the slave
system, and make them the most effective workers against the great
evil. At present, the slaveholders blind them to this competition, by
keeping alive their prejudice against the slaves, _as men_—not against
them _as slaves_. They appeal to their pride, often denouncing
emancipation, as tending to place the white man, on an equality with
Negroes, and, by this means, they succeed in drawing off the minds of
the poor whites from the real fact, that, by the rich slave-master,
they are already regarded as but a single remove from equality with the
slave. The impression is cunningly made, that slavery is the only power
that can prevent the laboring white man from falling to the level of
the slave’s poverty and degradation. To make this enmity deep and
broad, between the slave and the poor white man, the latter is allowed
to abuse and whip the former, without hinderance. But—as I have
suggested—this state of facts prevails _mostly_ in the country. In the
city of Baltimore, there are not unfrequent murmurs, that educating the
slaves to be mechanics may, in the end, give slavemasters power to
dispense with the services of the poor white man altogether. But, with
characteristic dread of offending the slaveholders, these poor, white
mechanics in Mr. Gardiner’s ship-yard—instead of applying the natural,
honest remedy for the apprehended evil, and objecting at once to work
there by the side of slaves—made a cowardly attack upon the free
colored mechanics, saying _they_ were eating the bread which should be
eaten by American freemen, and swearing that they would not work with
them. The feeling was, _really_, against having their labor brought
into competition with that of the colored people at all; but it was too
much to strike directly at the interest of the slaveholders; and,
therefore proving their servility and cowardice they dealt their blows
on the poor, colored freeman, and aimed to prevent _him_ from serving
himself, in the evening of life, with the trade with which he had
served his master, during the more vigorous portion of his days. Had
they succeeded in driving the black freemen out of the ship-yard, they
would have determined also upon the removal of the black slaves. The
feeling was very bitter toward all colored people in Baltimore, about
this time (1836), and they—free and slave suffered all manner of insult
and wrong.

Until a very little before I went there, white and black ship
carpenters worked side by side, in the ship yards of Mr. Gardiner, Mr.
Duncan, Mr. Walter Price, and Mr. Robb. Nobody seemed to see any
impropriety in it. To outward seeming, all hands were well satisfied.
Some of the blacks were first rate workmen, and were given jobs
requiring highest skill. All at once, however, the white carpenters
knocked off, and swore that they would no longer work on the same stage
with free Negroes. Taking advantage of the heavy contract resting upon
Mr. Gardiner, to have the war vessels for Mexico ready to launch in
July, and of the difficulty of getting other hands at that season of
the year, they swore they would not strike another blow for him, unless
he would discharge his free colored workmen.

Now, although this movement did not extend to me, _in form_, it did
reach me, _in fact_. The spirit which it awakened was one of malice and
bitterness, toward colored people _generally_, and I suffered with the
rest, and suffered severely. My fellow apprentices very soon began to
feel it to be degrading to work with me. They began to put on high
looks, and to talk contemptuously and maliciously of _“the Niggers;”_
saying, that “they would take the country,” that “they ought to be
killed.” Encouraged by the cowardly workmen, who, knowing me to be a
slave, made no issue with Mr. Gardiner about my being there, these
young men did their utmost to make it impossible for me to stay. They
seldom called me to do any thing, without coupling the call with a
curse, and Edward North, the biggest in every thing, rascality
included, ventured to strike me, whereupon I picked him up, and threw
him into the dock. Whenever any of them struck me, I struck back again,
regardless of consequences. I could manage any of them _singly_, and,
while I could keep them from combining, I succeeded very well. In the
conflict which ended my stay at Mr. Gardiner’s, I was beset by four of
them at once—Ned North, Ned Hays, Bill Stewart, and Tom Humphreys. Two
of them were as large as myself, and they came near killing me, in
broad day light. The attack was made suddenly, and simultaneously. One
came in front, armed with a brick; there was one at each side, and one
behind, and they closed up around me. I was struck on all sides; and,
while I was attending to those in front, I received a blow on my head,
from behind, dealt with a heavy hand-spike. I was completely stunned by
the blow, and fell, heavily, on the ground, among the timbers. Taking
advantage of my fall, they rushed upon me, and began to pound me with
their fists. I let them lay on, for a while, after I came to myself,
with a view of gaining strength. They did me little damage, so far;
but, finally, getting tired of that sport, I gave a sudden surge, and,
despite their weight, I rose to my hands and knees. Just as I did this,
one of their number (I know not which) planted a blow with his boot in
my left eye, which, for a time, seemed to have burst my eyeball. When
they saw my eye completely closed, my face covered with blood, and I
staggering under the stunning blows they had given me, they left me. As
soon as I gathered sufficient strength, I picked up the hand-spike,
and, madly enough, attempted to pursue them; but here the carpenters
interfered, and compelled me to give up my frenzied pursuit. It was
impossible to stand against so many.

Dear reader, you can hardly believe the statement, but it is true, and,
therefore, I write it down: not fewer than fifty white men stood by,
and saw this brutal and shameless outrage committed, and not a man of
them all interposed a single word of mercy. There were four against
one, and that one’s face was beaten and battered most horribly, and no
one said, “that is enough;” but some cried out, “Kill him—kill him—kill
the d—d nigger! knock his brains out—he struck a white person.” I
mention this inhuman outcry, to show the character of the men, and the
spirit of the times, at Gardiner’s ship yard, and, indeed, in Baltimore
generally, in 1836. As I look back to this period, I am almost amazed
that I was not murdered outright, in that ship yard, so murderous was
the spirit which prevailed there. On two occasions, while there, I came
near losing my life. I was driving bolts in the hold, through the
keelson, with Hays. In its course, the bolt bent. Hays cursed me, and
said that it was my blow which bent the bolt. I denied this, and
charged it upon him. In a fit of rage he seized an adze, and darted
toward me. I met him with a maul, and parried his blow, or I should
have then lost my life. A son of old Tom Lanman (the latter’s double
murder I have elsewhere charged upon him), in the spirit of his
miserable father, made an assault upon me, but the blow with his maul
missed me. After the united assault of North, Stewart, Hays and
Humphreys, finding that the carpenters were as bitter toward me as the
apprentices, and that the latter were probably set on by the former, I
found my only chances for life was in flight. I succeeded in getting
away, without an additional blow. To strike a white man, was death, by
Lynch law, in Gardiner’s ship yard; nor was there much of any other law
toward colored people, at that time, in any other part of Maryland. The
whole sentiment of Baltimore was murderous.

After making my escape from the ship yard, I went straight home, and
related the story of the outrage to Master Hugh Auld; and it is due to
him to say, that his conduct—though he was not a religious man—was
every way more humane than that of his brother, Thomas, when I went to
the latter in a somewhat similar plight, from the hands of _“Brother
Edward Covey.”_ He listened attentively to my narration of the
circumstances leading to the ruffianly outrage, and gave many proofs of
his strong indignation at what was done. Hugh was a rough, but
manly-hearted fellow, and, at this time, his best nature showed itself.

The heart of my once almost over-kind mistress, Sophia, was again
melted in pity toward me. My puffed-out eye, and my scarred and
blood-covered face, moved the dear lady to tears. She kindly drew a
chair by me, and with friendly, consoling words, she took water, and
washed the blood from my face. No mother’s hand could have been more
tender than hers. She bound up my head, and covered my wounded eye with
a lean piece of fresh beef. It was almost compensation for the
murderous assault, and my suffering, that it furnished and occasion for
the manifestation, once more, of the orignally(sic) characteristic
kindness of my mistress. Her affectionate heart was not yet dead,
though much hardened by time and by circumstances.

As for Master Hugh’s part, as I have said, he was furious about it; and
he gave expression to his fury in the usual forms of speech in that
locality. He poured curses on the heads of the whole ship yard company,
and swore that he would have satisfaction for the outrage. His
indignation was really strong and healthy; but, unfortunately, it
resulted from the thought that his rights of property, in my person,
had not been respected, more than from any sense of the outrage
committed on me _as a man_. I inferred as much as this, from the fact
that he could, himself, beat and mangle when it suited him to do so.
Bent on having satisfaction, as he said, just as soon as I got a little
the better of my bruises, Master Hugh took me to Esquire Watson’s
office, on Bond street, Fell’s Point, with a view to procuring the
arrest of those who had assaulted me. He related the outrage to the
magistrate, as I had related it to him, and seemed to expect that a
warrant would, at once, be issued for the arrest of the lawless
ruffians.

Mr. Watson heard it all, and instead of drawing up his warrant, he
inquired.—

“Mr. Auld, who saw this assault of which you speak?”

“It was done, sir, in the presence of a ship yard full of hands.”

“Sir,” said Watson, “I am sorry, but I cannot move in this matter
except upon the oath of white witnesses.”

“But here’s the boy; look at his head and face,” said the excited
Master Hugh; _“they_ show _what_ has been done.”

But Watson insisted that he was not authorized to do anything, unless
_white_ witnesses of the transaction would come forward, and testify to
what had taken place. He could issue no warrant on my word, against
white persons; and, if I had been killed in the presence of a _thousand
blacks_, their testimony, combined would have been insufficient to
arrest a single murderer. Master Hugh, for once, was compelled to say,
that this state of things was _too bad;_ and he left the office of the
magistrate, disgusted.

Of course, it was impossible to get any white man to testify against my
assailants. The carpenters saw what was done; but the actors were but
the agents of their malice, and only what the carpenters sanctioned.
They had cried, with one accord, _“Kill the nigger!” “Kill the
nigger!”_ Even those who may have pitied me, if any such were among
them, lacked the moral courage to come and volunteer their evidence.
The slightest manifestation of sympathy or justice toward a person of
color, was denounced as abolitionism; and the name of abolitionist,
subjected its bearer to frightful liabilities. “D—n _abolitionists,”_
and _“Kill the niggers,”_ were the watch-words of the foul-mouthed
ruffians of those days. Nothing was done, and probably there would not
have been any thing done, had I been killed in the affray. The laws and
the morals of the Christian city of Baltimore, afforded no protection
to the sable denizens of that city.

Master Hugh, on finding he could get no redress for the cruel wrong,
withdrew me from the employment of Mr. Gardiner, and took me into his
own family, Mrs. Auld kindly taking care of me, and dressing my wounds,
until they were healed, and I was ready to go again to work.

While I was on the Eastern Shore, Master Hugh had met with reverses,
which overthrew his business; and he had given up ship building in his
own yard, on the City Block, and was now acting as foreman of Mr.
Walter Price. The best he could now do for me, was to take me into Mr.
Price’s yard, and afford me the facilities there, for completing the
trade which I had began to learn at Gardiner’s. Here I rapidly became
expert in the use of my calking tools; and, in the course of a single
year, I was able to command the highest wages paid to journeymen
calkers in Baltimore.

The reader will observe that I was now of some pecuniary value to my
master. During the busy season, I was bringing six and seven dollars
per week. I have, sometimes, brought him as much as nine dollars a
week, for the wages were a dollar and a half per day.

After learning to calk, I sought my own employment, made my own
contracts, and collected my own earnings; giving Master Hugh no trouble
in any part of the transactions to which I was a party.

Here, then, were better days for the Eastern Shore _slave_. I was now
free from the vexatious assalts(sic) of the apprentices at Mr.
Gardiner’s; and free from the perils of plantation life, and once more
in a favorable condition to increase my little stock of education,
which had been at a dead stand since my removal from Baltimore. I had,
on the Eastern Shore, been only a teacher, when in company with other
slaves, but now there were colored persons who could instruct me. Many
of the young calkers could read, write and cipher. Some of them had
high notions about mental improvement; and the free ones, on Fell’s
Point, organized what they called the _“East Baltimore Mental
Improvement Society.”_ To this society, notwithstanding it was intended
that only free persons should attach themselves, I was admitted, and
was, several times, assigned a prominent part in its debates. I owe
much to the society of these young men.

The reader already knows enough of the _ill_ effects of good treatment
on a slave, to anticipate what was now the case in my improved
condition. It was not long before I began to show signs of disquiet
with slavery, and to look around for means to get out of that condition
by the shortest route. I was living among _free men;_ and was, in all
respects, equal to them by nature and by attainments. _Why should I be
a slave?_ There was _no_ reason why I should be the thrall of any man.

Besides, I was now getting—as I have said—a dollar and fifty cents per
day. I contracted for it, worked for it, earned it, collected it; it
was paid to me, and it was _rightfully_ my own; and yet, upon every
returning Saturday night, this money—my own hard earnings, every cent
of it—was demanded of me, and taken from me by Master Hugh. He did not
earn it; he had no hand in earning it; why, then, should he have it? I
owed him nothing. He had given me no schooling, and I had received from
him only my food and raiment; and for these, my services were supposed
to pay, from the first. The right to take my earnings, was the right of
the robber. He had the power to compel me to give him the fruits of my
labor, and this power was his only right in the case. I became more and
more dissatisfied with this state of things; and, in so becoming, I
only gave proof of the same human nature which every reader of this
chapter in my life—slaveholder, or nonslaveholder—is conscious of
possessing.

To make a contented slave, you must make a thoughtless one. It is
necessary to darken his moral and mental vision, and, as far as
possible, to annihilate his power of reason. He must be able to detect
no inconsistencies in slavery. The man that takes his earnings, must be
able to convince him that he has a perfect right to do so. It must not
depend upon mere force; the slave must know no Higher Law than his
master’s will. The whole relationship must not only demonstrate, to his
mind, its necessity, but its absolute rightfulness. If there be one
crevice through which a single drop can fall, it will certainly rust
off the slave’s chain.




CHAPTER XXI. _My Escape from Slavery_


CLOSING INCIDENTS OF “MY LIFE AS A SLAVE”—REASONS WHY FULL PARTICULARS
OF THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE WILL NOT BE GIVEN—CRAFTINESS AND MALICE OF
SLAVEHOLDERS—SUSPICION OF AIDING A SLAVE’S ESCAPE ABOUT AS DANGEROUS AS
POSITIVE EVIDENCE—WANT OF WISDOM SHOWN IN PUBLISHING DETAILS OF THE
ESCAPE OF THE FUGITIVES—PUBLISHED ACCOUNTS REACH THE MASTERS, NOT THE
SLAVES—SLAVEHOLDERS STIMULATED TO GREATER WATCHFULNESS—MY
CONDITION—DISCONTENT—SUSPICIONS IMPLIED BY MASTER HUGH’S MANNER, WHEN
RECEIVING MY WAGES—HIS OCCASIONAL GENEROSITY!—DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY
OF ESCAPE—EVERY AVENUE GUARDED—PLAN TO OBTAIN MONEY—I AM ALLOWED TO
HIRE MY TIME—A GLEAM OF HOPE—ATTENDS CAMP-MEETING, WITHOUT
PERMISSION—ANGER OF MASTER HUGH THEREAT—THE RESULT—MY PLANS OF ESCAPE
ACCELERATED THERBY—THE DAY FOR MY DEPARTURE FIXED—HARASSED BY DOUBTS
AND FEARS—PAINFUL THOUGHTS OF SEPARATION FROM FRIENDS—THE ATTEMPT
MADE—ITS SUCCESS.


I will now make the kind reader acquainted with the closing incidents
of my “Life as a Slave,” having already trenched upon the limit
allotted to my “Life as a Freeman.” Before, however, proceeding with
this narration, it is, perhaps, proper that I should frankly state, in
advance, my intention to withhold a part of the(sic) connected with my
escape from slavery. There are reasons for this suppression, which I
trust the reader will deem altogether valid. It may be easily
conceived, that a full and complete statement of all facts pertaining
to the flight of a bondman, might implicate and embarrass some who may
have, wittingly or unwittingly, assisted him; and no one can wish me to
involve any man or woman who has befriended me, even in the liability
of embarrassment or trouble.

Keen is the scent of the slaveholder; like the fangs of the
rattlesnake, his malice retains its poison long; and, although it is
now nearly seventeen years since I made my escape, it is well to be
careful, in dealing with the circumstances relating to it. Were I to
give but a shadowy outline of the process adopted, with characteristic
aptitude, the crafty and malicious among the slaveholders might,
possibly, hit upon the track I pursued, and involve some one in
suspicion which, in a slave state, is about as bad as positive
evidence. The colored man, there, must not only shun evil, but shun the
very _appearance_ of evil, or be condemned as a criminal. A
slaveholding community has a peculiar taste for ferreting out offenses
against the slave system, justice there being more sensitive in its
regard for the peculiar rights of this system, than for any other
interest or institution. By stringing together a train of events and
circumstances, even if I were not very explicit, the means of escape
might be ascertained, and, possibly, those means be rendered,
thereafter, no longer available to the liberty-seeking children of
bondage I have left behind me. No antislavery man can wish me to do
anything favoring such results, and no slaveholding reader has any
right to expect the impartment of such information.

While, therefore, it would afford me pleasure, and perhaps would
materially add to the interest of my story, were I at liberty to
gratify a curiosity which I know to exist in the minds of many, as to
the manner of my escape, I must deprive myself of this pleasure, and
the curious of the gratification, which such a statement of facts would
afford. I would allow myself to suffer under the greatest imputations
that evil minded men might suggest, rather than exculpate myself by
explanation, and thereby run the hazards of closing the slightest
avenue by which a brother in suffering might clear himself of the
chains and fetters of slavery.

The practice of publishing every new invention by which a slave is
known to have escaped from slavery, has neither wisdom nor necessity to
sustain it. Had not Henry Box Brown and his friends attracted
slaveholding attention to the manner of his escape, we might have had a
thousand _Box Browns_ per annum. The singularly original plan adopted
by William and Ellen Crafts, perished with the first using, because
every slaveholder in the land was apprised of it. The _salt water
slave_ who hung in the guards of a steamer, being washed three days and
three nights—like another Jonah—by the waves of the sea, has, by the
publicity given to the circumstance, set a spy on the guards of every
steamer departing from southern ports.

I have never approved of the very public manner, in which some of our
western friends have conducted what _they_ call the _“Under-ground
Railroad,”_ but which, I think, by their open declarations, has been
made, most emphatically, the _“Upper_-ground Railroad.” Its stations
are far better known to the slaveholders than to the slaves. I honor
those good men and women for their noble daring, in willingly
subjecting themselves to persecution, by openly avowing their
participation in the escape of slaves; nevertheless, the good resulting
from such avowals, is of a very questionable character. It may kindle
an enthusiasm, very pleasant to inhale; but that is of no practical
benefit to themselves, nor to the slaves escaping. Nothing is more
evident, than that such disclosures are a positive evil to the slaves
remaining, and seeking to escape. In publishing such accounts, the
anti-slavery man addresses the slaveholder, _not the slave;_ he
stimulates the former to greater watchfulness, and adds to his
facilities for capturing his slave. We owe something to the slaves,
south of Mason and Dixon’s line, as well as to those north of it; and,
in discharging the duty of aiding the latter, on their way to freedom,
we should be careful to do nothing which would be likely to hinder the
former, in making their escape from slavery. Such is my detestation of
slavery, that I would keep the merciless slaveholder profoundly
ignorant of the means of flight adopted by the slave. He should be left
to imagine himself surrounded by myriads of invisible tormentors, ever
ready to snatch, from his infernal grasp, his trembling prey. In
pursuing his victim, let him be left to feel his way in the dark; let
shades of darkness, commensurate with his crime, shut every ray of
light from his pathway; and let him be made to feel, that, at every
step he takes, with the hellish purpose of reducing a brother man to
slavery, he is running the frightful risk of having his hot brains
dashed out by an invisible hand.

But, enough of this. I will now proceed to the statement of those
facts, connected with my escape, for which I am alone responsible, and
for which no one can be made to suffer but myself.

My condition in the year (1838) of my escape, was, comparatively, a
free and easy one, so far, at least, as the wants of the physical man
were concerned; but the reader will bear in mind, that my troubles from
the beginning, have been less physical than mental, and he will thus be
prepared to find, after what is narrated in the previous chapters, that
slave life was adding nothing to its charms for me, as I grew older,
and became better acquainted with it. The practice, from week to week,
of openly robbing me of all my earnings, kept the nature and character
of slavery constantly before me. I could be robbed by _indirection_,
but this was _too_ open and barefaced to be endured. I could see no
reason why I should, at the end of each week, pour the reward of my
honest toil into the purse of any man. The thought itself vexed me, and
the manner in which Master Hugh received my wages, vexed me more than
the original wrong. Carefully counting the money and rolling it out,
dollar by dollar, he would look me in the face, as if he would search
my heart as well as my pocket, and reproachfully ask me, “_Is that
all_?”—implying that I had, perhaps, kept back part of my wages; or, if
not so, the demand was made, possibly, to make me feel, that, after
all, I was an “unprofitable servant.” Draining me of the last cent of
my hard earnings, he would, however, occasionally—when I brought home
an extra large sum—dole out to me a sixpence or a shilling, with a
view, perhaps, of kindling up my gratitude; but this practice had the
opposite effect—it was an admission of _my right to the whole sum_. The
fact, that he gave me any part of my wages, was proof that he suspected
that I had a right _to the whole of them_. I always felt uncomfortable,
after having received anything in this way, for I feared that the
giving me a few cents, might, possibly, ease his conscience, and make
him feel himself a pretty honorable robber, after all!

Held to a strict account, and kept under a close watch—the old
suspicion of my running away not having been entirely removed—escape
from slavery, even in Baltimore, was very difficult. The railroad from
Baltimore to Philadelphia was under regulations so stringent, that even
_free_ colored travelers were almost excluded. They must have _free_
papers; they must be measured and carefully examined, before they were
allowed to enter the cars; they only went in the day time, even when so
examined. The steamboats were under regulations equally stringent. All
the great turnpikes, leading northward, were beset with kidnappers, a
class of men who watched the newspapers for advertisements for runaway
slaves, making their living by the accursed reward of slave hunting.

My discontent grew upon me, and I was on the look-out for means of
escape. With money, I could easily have managed the matter, and,
therefore, I hit upon the plan of soliciting the privilege of hiring my
time. It is quite common, in Baltimore, to allow slaves this privilege,
and it is the practice, also, in New Orleans. A slave who is considered
trustworthy, can, by paying his master a definite sum regularly, at the
end of each week, dispose of his time as he likes. It so happened that
I was not in very good odor, and I was far from being a trustworthy
slave. Nevertheless, I watched my opportunity when Master Thomas came
to Baltimore (for I was still his property, Hugh only acted as his
agent) in the spring of 1838, to purchase his spring supply of goods,
and applied to him, directly, for the much-coveted privilege of hiring
my time. This request Master Thomas unhesitatingly refused to grant;
and he charged me, with some sternness, with inventing this stratagem
to make my escape. He told me, “I could go _nowhere_ but he could catch
me; and, in the event of my running away, I might be assured he should
spare no pains in his efforts to recapture me.” He recounted, with a
good deal of eloquence, the many kind offices he had done me, and
exhorted me to be contented and obedient. “Lay out no plans for the
future,” said he. “If you behave yourself properly, I will take care of
you.” Now, kind and considerate as this offer was, it failed to soothe
me into repose. In spite of Master Thomas, and, I may say, in spite of
myself, also, I continued to think, and worse still, to think almost
exclusively about the injustice and wickedness of slavery. No effort of
mine or of his could silence this trouble-giving thought, or change my
purpose to run away.

About two months after applying to Master Thomas for the privilege of
hiring my time, I applied to Master Hugh for the same liberty,
supposing him to be unacquainted with the fact that I had made a
similar application to Master Thomas, and had been refused. My boldness
in making this request, fairly astounded him at the first. He gazed at
me in amazement. But I had many good reasons for pressing the matter;
and, after listening to them awhile, he did not absolutely refuse, but
told me he would think of it. Here, then, was a gleam of hope. Once
master of my own time, I felt sure that I could make, over and above my
obligation to him, a dollar or two every week. Some slaves have made
enough, in this way, to purchase their freedom. It is a sharp spur to
industry; and some of the most enterprising colored men in Baltimore
hire themselves in this way. After mature reflection—as I must suppose
it was Master Hugh granted me the privilege in question, on the
following terms: I was to be allowed all my time; to make all bargains
for work; to find my own employment, and to collect my own wages; and,
in return for this liberty, I was required, or obliged, to pay him
three dollars at the end of each week, and to board and clothe myself,
and buy my own calking tools. A failure in any of these particulars
would put an end to my privilege. This was a hard bargain. The wear and
tear of clothing, the losing and breaking of tools, and the expense of
board, made it necessary for me to earn at least six dollars per week,
to keep even with the world. All who are acquainted with calking, know
how uncertain and irregular that employment is. It can be done to
advantage only in dry weather, for it is useless to put wet oakum into
a seam. Rain or shine, however, work or no work, at the end of each
week the money must be forthcoming.

Master Hugh seemed to be very much pleased, for a time, with this
arrangement; and well he might be, for it was decidedly in his favor.
It relieved him of all anxiety concerning me. His money was sure. He
had armed my love of liberty with a lash and a driver, far more
efficient than any I had before known; and, while he derived all the
benefits of slaveholding by the arrangement, without its evils, I
endured all the evils of being a slave, and yet suffered all the care
and anxiety of a responsible freeman. “Nevertheless,” thought I, “it is
a valuable privilege another step in my career toward freedom.” It was
something even to be permitted to stagger under the disadvantages of
liberty, and I was determined to hold on to the newly gained footing,
by all proper industry. I was ready to work by night as well as by day;
and being in the enjoyment of excellent health, I was able not only to
meet my current expenses, but also to lay by a small sum at the end of
each week. All went on thus, from the month of May till August;
then—for reasons which will become apparent as I proceed—my much valued
liberty was wrested from me.

During the week previous to this (to me) calamitous event, I had made
arrangements with a few young friends, to accompany them, on Saturday
night, to a camp-meeting, held about twelve miles from Baltimore. On
the evening of our intended start for the camp-ground, something
occurred in the ship yard where I was at work, which detained me
unusually late, and compelled me either to disappoint my young friends,
or to neglect carrying my weekly dues to Master Hugh. Knowing that I
had the money, and could hand it to him on another day, I decided to go
to camp-meeting, and to pay him the three dollars, for the past week,
on my return. Once on the camp-ground, I was induced to remain one day
longer than I had intended, when I left home. But, as soon as I
returned, I went straight to his house on Fell street, to hand him his
(my) money. Unhappily, the fatal mistake had been committed. I found
him exceedingly angry. He exhibited all the signs of apprehension and
wrath, which a slaveholder may be surmised to exhibit on the supposed
escape of a favorite slave. “You rascal! I have a great mind to give
you a severe whipping. How dare you go out of the city without first
asking and obtaining my permission?” “Sir,” said I, “I hired my time
and paid you the price you asked for it. I did not know that it was any
part of the bargain that I should ask you when or where I should go.”

“You did not know, you rascal! You are bound to show yourself here
every Saturday night.” After reflecting, a few moments, he became
somewhat cooled down; but, evidently greatly troubled, he said, “Now,
you scoundrel! you have done for yourself; you shall hire your time no
longer. The next thing I shall hear of, will be your running away.
Bring home your tools and your clothes, at once. I’ll teach you how to
go off in this way.”

Thus ended my partial freedom. I could hire my time no longer; and I
obeyed my master’s orders at once. The little taste of liberty which I
had had—although as the reader will have seen, it was far from being
unalloyed—by no means enhanced my contentment with slavery. Punished
thus by Master Hugh, it was now my turn to punish him. “Since,” thought
I, “you _will_ make a slave of me, I will await your orders in all
things;” and, instead of going to look for work on Monday morning, as I
had formerly done, I remained at home during the entire week, without
the performance of a single stroke of work. Saturday night came, and he
called upon me, as usual, for my wages. I, of course, told him I had
done no work, and had no wages. Here we were at the point of coming to
blows. His wrath had been accumulating during the whole week; for he
evidently saw that I was making no effort to get work, but was most
aggravatingly awaiting his orders, in all things. As I look back to
this behavior of mine, I scarcely know what possessed me, thus to
trifle with those who had such unlimited power to bless or to blast me.
Master Hugh raved and swore his determination to _“get hold of me;”_
but, wisely for _him_, and happily for _me_, his wrath only employed
those very harmless, impalpable missiles, which roll from a limber
tongue. In my desperation, I had fully made up my mind to measure
strength with Master Hugh, in case he should undertake to execute his
threats. I am glad there was no necessity for this; for resistance to
him could not have ended so happily for me, as it did in the case of
Covey. He was not a man to be safely resisted by a slave; and I freely
own, that in my conduct toward him, in this instance, there was more
folly than wisdom. Master Hugh closed his reproofs, by telling me that,
hereafter, I need give myself no uneasiness about getting work; that he
“would, himself, see to getting work for me, and enough of it, at
that.” This threat I confess had some terror in it; and, on thinking
the matter over, during the Sunday, I resolved, not only to save him
the trouble of getting me work, but that, upon the third day of
September, I would attempt to make my escape from slavery. The refusal
to allow me to hire my time, therefore, hastened the period of flight.
I had three weeks, now, in which to prepare for my journey.

Once resolved, I felt a certain degree of repose, and on Monday,
instead of waiting for Master Hugh to seek employment for me, I was up
by break of day, and off to the ship yard of Mr. Butler, on the City
Block, near the draw-bridge. I was a favorite with Mr. B., and, young
as I was, I had served as his foreman on the float stage, at calking.
Of course, I easily obtained work, and, at the end of the week—which by
the way was exceedingly fine I brought Master Hugh nearly nine dollars.
The effect of this mark of returning good sense, on my part, was
excellent. He was very much pleased; he took the money, commended me,
and told me I might have done the same thing the week before. It is a
blessed thing that the tyrant may not always know the thoughts and
purposes of his victim. Master Hugh little knew what my plans were. The
going to camp-meeting without asking his permission—the insolent
answers made to his reproaches—the sulky deportment the week after
being deprived of the privilege of hiring my time—had awakened in him
the suspicion that I might be cherishing disloyal purposes. My object,
therefore, in working steadily, was to remove suspicion, and in this I
succeeded admirably. He probably thought I was never better satisfied
with my condition, than at the very time I was planning my escape. The
second week passed, and again I carried him my full week’s wages—_nine
dollars;_ and so well pleased was he, that he gave me TWENTY-FIVE
CENTS! and “bade me make good use of it!” I told him I would, for one
of the uses to which I meant to put it, was to pay my fare on the
underground railroad.

Things without went on as usual; but I was passing through the same
internal excitement and anxiety which I had experienced two years and a
half before. The failure, in that instance, was not calculated to
increase my confidence in the success of this, my second attempt; and I
knew that a second failure could not leave me where my first did—I must
either get to the _far north_, or be sent to the _far south_. Besides
the exercise of mind from this state of facts, I had the painful
sensation of being about to separate from a circle of honest and warm
hearted friends, in Baltimore. The thought of such a separation, where
the hope of ever meeting again is excluded, and where there can be no
correspondence, is very painful. It is my opinion, that thousands would
escape from slavery who now remain there, but for the strong cords of
affection that bind them to their families, relatives and friends. The
daughter is hindered from escaping, by the love she bears her mother,
and the father, by the love he bears his children; and so, to the end
of the chapter. I had no relations in Baltimore, and I saw no
probability of ever living in the neighborhood of sisters and brothers;
but the thought of leaving my friends, was among the strongest
obstacles to my running away. The last two days of the week—Friday and
Saturday—were spent mostly in collecting my things together, for my
journey. Having worked four days that week, for my master, I handed him
six dollars, on Saturday night. I seldom spent my Sundays at home; and,
for fear that something might be discovered in my conduct, I kept up my
custom, and absented myself all day. On Monday, the third day of
September, 1838, in accordance with my resolution, I bade farewell to
the city of Baltimore, and to that slavery which had been my abhorrence
from childhood.

How I got away—in what direction I traveled—whether by land or by
water; whether with or without assistance—must, for reasons already
mentioned, remain unexplained.




LIFE as a FREEMAN




CHAPTER XXII. _Liberty Attained_


TRANSITION FROM SLAVERY TO FREEDOM—A WANDERER IN NEW YORK—FEELINGS ON
REACHING THAT CITY—AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE MET—UNFAVORABLE
IMPRESSIONS—LONELINESS AND INSECURITY—APOLOGY FOR SLAVES WHO RETURN TO
THEIR MASTERS—COMPELLED TO TELL MY CONDITION—SUCCORED BY A SAILOR—DAVID
RUGGLES—THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD—MARRIAGE—BAGGAGE TAKEN FROM
ME—KINDNESS OF NATHAN JOHNSON—MY CHANGE OF NAME—DARK NOTIONS OF
NORTHERN CIVILIZATION—THE CONTRAST—COLORED PEOPLE IN NEW BEDFORD—AN
INCIDENT ILLUSTRATING THEIR SPIRIT—A COMMON LABORER—DENIED WORK AT MY
TRADE—THE FIRST WINTER AT THE NORTH—REPULSE AT THE DOORS OF THE
CHURCH—SANCTIFIED HATE—THE _Liberator_ AND ITS EDITOR.


There is no necessity for any extended notice of the incidents of this
part of my life. There is nothing very striking or peculiar about my
career as a freeman, when viewed apart from my life as a slave. The
relation subsisting between my early experience and that which I am now
about to narrate, is, perhaps, my best apology for adding another
chapter to this book.

Disappearing from the kind reader, in a flying cloud or balloon (pardon
the figure), driven by the wind, and knowing not where I should
land—whether in slavery or in freedom—it is proper that I should
remove, at once, all anxiety, by frankly making known where I alighted.
The flight was a bold and perilous one; but here I am, in the great
city of New York, safe and sound, without loss of blood or bone. In
less than a week after leaving Baltimore, I was walking amid the
hurrying throng, and gazing upon the dazzling wonders of Broadway. The
dreams of my childhood and the purposes of my manhood were now
fulfilled. A free state around me, and a free earth under my feet! What
a moment was this to me! A whole year was pressed into a single day. A
new world burst upon my agitated vision. I have often been asked, by
kind friends to whom I have told my story, how I felt when first I
found myself beyond the limits of slavery; and I must say here, as I
have often said to them, there is scarcely anything about which I could
not give a more satisfactory answer. It was a moment of joyous
excitement, which no words can describe. In a letter to a friend,
written soon after reaching New York. I said I felt as one might be
supposed to feel, on escaping from a den of hungry lions. But, in a
moment like that, sensations are too intense and too rapid for words.
Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be described, but joy
and gladness, like the rainbow of promise, defy alike the pen and
pencil.

For ten or fifteen years I had been dragging a heavy chain, with a huge
block attached to it, cumbering my every motion. I had felt myself
doomed to drag this chain and this block through life. All efforts,
before, to separate myself from the hateful encumbrance, had only
seemed to rivet me the more firmly to it. Baffled and discouraged at
times, I had asked myself the question, May not this, after all, be
God’s work? May He not, for wise ends, have doomed me to this lot? A
contest had been going on in my mind for years, between the clear
consciousness of right and the plausible errors of superstition;
between the wisdom of manly courage, and the foolish weakness of
timidity. The contest was now ended; the chain was severed; God and
right stood vindicated. I was A FREEMAN, and the voice of peace and joy
thrilled my heart.

Free and joyous, however, as I was, joy was not the only sensation I
experienced. It was like the quick blaze, beautiful at the first, but
which subsiding, leaves the building charred and desolate. I was soon
taught that I was still in an enemy’s land. A sense of loneliness and
insecurity oppressed me sadly. I had been but a few hours in New York,
before I was met in the streets by a fugitive slave, well known to me,
and the information I got from him respecting New York, did nothing to
lessen my apprehension of danger. The fugitive in question was
“Allender’s Jake,” in Baltimore; but, said he, I am “WILLIAM DIXON,” in
New York! I knew Jake well, and knew when Tolly Allender and Mr. Price
(for the latter employed Master Hugh as his foreman, in his shipyard on
Fell’s Point) made an attempt to recapture Jake, and failed. Jake told
me all about his circumstances, and how narrowly he escaped being taken
back to slavery; that the city was now full of southerners, returning
from the springs; that the black people in New York were not to be
trusted; that there were hired men on the lookout for fugitives from
slavery, and who, for a few dollars, would betray me into the hands of
the slave-catchers; that I must trust no man with my secret; that I
must not think of going either on the wharves to work, or to a
boarding-house to board; and, worse still, this same Jake told me it
was not in his power to help me. He seemed, even while cautioning me,
to be fearing lest, after all, I might be a party to a second attempt
to recapture him. Under the inspiration of this thought, I must suppose
it was, he gave signs of a wish to get rid of me, and soon left me his
whitewash brush in hand—as he said, for his work. He was soon lost to
sight among the throng, and I was alone again, an easy prey to the
kidnappers, if any should happen to be on my track.

New York, seventeen years ago, was less a place of safety for a runaway
slave than now, and all know how unsafe it now is, under the new
fugitive slave bill. I was much troubled. I had very little money
enough to buy me a few loaves of bread, but not enough to pay board,
outside a lumber yard. I saw the wisdom of keeping away from the ship
yards, for if Master Hugh pursued me, he would naturally expect to find
me looking for work among the calkers. For a time, every door seemed
closed against me. A sense of my loneliness and helplessness crept over
me, and covered me with something bordering on despair. In the midst of
thousands of my fellowmen, and yet a perfect stranger! In the midst of
human brothers, and yet more fearful of them than of hungry wolves! I
was without home, without friends, without work, without money, and
without any definite knowledge of which way to go, or where to look for
succor.

Some apology can easily be made for the few slaves who have, after
making good their escape, turned back to slavery, preferring the actual
rule of their masters, to the life of loneliness, apprehension, hunger,
and anxiety, which meets them on their first arrival in a free state.
It is difficult for a freeman to enter into the feelings of such
fugitives. He cannot see things in the same light with the slave,
because he does not, and cannot, look from the same point from which
the slave does. “Why do you tremble,” he says to the slave “you are in
a free state;” but the difficulty is, in realizing that he is in a free
state, the slave might reply. A freeman cannot understand why the
slave-master’s shadow is bigger, to the slave, than the might and
majesty of a free state; but when he reflects that the slave knows more
about the slavery of his master than he does of the might and majesty
of the free state, he has the explanation. The slave has been all his
life learning the power of his master—being trained to dread his
approach—and only a few hours learning the power of the state. The
master is to him a stern and flinty reality, but the state is little
more than a dream. He has been accustomed to regard every white man as
the friend of his master, and every colored man as more or less under
the control of his master’s friends—the white people. It takes stout
nerves to stand up, in such circumstances. A man, homeless,
shelterless, breadless, friendless, and moneyless, is not in a
condition to assume a very proud or joyous tone; and in just this
condition was I, while wandering about the streets of New York city and
lodging, at least one night, among the barrels on one of its wharves. I
was not only free from slavery, but I was free from home, as well. The
reader will easily see that I had something more than the simple fact
of being free to think of, in this extremity.

I kept my secret as long as I could, and at last was forced to go in
search of an honest man—a man sufficiently _human_ not to betray me
into the hands of slave-catchers. I was not a bad reader of the human
face, nor long in selecting the right man, when once compelled to
disclose the facts of my condition to some one.

I found my man in the person of one who said his name was Stewart. He
was a sailor, warm-hearted and generous, and he listened to my story
with a brother’s interest. I told him I was running for my freedom—knew
not where to go—money almost gone—was hungry—thought it unsafe to go
the shipyards for work, and needed a friend. Stewart promptly put me in
the way of getting out of my trouble. He took me to his house, and went
in search of the late David Ruggles, who was then the secretary of the
New York Vigilance Committee, and a very active man in all anti-slavery
works. Once in the hands of Mr. Ruggles, I was comparatively safe. I
was hidden with Mr. Ruggles several days. In the meantime, my intended
wife, Anna, came on from Baltimore—to whom I had written, informing her
of my safe arrival at New York—and, in the presence of Mrs. Mitchell
and Mr. Ruggles, we were married, by Rev. James W. C. Pennington.

Mr. Ruggles 7 was the first officer on the under-ground railroad with
whom I met after reaching the north, and, indeed, the first of whom I
ever heard anything. Learning that I was a calker by trade, he promptly
decided that New Bedford was the proper place to send me. “Many ships,”
said he, “are there fitted out for the whaling business, and you may
there find work at your trade, and make a good living.” Thus, in one
fortnight after my flight from Maryland, I was safe in New Bedford,
regularly entered upon the exercise of the rights, responsibilities,
and duties of a freeman.

I may mention a little circumstance which annoyed me on reaching New
Bedford. I had not a cent of money, and lacked two dollars toward
paying our fare from Newport, and our baggage not very costly—was taken
by the stage driver, and held until I could raise the money to redeem
it. This difficulty was soon surmounted. Mr. Nathan Johnson, to whom we
had a line from Mr. Ruggles, not only received us kindly and
hospitably, but, on being informed about our baggage, promptly loaned
me two dollars with which to redeem my little property. I shall ever be
deeply grateful, both to Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Johnson, for the lively
interest they were pleased to take in me, in this hour of my extremest
need. They not only gave myself and wife bread and shelter, but taught
us how to begin to secure those benefits for ourselves. Long may they
live, and may blessings attend them in this life and in that which is
to come!

Once initiated into the new life of freedom, and assured by Mr. Johnson
that New Bedford was a safe place, the comparatively unimportant
matter, as to what should be my name, came up for considertion(sic). It
was necessary to have a name in my new relations. The name given me by
my beloved mother was no less pretentious than “Frederick Augustus
Washington Bailey.” I had, however, before leaving Maryland, dispensed
with the _Augustus Washington_, and retained the name _Frederick
Bailey_. Between Baltimore and New Bedford, however, I had several
different names, the better to avoid being overhauled by the hunters,
which I had good reason to believe would be put on my track. Among
honest men an honest man may well be content with one name, and to
acknowledge it at all times and in all places; but toward fugitives,
Americans are not honest. When I arrived at New Bedford, my name was
Johnson; and finding that the Johnson family in New Bedford were
already quite numerous—sufficiently so to produce some confusion in
attempts to distinguish one from another—there was the more reason for
making another change in my name. In fact, “Johnson” had been assumed
by nearly every slave who had arrived in New Bedford from Maryland, and
this, much to the annoyance of the original “Johnsons” (of whom there
were many) in that place. Mine host, unwilling to have another of his
own name added to the community in this unauthorized way, after I spent
a night and a day at his house, gave me my present name. He had been
reading the “Lady of the Lake,” and was pleased to regard me as a
suitable person to wear this, one of Scotland’s many famous names.
Considering the noble hospitality and manly character of Nathan
Johnson, I have felt that he, better than I, illustrated the virtues of
the great Scottish chief. Sure I am, that had any slave-catcher entered
his domicile, with a view to molest any one of his household, he would
have shown himself like him of the “stalwart hand.”

The reader will be amused at my ignorance, when I tell the notions I
had of the state of northern wealth, enterprise, and civilization. Of
wealth and refinement, I supposed the north had none. My _Columbian
Orator_, which was almost my only book, had not done much to enlighten
me concerning northern society. The impressions I had received were all
wide of the truth. New Bedford, especially, took me by surprise, in the
solid wealth and grandeur there exhibited. I had formed my notions
respecting the social condition of the free states, by what I had seen
and known of free, white, non-slaveholding people in the slave states.
Regarding slavery as the basis of wealth, I fancied that no people
could become very wealthy without slavery. A free white man, holding no
slaves, in the country, I had known to be the most ignorant and
poverty-stricken of men, and the laughing stock even of slaves
themselves—called generally by them, in derision, _“poor white trash_.”
Like the non-slaveholders at the south, in holding no slaves, I suppose
the northern people like them, also, in poverty and degradation. Judge,
then, of my amazement and joy, when I found—as I did find—the very
laboring population of New Bedford living in better houses, more
elegantly furnished—surrounded by more comfort and refinement—than a
majority of the slaveholders on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. There
was my friend, Mr. Johnson, himself a colored man (who at the south
would have been regarded as a proper marketable commodity), who lived
in a better house—dined at a richer board—was the owner of more
books—the reader of more newspapers—was more conversant with the
political and social condition of this nation and the world—than
nine-tenths of all the slaveholders of Talbot county, Maryland. Yet Mr.
Johnson was a working man, and his hands were hardened by honest toil.
Here, then, was something for observation and study. Whence the
difference? The explanation was soon furnished, in the superiority of
mind over simple brute force. Many pages might be given to the
contrast, and in explanation of its causes. But an incident or two will
suffice to show the reader as to how the mystery gradually vanished
before me.

My first afternoon, on reaching New Bedford, was spent in visiting the
wharves and viewing the shipping. The sight of the broad brim and the
plain, Quaker dress, which met me at every turn, greatly increased my
sense of freedom and security. “I am among the Quakers,” thought I,
“and am safe.” Lying at the wharves and riding in the stream, were
full-rigged ships of finest model, ready to start on whaling voyages.
Upon the right and the left, I was walled in by large granite-fronted
warehouses, crowded with the good things of this world. On the wharves,
I saw industry without bustle, labor without noise, and heavy toil
without the whip. There was no loud singing, as in southern ports,
where ships are loading or unloading—no loud cursing or swearing—but
everything went on as smoothly as the works of a well adjusted machine.
How different was all this from the nosily fierce and clumsily absurd
manner of labor-life in Baltimore and St. Michael’s! One of the first
incidents which illustrated the superior mental character of northern
labor over that of the south, was the manner of unloading a ship’s
cargo of oil. In a southern port, twenty or thirty hands would have
been employed to do what five or six did here, with the aid of a single
ox attached to the end of a fall. Main strength, unassisted by skill,
is slavery’s method of labor. An old ox, worth eighty dollars, was
doing, in New Bedford, what would have required fifteen thousand
dollars worth of human bones and muscles to have performed in a
southern port. I found that everything was done here with a scrupulous
regard to economy, both in regard to men and things, time and strength.
The maid servant, instead of spending at least a tenth part of her time
in bringing and carrying water, as in Baltimore, had the pump at her
elbow. The wood was dry, and snugly piled away for winter. Woodhouses,
in-door pumps, sinks, drains, self-shutting gates, washing machines,
pounding barrels, were all new things, and told me that I was among a
thoughtful and sensible people. To the ship-repairing dock I went, and
saw the same wise prudence. The carpenters struck where they aimed, and
the calkers wasted no blows in idle flourishes of the mallet. I learned
that men went from New Bedford to Baltimore, and bought old ships, and
brought them here to repair, and made them better and more valuable
than they ever were before. Men talked here of going whaling on a four
_years’_ voyage with more coolness than sailors where I came from
talked of going a four _months’_ voyage.

I now find that I could have landed in no part of the United States,
where I should have found a more striking and gratifying contrast to
the condition of the free people of color in Baltimore, than I found
here in New Bedford. No colored man is really free in a slaveholding
state. He wears the badge of bondage while nominally free, and is often
subjected to hardships to which the slave is a stranger; but here in
New Bedford, it was my good fortune to see a pretty near approach to
freedom on the part of the colored people. I was taken all aback when
Mr. Johnson—who lost no time in making me acquainted with the fact—told
me that there was nothing in the constitution of Massachusetts to
prevent a colored man from holding any office in the state. There, in
New Bedford, the black man’s children—although anti-slavery was then
far from popular—went to school side by side with the white children,
and apparently without objection from any quarter. To make me at home,
Mr. Johnson assured me that no slaveholder could take a slave from New
Bedford; that there were men there who would lay down their lives,
before such an outrage could be perpetrated. The colored people
themselves were of the best metal, and would fight for liberty to the
death.

Soon after my arrival in New Bedford, I was told the following story,
which was said to illustrate the spirit of the colored people in that
goodly town: A colored man and a fugitive slave happened to have a
little quarrel, and the former was heard to threaten the latter with
informing his master of his whereabouts. As soon as this threat became
known, a notice was read from the desk of what was then the only
colored church in the place, stating that business of importance was to
be then and there transacted. Special measures had been taken to secure
the attendance of the would-be Judas, and had proved successful.
Accordingly, at the hour appointed, the people came, and the betrayer
also. All the usual formalities of public meetings were scrupulously
gone through, even to the offering prayer for Divine direction in the
duties of the occasion. The president himself performed this part of
the ceremony, and I was told that he was unusually fervent. Yet, at the
close of his prayer, the old man (one of the numerous family of
Johnsons) rose from his knees, deliberately surveyed his audience, and
then said, in a tone of solemn resolution, _“Well, friends, we have got
him here, and I would now recommend that you young men should just take
him outside the door and kill him.”_ With this, a large body of the
congregation, who well understood the business they had come there to
transact, made a rush at the villain, and doubtless would have killed
him, had he not availed himself of an open sash, and made good his
escape. He has never shown his head in New Bedford since that time.
This little incident is perfectly characteristic of the spirit of the
colored people in New Bedford. A slave could not be taken from that
town seventeen years ago, any more than he could be so taken away now.
The reason is, that the colored people in that city are educated up to
the point of fighting for their freedom, as well as speaking for it.

Once assured of my safety in New Bedford, I put on the habiliments of a
common laborer, and went on the wharf in search of work. I had no
notion of living on the honest and generous sympathy of my colored
brother, Johnson, or that of the abolitionists. My cry was like that of
Hood’s laborer, “Oh! only give me work.” Happily for me, I was not long
in searching. I found employment, the third day after my arrival in New
Bedford, in stowing a sloop with a load of oil for the New York market.
It was new, hard, and dirty work, even for a calker, but I went at it
with a glad heart and a willing hand. I was now my own master—a
tremendous fact—and the rapturous excitement with which I seized the
job, may not easily be understood, except by some one with an
experience like mine. The thoughts—“I can work! I can work for a
living; I am not afraid of work; I have no Master Hugh to rob me of my
earnings”—placed me in a state of independence, beyond seeking
friendship or support of any man. That day’s work I considered the real
starting point of something like a new existence. Having finished this
job and got my pay for the same, I went next in pursuit of a job at
calking. It so happened that Mr. Rodney French, late mayor of the city
of New Bedford, had a ship fitting out for sea, and to which there was
a large job of calking and coppering to be done. I applied to that
noblehearted man for employment, and he promptly told me to go to work;
but going on the float-stage for the purpose, I was informed that every
white man would leave the ship if I struck a blow upon her. “Well,
well,” thought I, “this is a hardship, but yet not a very serious one
for me.” The difference between the wages of a calker and that of a
common day laborer, was an hundred per cent in favor of the former; but
then I was free, and free to work, though not at my trade. I now
prepared myself to do anything which came to hand in the way of turning
an honest penny; sawed wood—dug cellars—shoveled coal—swept chimneys
with Uncle Lucas Debuty—rolled oil casks on the wharves—helped to load
and unload vessels—worked in Ricketson’s candle works—in Richmond’s
brass foundery, and elsewhere; and thus supported myself and family for
three years.

The first winter was unusually severe, in consequence of the high
prices of food; but even during that winter we probably suffered less
than many who had been free all their lives. During the hardest of the
winter, I hired out for nine dolars(sic) a month; and out of this
rented two rooms for nine dollars per quarter, and supplied my wife—who
was unable to work—with food and some necessary articles of furniture.
We were closely pinched to bring our wants within our means; but the
jail stood over the way, and I had a wholesome dread of the
consequences of running in debt. This winter past, and I was up with
the times—got plenty of work—got well paid for it—and felt that I had
not done a foolish thing to leave Master Hugh and Master Thomas. I was
now living in a new world, and was wide awake to its advantages. I
early began to attend the meetings of the colored people of New
Bedford, and to take part in them. I was somewhat amazed to see colored
men drawing up resolutions and offering them for consideration. Several
colored young men of New Bedford, at that period, gave promise of great
usefulness. They were educated, and possessed what seemed to me, at the
time, very superior talents. Some of them have been cut down by death,
and others have removed to different parts of the world, and some
remain there now, and justify, in their present activities, my early
impressions of them.

Among my first concerns on reaching New Bedford, was to become united
with the church, for I had never given up, in reality, my religious
faith. I had become lukewarm and in a backslidden state, but I was
still convinced that it was my duty to join the Methodist church. I was
not then aware of the powerful influence of that religious body in
favor of the enslavement of my race, nor did I see how the northern
churches could be responsible for the conduct of southern churches;
neither did I fully understand how it could be my duty to remain
separate from the church, because bad men were connected with it. The
slaveholding church, with its Coveys, Weedens, Aulds, and Hopkins, I
could see through at once, but I could not see how Elm Street church,
in New Bedford, could be regarded as sanctioning the Christianity of
these characters in the church at St. Michael’s. I therefore resolved
to join the Methodist church in New Bedford, and to enjoy the spiritual
advantage of public worship. The minister of the Elm Street Methodist
church, was the Rev. Mr. Bonney; and although I was not allowed a seat
in the body of the house, and was proscribed on account of my color,
regarding this proscription simply as an accommodation of the
uncoverted congregation who had not yet been won to Christ and his
brotherhood, I was willing thus to be proscribed, lest sinners should
be driven away form the saving power of the gospel. Once converted, I
thought they would be sure to treat me as a man and a brother.
“Surely,” thought I, “these Christian people have none of this feeling
against color. They, at least, have renounced this unholy feeling.”
Judge, then, dear reader, of my astonishment and mortification, when I
found, as soon I did find, all my charitable assumptions at fault.

An opportunity was soon afforded me for ascertaining the exact position
of Elm Street church on that subject. I had a chance of seeing the
religious part of the congregation by themselves; and although they
disowned, in effect, their black brothers and sisters, before the
world, I did think that where none but the saints were assembled, and
no offense could be given to the wicked, and the gospel could not be
“blamed,” they would certainly recognize us as children of the same
Father, and heirs of the same salvation, on equal terms with
themselves.

The occasion to which I refer, was the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper,
that most sacred and most solemn of all the ordinances of the Christian
church. Mr. Bonney had preached a very solemn and searching discourse,
which really proved him to be acquainted with the inmost secerts(sic)
of the human heart. At the close of his discourse, the congregation was
dismissed, and the church remained to partake of the sacrament. I
remained to see, as I thought, this holy sacrament celebrated in the
spirit of its great Founder.

There were only about a half dozen colored members attached to the Elm
Street church, at this time. After the congregation was dismissed,
these descended from the gallery, and took a seat against the wall most
distant from the altar. Brother Bonney was very animated, and sung very
sweetly, “Salvation ‘tis a joyful sound,” and soon began to administer
the sacrament. I was anxious to observe the bearing of the colored
members, and the result was most humiliating. During the whole
ceremony, they looked like sheep without a shepherd. The white members
went forward to the altar by the bench full; and when it was evident
that all the whites had been served with the bread and wine, Brother
Bonney—pious Brother Bonney—after a long pause, as if inquiring whether
all the whites members had been served, and fully assuring himself on
that important point, then raised his voice to an unnatural pitch, and
looking to the corner where his black sheep seemed penned, beckoned
with his hand, exclaiming, “Come forward, colored friends! come
forward! You, too, have an interest in the blood of Christ. God is no
respecter of persons. Come forward, and take this holy sacrament to
your comfort.” The colored members poor, slavish souls went forward, as
invited. I went out, and have never been in that church since, although
I honestly went there with a view to joining that body. I found it
impossible to respect the religious profession of any who were under
the dominion of this wicked prejudice, and I could not, therefore, feel
that in joining them, I was joining a Christian church, at all. I tried
other churches in New Bedford, with the same result, and finally, I
attached myself to a small body of colored Methodists, known as the
Zion Methodists. Favored with the affection and confidence of the
members of this humble communion, I was soon made a classleader and a
local preacher among them. Many seasons of peace and joy I experienced
among them, the remembrance of which is still precious, although I
could not see it to be my duty to remain with that body, when I found
that it consented to the same spirit which held my brethren in chains.

In four or five months after reaching New Bedford, there came a young
man to me, with a copy of the _Liberator_, the paper edited by WILLIAM
LLOYD GARRISON, and published by ISAAC KNAPP, and asked me to subscribe
for it. I told him I had but just escaped from slavery, and was of
course very poor, and remarked further, that I was unable to pay for it
then; the agent, however, very willingly took me as a subscriber, and
appeared to be much pleased with securing my name to his list. From
this time I was brought in contact with the mind of William Lloyd
Garrison. His paper took its place with me next to the bible.

The _Liberator_ was a paper after my own heart. It detested slavery
exposed hypocrisy and wickedness in high places—made no truce with the
traffickers in the bodies and souls of men; it preached human
brotherhood, denounced oppression, and, with all the solemnity of God’s
word, demanded the complete emancipation of my race. I not only liked—I
_loved_ this paper, and its editor. He seemed a match for all the
oponents(sic) of emancipation, whether they spoke in the name of the
law, or the gospel. His words were few, full of holy fire, and straight
to the point. Learning to love him, through his paper, I was prepared
to be pleased with his presence. Something of a hero worshiper, by
nature, here was one, on first sight, to excite my love and reverence.

Seventeen years ago, few men possessed a more heavenly countenance than
William Lloyd Garrison, and few men evinced a more genuine or a more
exalted piety. The bible was his text book—held sacred, as the word of
the Eternal Father—sinless perfection—complete submission to insults
and injuries—literal obedience to the injunction, if smitten on one
side to turn the other also. Not only was Sunday a Sabbath, but all
days were Sabbaths, and to be kept holy. All sectarism false and
mischievous—the regenerated, throughout the world, members of one body,
and the HEAD Christ Jesus. Prejudice against color was rebellion
against God. Of all men beneath the sky, the slaves, because most
neglected and despised, were nearest and dearest to his great heart.
Those ministers who defended slavery from the bible, were of their
“father the devil”; and those churches which fellowshiped slaveholders
as Christians, were synagogues of Satan, and our nation was a nation of
liars. Never loud or noisy—calm and serene as a summer sky, and as
pure. “You are the man, the Moses, raised up by God, to deliver his
modern Israel from bondage,” was the spontaneous feeling of my heart,
as I sat away back in the hall and listened to his mighty words; mighty
in truth—mighty in their simple earnestness.

I had not long been a reader of the _Liberator_, and listener to its
editor, before I got a clear apprehension of the principles of the
anti-slavery movement. I had already the spirit of the movement, and
only needed to understand its principles and measures. These I got from
the _Liberator_, and from those who believed in that paper. My
acquaintance with the movement increased my hope for the ultimate
freedom of my race, and I united with it from a sense of delight, as
well as duty.

Every week the _Liberator_ came, and every week I made myself master of
its contents. All the anti-slavery meetings held in New Bedford I
promptly attended, my heart burning at every true utterance against the
slave system, and every rebuke of its friends and supporters. Thus
passed the first three years of my residence in New Bedford. I had not
then dreamed of the posibility(sic) of my becoming a public advocate of
the cause so deeply imbedded in my heart. It was enough for me to
listen—to receive and applaud the great words of others, and only
whisper in private, among the white laborers on the wharves, and
elsewhere, the truths which burned in my breast.




CHAPTER XXIII. _Introduced to the Abolitionists_


FIRST SPEECH AT NANTUCKET—MUCH SENSATION—EXTRAORDINARY SPEECH OF MR.
GARRISON—AUTHOR BECOMES A PUBLIC LECTURER—FOURTEEN YEARS
EXPERIENCE—YOUTHFUL ENTHUSIASM—A BRAND NEW FACT—MATTER OF MY AUTHOR’S
SPEECH—COULD NOT FOLLOW THE PROGRAMME—FUGITIVE SLAVESHIP DOUBTED—TO
SETTLE ALL DOUBT I WRITE MY EXPERIENCE OF SLAVERY—DANGER OF RECAPTURE
INCREASED.


In the summer of 1841, a grand anti-slavery convention was held in
Nantucket, under the auspices of Mr. Garrison and his friends. Until
now, I had taken no holiday since my escape from slavery. Having worked
very hard that spring and summer, in Richmond’s brass
foundery—sometimes working all night as well as all day—and needing a
day or two of rest, I attended this convention, never supposing that I
should take part in the proceedings. Indeed, I was not aware that any
one connected with the convention even so much as knew my name. I was,
however, quite mistaken. Mr. William C. Coffin, a prominent
abolitionst(sic) in those days of trial, had heard me speaking to my
colored friends, in the little school house on Second street, New
Bedford, where we worshiped. He sought me out in the crowd, and invited
me to say a few words to the convention. Thus sought out, and thus
invited, I was induced to speak out the feelings inspired by the
occasion, and the fresh recollection of the scenes through which I had
passed as a slave. My speech on this occasion is about the only one I
ever made, of which I do not remember a single connected sentence. It
was with the utmost difficulty that I could stand erect, or that I
could command and articulate two words without hesitation and
stammering. I trembled in every limb. I am not sure that my
embarrassment was not the most effective part of my speech, if speech
it could be called. At any rate, this is about the only part of my
performance that I now distinctly remember. But excited and convulsed
as I was, the audience, though remarkably quiet before, became as much
excited as myself. Mr. Garrison followed me, taking me as his text; and
now, whether I had made an eloquent speech in behalf of freedom or not,
his was one never to be forgotten by those who heard it. Those who had
heard Mr. Garrison oftenest, and had known him longest, were
astonished. It was an effort of unequaled power, sweeping down, like a
very tornado, every opposing barrier, whether of sentiment or opinion.
For a moment, he possessed that almost fabulous inspiration, often
referred to but seldom attained, in which a public meeting is
transformed, as it were, into a single individuality—the orator
wielding a thousand heads and hearts at once, and by the simple majesty
of his all controlling thought, converting his hearers into the express
image of his own soul. That night there were at least one thousand
Garrisonians in Nantucket! A(sic) the close of this great meeting, I
was duly waited on by Mr. John A. Collins—then the general agent of the
Massachusetts anti-slavery society—and urgently solicited by him to
become an agent of that society, and to publicly advocate its
anti-slavery principles. I was reluctant to take the proffered
position. I had not been quite three years from slavery—was honestly
distrustful of my ability—wished to be excused; publicity exposed me to
discovery and arrest by my master; and other objections came up, but
Mr. Collins was not to be put off, and I finally consented to go out
for three months, for I supposed that I should have got to the end of
my story and my usefulness, in that length of time.

Here opened upon me a new life a life for which I had had no
preparation. I was a “graduate from the peculiar institution,” Mr.
Collins used to say, when introducing me, _“with my diploma written on
my back!”_ The three years of my freedom had been spent in the hard
school of adversity. My hands had been furnished by nature with
something like a solid leather coating, and I had bravely marked out
for myself a life of rough labor, suited to the hardness of my hands,
as a means of supporting myself and rearing my children.

Now what shall I say of this fourteen years’ experience as a public
advocate of the cause of my enslaved brothers and sisters? The time is
but as a speck, yet large enough to justify a pause for
retrospection—and a pause it must only be.

Young, ardent, and hopeful, I entered upon this new life in the full
gush of unsuspecting enthusiasm. The cause was good; the men engaged in
it were good; the means to attain its triumph, good; Heaven’s blessing
must attend all, and freedom must soon be given to the pining millions
under a ruthless bondage. My whole heart went with the holy cause, and
my most fervent prayer to the Almighty Disposer of the hearts of men,
were continually offered for its early triumph. “Who or what,” thought
I, “can withstand a cause so good, so holy, so indescribably glorious.
The God of Israel is with us. The might of the Eternal is on our side.
Now let but the truth be spoken, and a nation will start forth at the
sound!” In this enthusiastic spirit, I dropped into the ranks of
freedom’s friends, and went forth to the battle. For a time I was made
to forget that my skin was dark and my hair crisped. For a time I
regretted that I could not have shared the hardships and dangers
endured by the earlier workers for the slave’s release. I soon,
however, found that my enthusiasm had been extravagant; that hardships
and dangers were not yet passed; and that the life now before me, had
shadows as well as sunbeams.

Among the first duties assigned me, on entering the ranks, was to
travel, in company with Mr. George Foster, to secure subscribers to the
_Anti-slavery Standard_ and the _Liberator_. With him I traveled and
lectured through the eastern counties of Massachusetts. Much interest
was awakened—large meetings assembled. Many came, no doubt, from
curiosity to hear what a Negro could say in his own cause. I was
generally introduced as a _“chattel”—_a_“thing”_—a piece of southern
_“property”_—the chairman assuring the audience that _it_ could speak.
Fugitive slaves, at that time, were not so plentiful as now; and as a
fugitive slave lecturer, I had the advantage of being a _“brand new
fact”_—the first one out. Up to that time, a colored man was deemed a
fool who confessed himself a runaway slave, not only because of the
danger to which he exposed himself of being retaken, but because it was
a confession of a very _low_ origin! Some of my colored friends in New
Bedford thought very badly of my wisdom for thus exposing and degrading
myself. The only precaution I took, at the beginning, to prevent Master
Thomas from knowing where I was, and what I was about, was the
withholding my former name, my master’s name, and the name of the state
and county from which I came. During the first three or four months, my
speeches were almost exclusively made up of narrations of my own
personal experience as a slave. “Let us have the facts,” said the
people. So also said Friend George Foster, who always wished to pin me
down to my simple narrative. “Give us the facts,” said Collins, “we
will take care of the philosophy.” Just here arose some embarrassment.
It was impossible for me to repeat the same old story month after
month, and to keep up my interest in it. It was new to the people, it
is true, but it was an old story to me; and to go through with it night
after night, was a task altogether too mechanical for my nature. “Tell
your story, Frederick,” would whisper my then revered friend, William
Lloyd Garrison, as I stepped upon the platform. I could not always
obey, for I was now reading and thinking. New views of the subject were
presented to my mind. It did not entirely satisfy me to _narrate_
wrongs; I felt like _denouncing_ them. I could not always curb my moral
indignation for the perpetrators of slaveholding villainy, long enough
for a circumstantial statement of the facts which I felt almost
everybody must know. Besides, I was growing, and needed room. “People
won’t believe you ever was a slave, Frederick, if you keep on this
way,” said Friend Foster. “Be yourself,” said Collins, “and tell your
story.” It was said to me, “Better have a _little_ of the plantation
manner of speech than not; ‘tis not best that you seem too learned.”
These excellent friends were actuated by the best of motives, and were
not altogether wrong in their advice; and still I must speak just the
word that seemed to _me_ the word to be spoken _by_ me.

At last the apprehended trouble came. People doubted if I had ever been
a slave. They said I did not talk like a slave, look like a slave, nor
act like a slave, and that they believed I had never been south of
Mason and Dixon’s line. “He don’t tell us where he came from—what his
master’s name was—how he got away—nor the story of his experience.
Besides, he is educated, and is, in this, a contradiction of all the
facts we have concerning the ignorance of the slaves.” Thus, I was in a
pretty fair way to be denounced as an impostor. The committee of the
Massachusetts anti-slavery society knew all the facts in my case, and
agreed with me in the prudence of keeping them private. They,
therefore, never doubted my being a genuine fugitive; but going down
the aisles of the churches in which I spoke, and hearing the free
spoken Yankees saying, repeatedly, _“He’s never been a slave, I’ll
warrant ye_,” I resolved to dispel all doubt, at no distant day, by
such a revelation of facts as could not be made by any other than a
genuine fugitive.

In a little less than four years, therefore, after becoming a public
lecturer, I was induced to write out the leading facts connected with
my experience in slavery, giving names of persons, places, and
dates—thus putting it in the power of any who doubted, to ascertain the
truth or falsehood of my story of being a fugitive slave. This
statement soon became known in Maryland, and I had reason to believe
that an effort would be made to recapture me.

It is not probable that any open attempt to secure me as a slave could
have succeeded, further than the obtainment, by my master, of the money
value of my bones and sinews. Fortunately for me, in the four years of
my labors in the abolition cause, I had gained many friends, who would
have suffered themselves to be taxed to almost any extent to save me
from slavery. It was felt that I had committed the double offense of
running away, and exposing the secrets and crimes of slavery and
slaveholders. There was a double motive for seeking my
reenslavement—avarice and vengeance; and while, as I have said, there
was little probability of successful recapture, if attempted openly, I
was constantly in danger of being spirited away, at a moment when my
friends could render me no assistance. In traveling about from place to
place—often alone I was much exposed to this sort of attack. Any one
cherishing the design to betray me, could easily do so, by simply
tracing my whereabouts through the anti-slavery journals, for my
meetings and movements were promptly made known in advance. My true
friends, Mr. Garrison and Mr. Phillips, had no faith in the power of
Massachusetts to protect me in my right to liberty. Public sentiment
and the law, in their opinion, would hand me over to the tormentors.
Mr. Phillips, especially, considered me in danger, and said, when I
showed him the manuscript of my story, if in my place, he would throw
it into the fire. Thus, the reader will observe, the settling of one
difficulty only opened the way for another; and that though I had
reached a free state, and had attained position for public usefulness,
I ws(sic) still tormented with the liability of losing my liberty. How
this liability was dispelled, will be related, with other incidents, in
the next chapter.




CHAPTER XXIV. _Twenty-One Months in Great Britain_


GOOD ARISING OUT OF UNPROPITIOUS EVENTS—DENIED CABIN
PASSAGE—PROSCRIPTION TURNED TO GOOD ACCOUNT—THE HUTCHINSON FAMILY—THE
MOB ON BOARD THE “CAMBRIA”—HAPPY INTRODUCTION TO THE BRITISH
PUBLIC—LETTER ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON—TIME AND LABORS WHILE
ABROAD—FREEDOM PURCHASED—MRS. HENRY RICHARDSON—FREE
PAPERS—ABOLITIONISTS DISPLEASED WITH THE RANSOM—HOW MY ENERGIES WERE
DIRECTED—RECEPTION SPEECH IN LONDON—CHARACTER OF THE SPEECH
DEFENDED—CIRCUMSTANCES EXPLAINED—CAUSES CONTRIBUTING TO THE SUCCESS OF
MY MISSION—FREE CHURCH OF SCOTLAND—TESTIMONIAL.


The allotments of Providence, when coupled with trouble and anxiety,
often conceal from finite vision the wisdom and goodness in which they
are sent; and, frequently, what seemed a harsh and invidious
dispensation, is converted by after experience into a happy and
beneficial arrangement. Thus, the painful liability to be returned
again to slavery, which haunted me by day, and troubled my dreams by
night, proved to be a necessary step in the path of knowledge and
usefulness. The writing of my pamphlet, in the spring of 1845,
endangered my liberty, and led me to seek a refuge from republican
slavery in monarchical England. A rude, uncultivated fugitive slave was
driven, by stern necessity, to that country to which young American
gentlemen go to increase their stock of knowledge, to seek pleasure, to
have their rough, democratic manners softened by contact with English
aristocratic refinement. On applying for a passage to England, on board
the “Cambria”, of the Cunard line, my friend, James N. Buffum, of Lynn,
Massachusetts, was informed that I could not be received on board as a
cabin passenger. American prejudice against color triumphed over
British liberality and civilization, and erected a color test and
condition for crossing the sea in the cabin of a British vessel. The
insult was keenly felt by my white friends, but to me, it was common,
expected, and therefore, a thing of no great consequence, whether I
went in the cabin or in the steerage. Moreover, I felt that if I could
not go into the first cabin, first-cabin passengers could come into the
second cabin, and the result justified my anticipations to the fullest
extent. Indeed, I soon found myself an object of more general interest
than I wished to be; and so far from being degraded by being placed in
the second cabin, that part of the ship became the scene of as much
pleasure and refinement, during the voyage, as the cabin itself. The
Hutchinson Family, celebrated vocalists—fellow-passengers—often came to
my rude forecastle deck, and sung their sweetest songs, enlivening the
place with eloquent music, as well as spirited conversation, during the
voyage. In two days after leaving Boston, one part of the ship was
about as free to me as another. My fellow-passengers not only visited
me, but invited me to visit them, on the saloon deck. My visits there,
however, were but seldom. I preferred to live within my privileges, and
keep upon my own premises. I found this quite as much in accordance
with good policy, as with my own feelings. The effect was, that with
the majority of the passengers, all color distinctions were flung to
the winds, and I found myself treated with every mark of respect, from
the beginning to the end of the voyage, except in a single instance;
and in that, I came near being mobbed, for complying with an invitation
given me by the passengers, and the captain of the “Cambria,” to
deliver a lecture on slavery. Our New Orleans and Georgia passengers
were pleased to regard my lecture as an insult offered to them, and
swore I should not speak. They went so far as to threaten to throw me
overboard, and but for the firmness of Captain Judkins, probably would
have (under the inspiration of _slavery_ and _brandy_) attempted to put
their threats into execution. I have no space to describe this scene,
although its tragic and comic peculiarities are well worth describing.
An end was put to the _melee_, by the captain’s calling the ship’s
company to put the salt water mobocrats in irons. At this determined
order, the gentlemen of the lash scampered, and for the rest of the
voyage conducted themselves very decorously.

This incident of the voyage, in two days after landing at Liverpool,
brought me at once before the British public, and that by no act of my
own. The gentlemen so promptly snubbed in their meditated violence,
flew to the press to justify their conduct, and to denounce me as a
worthless and insolent Negro. This course was even less wise than the
conduct it was intended to sustain; for, besides awakening something
like a national interest in me, and securing me an audience, it brought
out counter statements, and threw the blame upon themselves, which they
had sought to fasten upon me and the gallant captain of the ship.

Some notion may be formed of the difference in my feelings and
circumstances, while abroad, from the following extract from one of a
series of letters addressed by me to Mr. Garrison, and published in the
_Liberator_. It was written on the first day of January, 1846:

MY DEAR FRIEND GARRISON: Up to this time, I have given no direct
expression of the views, feelings, and opinions which I have formed,
respecting the character and condition of the people of this land. I
have refrained thus, purposely. I wish to speak advisedly, and in order
to do this, I have waited till, I trust, experience has brought my
opinions to an intelligent maturity. I have been thus careful, not
because I think what I say will have much effect in shaping the
opinions of the world, but because whatever of influence I may possess,
whether little or much, I wish it to go in the right direction, and
according to truth. I hardly need say that, in speaking of Ireland, I
shall be influenced by no prejudices in favor of America. I think my
circumstances all forbid that. I have no end to serve, no creed to
uphold, no government to defend; and as to nation, I belong to none. I
have no protection at home, or resting-place abroad. The land of my
birth welcomes me to her shores only as a slave, and spurns with
contempt the idea of treating me differently; so that I am an outcast
from the society of my childhood, and an outlaw in the land of my
birth. “I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers
were.” That men should be patriotic, is to me perfectly natural; and as
a philosophical fact, I am able to give it an _intellectual_
recognition. But no further can I go. If ever I had any patriotism, or
any capacity for the feeling, it was whipped out of me long since, by
the lash of the American soul-drivers.

In thinking of America, I sometimes find myself admiring her bright
blue sky, her grand old woods, her fertile fields, her beautiful
rivers, her mighty lakes, and star-crowned mountains. But my rapture is
soon checked, my joy is soon turned to mourning. When I remember that
all is cursed with the infernal spirit of slaveholding, robbery, and
wrong; when I remember that with the waters of her noblest rivers, the
tears of my brethren are borne to the ocean, disregarded and forgotten,
and that her most fertile fields drink daily of the warm blood of my
outraged sisters; I am filled with unutterable loathing, and led to
reproach myself that anything could fall from my lips in praise of such
a land. America will not allow her children to love her. She seems bent
on compelling those who would be her warmest friends, to be her worst
enemies. May God give her repentance, before it is too late, is the
ardent prayer of my heart. I will continue to pray, labor, and wait,
believing that she cannot always be insensible to the dictates of
justice, or deaf to the voice of humanity.

My opportunities for learning the character and condition of the people
of this land have been very great. I have traveled almost from the Hill
of Howth to the Giant’s Causeway, and from the Giant’s Causway, to Cape
Clear. During these travels, I have met with much in the chara@@ and
condition of the people to approve, and much to condemn; much that
@@thrilled me with pleasure, and very much that has filled me with
pain. I @@ @@t, in this letter, attempt to give any description of
those scenes which have given me pain. This I will do hereafter. I have
enough, and more than your subscribers will be disposed to read at one
time, of the bright side of the picture. I can truly say, I have spent
some of the happiest moments of my life since landing in this country.
I seem to have undergone a transformation. I live a new life. The warm
and generous cooperation extended to me by the friends of my despised
race; the prompt and liberal manner with which the press has rendered
me its aid; the glorious enthusiasm with which thousands have flocked
to hear the cruel wrongs of my down-trodden and long-enslaved
fellow-countrymen portrayed; the deep sympathy for the slave, and the
strong abhorrence of the slaveholder, everywhere evinced; the
cordiality with which members and ministers of various religious
bodies, and of various shades of religious opinion, have embraced me,
and lent me their aid; the kind of hospitality constantly proffered to
me by persons of the highest rank in society; the spirit of freedom
that seems to animate all with whom I come in contact, and the entire
absence of everything that looked like prejudice against me, on account
of the color of my skin—contrasted so strongly with my long and bitter
experience in the United States, that I look with wonder and amazement
on the transition. In the southern part of the United States, I was a
slave, thought of and spoken of as property; in the language of the
LAW, “_held, taken, reputed, and adjudged to be a chattel in the hands
of my owners and possessors, and their executors, administrators, and
assigns, to all intents, constructions, and purposes whatsoever_.”
(Brev. Digest, 224). In the northern states, a fugitive slave, liable
to be hunted at any moment, like a felon, and to be hurled into the
terrible jaws of slavery—doomed by an inveterate prejudice against
color to insult and outrage on every hand (Massachusetts out of the
question)—denied the privileges and courtesies common to others in the
use of the most humble means of conveyance—shut out from the cabins on
steamboats—refused admission to respectable hotels—caricatured,
scorned, scoffed, mocked, and maltreated with impunity by any one (no
matter how black his heart), so he has a white skin. But now behold the
change! Eleven days and a half gone, and I have crossed three thousand
miles of the perilous deep. Instead of a democratic government, I am
under a monarchical government. Instead of the bright, blue sky of
America, I am covered with the soft, grey fog of the Emerald Isle. I
breathe, and lo! the chattel becomes a man. I gaze around in vain for
one who will question my equal humanity, claim me as his slave, or
offer me an insult. I employ a cab—I am seated beside white people—I
reach the hotel—I enter the same door—I am shown into the same parlor—I
dine at the same table and no one is offended. No delicate nose grows
deformed in my presence. I find no difficulty here in obtaining
admission into any place of worship, instruction, or amusement, on
equal terms with people as white as any I ever saw in the United
States. I meet nothing to remind me of my complexion. I find myself
regarded and treated at every turn with the kindness and deference paid
to white people. When I go to church, I am met by no upturned nose and
scornful lip to tell me, “_We don’t allow niggers in here_!”

I remember, about two years ago, there was in Boston, near the
south-west corner of Boston Common, a menagerie. I had long desired to
see such a collection as I understood was being exhibited there. Never
having had an opportunity while a slave, I resolved to seize this, my
first, since my escape. I went, and as I approached the entrance to
gain admission, I was met and told by the door-keeper, in a harsh and
contemptuous tone, “_We don’t allow niggers in here_.” I also remember
attending a revival meeting in the Rev. Henry Jackson’s meeting-house,
at New Bedford, and going up the broad aisle to find a seat, I was met
by a good deacon, who told me, in a pious tone, “_We don’t allow
niggers in here_!” Soon after my arrival in New Bedford, from the
south, I had a strong desire to attend the Lyceum, but was told, “_They
don’t allow niggers in here_!” While passing from New York to Boston,
on the steamer Massachusetts, on the night of the 9th of December,
1843, when chilled almost through with the cold, I went into the cabin
to get a little warm. I was soon touched upon the shoulder, and told,
“_We don’t allow niggers in here_!” On arriving in Boston, from an
anti-slavery tour, hungry and tired, I went into an eating-house, near
my friend, Mr. Campbell’s to get some refreshments. I was met by a lad
in a white apron, “_We don’t allow niggers in here_!” A week or two
before leaving the United States, I had a meeting appointed at
Weymouth, the home of that glorious band of true abolitionists, the
Weston family, and others. On attempting to take a seat in the omnibus
to that place, I was told by the driver (and I never shall forget his
fiendish hate). “_I don’t allow niggers in here_!” Thank heaven for the
respite I now enjoy! I had been in Dublin but a few days, when a
gentleman of great respectability kindly offered to conduct me through
all the public buildings of that beautiful city; and a little
afterward, I found myself dining with the lord mayor of Dublin. What a
pity there was not some American democratic Christian at the door of
his splendid mansion, to bark out at my approach, “_They don’t allow
niggers in here_!” The truth is, the people here know nothing of the
republican Negro hate prevalent in our glorious land. They measure and
esteem men according to their moral and intellectual worth, and not
according to the color of their skin. Whatever may be said of the
aristocracies here, there is none based on the color of a man’s skin.
This species of aristocracy belongs preeminently to “the land of the
free, and the home of the brave.” I have never found it abroad, in any
but Americans. It sticks to them wherever they go. They find it almost
as hard to get rid of, as to get rid of their skins.

The second day after my arrival at Liverpool, in company with my
friend, Buffum, and several other friends, I went to Eaton Hall, the
residence of the Marquis of Westminster, one of the most splendid
buildings in England. On approaching the door, I found several of our
American passengers, who came out with us in the “Cambria,” waiting for
admission, as but one party was allowed in the house at a time. We all
had to wait till the company within came out. And of all the faces,
expressive of chagrin, those of the Americans were preeminent. They
looked as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as gall, when they found I was
to be admitted on equal terms with themselves. When the door was
opened, I walked in, on an equal footing with my white fellow-citizens,
and from all I could see, I had as much attention paid me by the
servants that showed us through the house, as any with a paler skin. As
I walked through the building, the statuary did not fall down, the
pictures did not leap from their places, the doors did not refuse to
open, and the servants did not say, “_We don’t allow niggers in here_!”

A happy new-year to you, and all the friends of freedom.

My time and labors, while abroad were divided between England, Ireland,
Scotland, and Wales. Upon this experience alone, I might write a book
twice the size of this, _My Bondage and My Freedom_. I visited and
lectured in nearly all the large towns and cities in the United
Kingdom, and enjoyed many favorable opportunities for observation and
information. But books on England are abundant, and the public may,
therefore, dismiss any fear that I am meditating another infliction in
that line; though, in truth, I should like much to write a book on
those countries, if for nothing else, to make grateful mention of the
many dear friends, whose benevolent actions toward me are ineffaceably
stamped upon my memory, and warmly treasured in my heart. To these
friends I owe my freedom in the United States. On their own motion,
without any solicitation from me (Mrs. Henry Richardson, a clever lady,
remarkable for her devotion to every good work, taking the lead), they
raised a fund sufficient to purchase my freedom, and actually paid it
over, and placed the papers 8 of my manumission in my hands, before
they would tolerate the idea of my returning to this, my native
country. To this commercial transaction I owe my exemption from the
democratic operation of the Fugitive Slave Bill of 1850. But for this,
I might at any time become a victim of this most cruel and scandalous
enactment, and be doomed to end my life, as I began it, a slave. The
sum paid for my freedom was one hundred and fifty pounds sterling.

Some of my uncompromising anti-slavery friends in this country failed
to see the wisdom of this arrangement, and were not pleased that I
consented to it, even by my silence. They thought it a violation of
anti-slavery principles—conceding a right of property in man—and a
wasteful expenditure of money. On the other hand, viewing it simply in
the light of a ransom, or as money extorted by a robber, and my liberty
of more value than one hundred and fifty pounds sterling, I could not
see either a violation of the laws of morality, or those of economy, in
the transaction.

It is true, I was not in the possession of my claimants, and could have
easily remained in England, for the same friends who had so generously
purchased my freedom, would have assisted me in establishing myself in
that country. To this, however, I could not consent. I felt that I had
a duty to perform—and that was, to labor and suffer with the oppressed
in my native land. Considering, therefore, all the circumstances—the
fugitive slave bill included—I think the very best thing was done in
letting Master Hugh have the hundred and fifty pounds sterling, and
leaving me free to return to my appropriate field of labor. Had I been
a private person, having no other relations or duties than those of a
personal and family nature, I should never have consented to the
payment of so large a sum for the privilege of living securely under
our glorious republican form of government. I could have remained in
England, or have gone to some other country; and perhaps I could even
have lived unobserved in this. But to this I could not consent. I had
already become somewhat notorious, and withal quite as unpopular as
notorious; and I was, therefore, much exposed to arrest and recapture.

The main object to which my labors in Great Britain were directed, was
the concentration of the moral and religious sentiment of its people
against American slavery. England is often charged with having
established slavery in the United States, and if there were no other
justification than this, for appealing to her people to lend their
moral aid for the abolition of slavery, I should be justified. My
speeches in Great Britain were wholly extemporaneous, and I may not
always have been so guarded in my expressions, as I otherwise should
have been. I was ten years younger then than now, and only seven years
from slavery. I cannot give the reader a better idea of the nature of
my discourses, than by republishing one of them, delivered in Finsbury
chapel, London, to an audience of about two thousand persons, and which
was published in the _London Universe_, at the time. 9

Those in the United States who may regard this speech as being harsh in
its spirit and unjust in its statements, because delivered before an
audience supposed to be anti-republican in their principles and
feelings, may view the matter differently, when they learn that the
case supposed did not exist. It so happened that the great mass of the
people in England who attended and patronized my anti-slavery meetings,
were, in truth, about as good republicans as the mass of Americans, and
with this decided advantage over the latter—they are lovers of
republicanism for all men, for black men as well as for white men. They
are the people who sympathize with Louis Kossuth and Mazzini, and with
the oppressed and enslaved, of every color and nation, the world over.
They constitute the democratic element in British politics, and are as
much opposed to the union of church and state as we, in America, are to
such an union. At the meeting where this speech was delivered, Joseph
Sturge—a world-wide philanthropist, and a member of the society of
Friends—presided, and addressed the meeting. George William Alexander,
another Friend, who has spent more than an Ameriacn(sic) fortune in
promoting the anti-slavery cause in different sections of the world,
was on the platform; and also Dr. Campbell (now of the _British
Banner_) who combines all the humane tenderness of Melanchthon, with
the directness and boldness of Luther. He is in the very front ranks of
non-conformists, and looks with no unfriendly eye upon America. George
Thompson, too, was there; and America will yet own that he did a true
man’s work in relighting the rapidly dying-out fire of true
republicanism in the American heart, and be ashamed of the treatment he
met at her hands. Coming generations in this country will applaud the
spirit of this much abused republican friend of freedom. There were
others of note seated on the platform, who would gladly ingraft upon
English institutions all that is purely republican in the institutions
of America. Nothing, therefore, must be set down against this speech on
the score that it was delivered in the presence of those who cannot
appreciate the many excellent things belonging to our system of
government, and with a view to stir up prejudice against republican
institutions.

Again, let it also be remembered—for it is the simple truth—that
neither in this speech, nor in any other which I delivered in England,
did I ever allow myself to address Englishmen as against Americans. I
took my stand on the high ground of human brotherhood, and spoke to
Englishmen as men, in behalf of men. Slavery is a crime, not against
Englishmen, but against God, and all the members of the human family;
and it belongs to the whole human family to seek its suppression. In a
letter to Mr. Greeley, of the New York Tribune, written while abroad, I
said:

I am, nevertheless aware that the wisdom of exposing the sins of one
nation in the ear of another, has been seriously questioned by good and
clear-sighted people, both on this and on your side of the Atlantic.
And the thought is not without weight on my own mind. I am satisfied
that there are many evils which can be best removed by confining our
efforts to the immediate locality where such evils exist. This,
however, is by no means the case with the system of slavery. It is such
a giant sin—such a monstrous aggregation of iniquity—so hardening to
the human heart—so destructive to the moral sense, and so well
calculated to beget a character, in every one around it, favorable to
its own continuance,—that I feel not only at liberty, but abundantly
justified, in appealing to the whole world to aid in its removal.

But, even if I had—as has been often charged—labored to bring American
institutions generally into disrepute, and had not confined my labors
strictly within the limits of humanity and morality, I should not have
been without illustrious examples to support me. Driven into semi-exile
by civil and barbarous laws, and by a system which cannot be thought of
without a shudder, I was fully justified in turning, if possible, the
tide of the moral universe against the heaven-daring outrage.

Four circumstances greatly assisted me in getting the question of
American slavery before the British public. First, the mob on board the
“Cambria,” already referred to, which was a sort of national
announcement of my arrival in England. Secondly, the highly
reprehensible course pursued by the Free Church of Scotland, in
soliciting, receiving, and retaining money in its sustentation fund for
supporting the gospel in Scotland, which was evidently the ill-gotten
gain of slaveholders and slave-traders. Third, the great Evangelical
Alliance—or rather the attempt to form such an alliance, which should
include slaveholders of a certain description—added immensely to the
interest felt in the slavery question. About the same time, there was
the World’s Temperance Convention, where I had the misfortune to come
in collision with sundry American doctors of divinity—Dr. Cox among the
number—with whom I had a small controversy.

It has happened to me—as it has happened to most other men engaged in a
good cause—often to be more indebted to my enemies than to my own skill
or to the assistance of my friends, for whatever success has attended
my labors. Great surprise was expressed by American newspapers, north
and south, during my stay in Great Britain, that a person so illiterate
and insignificant as myself could awaken an interest so marked in
England. These papers were not the only parties surprised. I was myself
not far behind them in surprise. But the very contempt and scorn, the
systematic and extravagant disparagement of which I was the object,
served, perhaps, to magnify my few merits, and to render me of some
account, whether deserving or not. A man is sometimes made great, by
the greatness of the abuse a portion of mankind may think proper to
heap upon him. Whether I was of as much consequence as the English
papers made me out to be, or not, it was easily seen, in England, that
I could not be the ignorant and worthless creature, some of the
American papers would have them believe I was. Men, in their senses, do
not take bowie-knives to kill mosquitoes, nor pistols to shoot flies;
and the American passengers who thought proper to get up a mob to
silence me, on board the “Cambria,” took the most effective method of
telling the British public that I had something to say.

But to the second circumstance, namely, the position of the Free Church
of Scotland, with the great Doctors Chalmers, Cunningham, and Candlish
at its head. That church, with its leaders, put it out of the power of
the Scotch people to ask the old question, which we in the north have
often most wickedly asked—“_What have we to do with slavery_?” That
church had taken the price of blood into its treasury, with which to
build _free_ churches, and to pay _free_ church ministers for preaching
the gospel; and, worse still, when honest John Murray, of Bowlien
Bay—now gone to his reward in heaven—with William Smeal, Andrew Paton,
Frederick Card, and other sterling anti-slavery men in Glasgow,
denounced the transaction as disgraceful and shocking to the religious
sentiment of Scotland, this church, through its leading divines,
instead of repenting and seeking to mend the mistake into which it had
fallen, made it a flagrant sin, by undertaking to defend, in the name
of God and the bible, the principle not only of taking the money of
slave-dealers to build churches, but of holding fellowship with the
holders and traffickers in human flesh. This, the reader will see,
brought up the whole question of slavery, and opened the way to its
full discussion, without any agency of mine. I have never seen a people
more deeply moved than were the people of Scotland, on this very
question. Public meeting succeeded public meeting. Speech after speech,
pamphlet after pamphlet, editorial after editorial, sermon after
sermon, soon lashed the conscientious Scotch people into a perfect
_furore_. “SEND BACK THE MONEY!” was indignantly cried out, from
Greenock to Edinburgh, and from Edinburgh to Aberdeen. George Thompson,
of London, Henry C. Wright, of the United States, James N. Buffum, of
Lynn, Massachusetts, and myself were on the anti-slavery side; and
Doctors Chalmers, Cunningham, and Candlish on the other. In a conflict
where the latter could have had even the show of right, the truth, in
our hands as against them, must have been driven to the wall; and while
I believe we were able to carry the conscience of the country against
the action of the Free Church, the battle, it must be confessed, was a
hard-fought one. Abler defenders of the doctrine of fellowshiping
slaveholders as christians, have not been met with. In defending this
doctrine, it was necessary to deny that slavery is a sin. If driven
from this position, they were compelled to deny that slaveholders were
responsible for the sin; and if driven from both these positions, they
must deny that it is a sin in such a sense, and that slaveholders are
sinners in such a sense, as to make it wrong, in the circumstances in
which they were placed, to recognize them as Christians. Dr. Cunningham
was the most powerful debater on the slavery side of the question; Mr.
Thompson was the ablest on the anti-slavery side. A scene occurred
between these two men, a parallel to which I think I never witnessed
before, and I know I never have since. The scene was caused by a single
exclamation on the part of Mr. Thompson.

The general assembly of the Free Church was in progress at Cannon
Mills, Edinburgh. The building would hold about twenty-five hundred
persons; and on this occasion it was densely packed, notice having been
given that Doctors Cunningham and Candlish would speak, that day, in
defense of the relations of the Free Church of Scotland to slavery in
America. Messrs. Thompson, Buffum, myself, and a few anti-slavery
friends, attended, but sat at such a distance, and in such a position,
that, perhaps we were not observed from the platform. The excitement
was intense, having been greatly increased by a series of meetings held
by Messrs. Thompson, Wright, Buffum, and myself, in the most splendid
hall in that most beautiful city, just previous to the meetings of the
general assembly. “SEND BACK THE MONEY!” stared at us from every street
corner; “SEND BACK THE MONEY!” in large capitals, adorned the broad
flags of the pavement; “SEND BACK THE MONEY!” was the chorus of the
popular street songs; “SEND BACK THE MONEY!” was the heading of leading
editorials in the daily newspapers. This day, at Cannon Mills, the
great doctors of the church were to give an answer to this loud and
stern demand. Men of all parties and all sects were most eager to hear.
Something great was expected. The occasion was great, the men great,
and great speeches were expected from them.

In addition to the outside pressure upon Doctors Cunningham and
Candlish, there was wavering in their own ranks. The conscience of the
church itself was not at ease. A dissatisfaction with the position of
the church touching slavery, was sensibly manifest among the members,
and something must be done to counteract this untoward influence. The
great Dr. Chalmers was in feeble health, at the time. His most potent
eloquence could not now be summoned to Cannon Mills, as formerly. He
whose voice was able to rend asunder and dash down the granite walls of
the established church of Scotland, and to lead a host in solemn
procession from it, as from a doomed city, was now old and enfeebled.
Besides, he had said his word on this very question; and his word had
not silenced the clamor without, nor stilled the anxious heavings
within. The occasion was momentous, and felt to be so. The church was
in a perilous condition. A change of some sort must take place in her
condition, or she must go to pieces. To stand where she did, was
impossible. The whole weight of the matter fell on Cunningham and
Candlish. No shoulders in the church were broader than theirs; and I
must say, badly as I detest the principles laid down and defended by
them, I was compelled to acknowledge the vast mental endowments of the
men. Cunningham rose; and his rising was the signal for almost
tumultous applause. You will say this was scarcely in keeping with the
solemnity of the occasion, but to me it served to increase its grandeur
and gravity. The applause, though tumultuous, was not joyous. It seemed
to me, as it thundered up from the vast audience, like the fall of an
immense shaft, flung from shoulders already galled by its crushing
weight. It was like saying, “Doctor, we have borne this burden long
enough, and willingly fling it upon you. Since it was you who brought
it upon us, take it now, and do what you will with it, for we are too
weary to bear it. [“no close”].

Doctor Cunningham proceeded with his speech, abounding in logic,
learning, and eloquence, and apparently bearing down all opposition;
but at the moment—the fatal moment—when he was just bringing all his
arguments to a point, and that point being, that neither Jesus Christ
nor his holy apostles regarded slaveholding as a sin, George Thompson,
in a clear, sonorous, but rebuking voice, broke the deep stillness of
the audience, exclaiming, HEAR! HEAR! HEAR! The effect of this simple
and common exclamation is almost incredible. It was as if a granite
wall had been suddenly flung up against the advancing current of a
mighty river. For a moment, speaker and audience were brought to a dead
silence. Both the doctor and his hearers seemed appalled by the
audacity, as well as the fitness of the rebuke. At length a shout went
up to the cry of “_Put him out_!” Happily, no one attempted to execute
this cowardly order, and the doctor proceeded with his discourse. Not,
however, as before, did the learned doctor proceed. The exclamation of
Thompson must have reechoed itself a thousand times in his memory,
during the remainder of his speech, for the doctor never recovered from
the blow.

The deed was done, however; the pillars of the church—_the proud, Free
Church of Scotland_—were committed and the humility of repentance was
absent. The Free Church held on to the blood-stained money, and
continued to justify itself in its position—and of course to apologize
for slavery—and does so till this day. She lost a glorious opportunity
for giving her voice, her vote, and her example to the cause of
humanity; and to-day she is staggering under the curse of the enslaved,
whose blood is in her skirts. The people of Scotland are, to this day,
deeply grieved at the course pursued by the Free Church, and would
hail, as a relief from a deep and blighting shame, the “sending back
the money” to the slaveholders from whom it was gathered.

One good result followed the conduct of the Free Church; it furnished
an occasion for making the people of Scotland thoroughly acquainted
with the character of slavery, and for arraying against the system the
moral and religious sentiment of that country. Therefore, while we did
not succeed in accomplishing the specific object of our mission,
namely—procure the sending back of the money—we were amply justified by
the good which really did result from our labors.

Next comes the Evangelical Alliance. This was an attempt to form a
union of all evangelical Christians throughout the world. Sixty or
seventy American divines attended, and some of them went there merely
to weave a world-wide garment with which to clothe evangelical
slaveholders. Foremost among these divines, was the Rev. Samuel Hanson
Cox, moderator of the New School Presbyterian General Assembly. He and
his friends spared no pains to secure a platform broad enough to hold
American slaveholders, and in this partly succeeded. But the question
of slavery is too large a question to be finally disposed of, even by
the Evangelical Alliance. We appealed from the judgment of the
Alliance, to the judgment of the people of Great Britain, and with the
happiest effect. This controversy with the Alliance might be made the
subject of extended remark, but I must forbear, except to say, that
this effort to shield the Christian character of slaveholders greatly
served to open a way to the British ear for anti-slavery discussion,
and that it was well improved.

The fourth and last circumstance that assisted me in getting before the
British public, was an attempt on the part of certain doctors of
divinity to silence me on the platform of the World’s Temperance
Convention. Here I was brought into point blank collison with Rev. Dr.
Cox, who made me the subject not only of bitter remark in the
convention, but also of a long denunciatory letter published in the New
York Evangelist and other American papers. I replied to the doctor as
well as I could, and was successful in getting a respectful hearing
before the British public, who are by nature and practice ardent lovers
of fair play, especially in a conflict between the weak and the strong.

Thus did circumstances favor me, and favor the cause of which I strove
to be the advocate. After such distinguished notice, the public in both
countries was compelled to attach some importance to my labors. By the
very ill usage I received at the hands of Dr. Cox and his party, by the
mob on board the “Cambria,” by the attacks made upon me in the American
newspapers, and by the aspersions cast upon me through the organs of
the Free Church of Scotland, I became one of that class of men, who,
for the moment, at least, “have greatness forced upon them.” People
became the more anxious to hear for themselves, and to judge for
themselves, of the truth which I had to unfold. While, therefore, it is
by no means easy for a stranger to get fairly before the British
public, it was my lot to accomplish it in the easiest manner possible.

Having continued in Great Britain and Ireland nearly two years, and
being about to return to America—not as I left it, a slave, but a
freeman—leading friends of the cause of emancipation in that country
intimated their intention to make me a testimonial, not only on grounds
of personal regard to myself, but also to the cause to which they were
so ardently devoted. How far any such thing could have succeeded, I do
not know; but many reasons led me to prefer that my friends should
simply give me the means of obtaining a printing press and printing
materials, to enable me to start a paper, devoted to the interests of
my enslaved and oppressed people. I told them that perhaps the greatest
hinderance to the adoption of abolition principles by the people of the
United States, was the low estimate, everywhere in that country, placed
upon the Negro, as a man; that because of his assumed natural
inferiority, people reconciled themselves to his enslavement and
oppression, as things inevitable, if not desirable. The grand thing to
be done, therefore, was to change the estimation in which the colored
people of the United States were held; to remove the prejudice which
depreciated and depressed them; to prove them worthy of a higher
consideration; to disprove their alleged inferiority, and demonstrate
their capacity for a more exalted civilization than slavery and
prejudice had assigned to them. I further stated, that, in my judgment,
a tolerably well conducted press, in the hands of persons of the
despised race, by calling out the mental energies of the race itself;
by making them acquainted with their own latent powers; by enkindling
among them the hope that for them there is a future; by developing
their moral power; by combining and reflecting their talents—would
prove a most powerful means of removing prejudice, and of awakening an
interest in them. I further informed them—and at that time the
statement was true—that there was not, in the United States, a single
newspaper regularly published by the colored people; that many attempts
had been made to establish such papers; but that, up to that time, they
had all failed. These views I laid before my friends. The result was,
nearly two thousand five hundred dollars were speedily raised toward
starting my paper. For this prompt and generous assistance, rendered
upon my bare suggestion, without any personal efforts on my part, I
shall never cease to feel deeply grateful; and the thought of
fulfilling the noble expectations of the dear friends who gave me this
evidence of their confidence, will never cease to be a motive for
persevering exertion.

Proposing to leave England, and turning my face toward America, in the
spring of 1847, I was met, on the threshold, with something which
painfully reminded me of the kind of life which awaited me in my native
land. For the first time in the many months spent abroad, I was met
with proscription on account of my color. A few weeks before departing
from England, while in London, I was careful to purchase a ticket, and
secure a berth for returning home, in the “Cambria”—the steamer in
which I left the United States—paying therefor the round sum of forty
pounds and nineteen shillings sterling. This was first cabin fare. But
on going aboard the Cambria, I found that the Liverpool agent had
ordered my berth to be given to another, and had forbidden my entering
the saloon! This contemptible conduct met with stern rebuke from the
British press. For, upon the point of leaving England, I took occasion
to expose the disgusting tyranny, in the columns of the London _Times_.
That journal, and other leading journals throughout the United Kingdom,
held up the outrage to unmitigated condemnation. So good an opportunity
for calling out a full expression of British sentiment on the subject,
had not before occurred, and it was most fully embraced. The result
was, that Mr. Cunard came out in a letter to the public journals,
assuring them of his regret at the outrage, and promising that the like
should never occur again on board his steamers; and the like, we
believe, has never since occurred on board the steamships of the Cunard
line.

It is not very pleasant to be made the subject of such insults; but if
all such necessarily resulted as this one did, I should be very happy
to bear, patiently, many more than I have borne, of the same sort.
Albeit, the lash of proscription, to a man accustomed to equal social
position, even for a time, as I was, has a sting for the soul hardly
less severe than that which bites the flesh and draws the blood from
the back of the plantation slave. It was rather hard, after having
enjoyed nearly two years of equal social privileges in England, often
dining with gentlemen of great literary, social, political, and
religious eminence never, during the whole time, having met with a
single word, look, or gesture, which gave me the slightest reason to
think my color was an offense to anybody—now to be cooped up in the
stern of the “Cambria,” and denied the right to enter the saloon, lest
my dark presence should be deemed an offense to some of my democratic
fellow-passengers. The reader will easily imagine what must have been
my feelings.




CHAPTER XXV. _Various Incidents_


NEWSPAPER ENTERPRISE—UNEXPECTED OPPOSITION—THE OBJECTIONS TO IT—THEIR
PLAUSIBILITY ADMITTED—MOTIVES FOR COMING TO ROCHESTER—DISCIPLE OF MR.
GARRISON—CHANGE OF OPINION—CAUSES LEADING TO IT—THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE
CHANGE—PREJUDICE AGAINST COLOR—AMUSING CONDESCENSION—“JIM CROW
CARS”—COLLISIONS WITH CONDUCTORS AND BRAKEMEN—TRAINS ORDERED NOT TO
STOP AT LYNN—AMUSING DOMESTIC SCENE—SEPARATE TABLES FOR MASTER AND
MAN—PREJUDICE UNNATURAL—ILLUSTRATIONS—IN HIGH COMPANY—ELEVATION OF THE
FREE PEOPLE OF COLOR—PLEDGE FOR THE FUTURE.


I have now given the reader an imperfect sketch of nine years’
experience in freedom—three years as a common laborer on the wharves of
New Bedford, four years as a lecturer in New England, and two years of
semi-exile in Great Britain and Ireland. A single ray of light remains
to be flung upon my life during the last eight years, and my story will
be done.

A trial awaited me on my return from England to the United States, for
which I was but very imperfectly prepared. My plans for my then future
usefulness as an anti-slavery advocate were all settled. My friends in
England had resolved to raise a given sum to purchase for me a press
and printing materials; and I already saw myself wielding my pen, as
well as my voice, in the great work of renovating the public mind, and
building up a public sentiment which should, at least, send slavery and
oppression to the grave, and restore to “liberty and the pursuit of
happiness” the people with whom I had suffered, both as a slave and as
a freeman. Intimation had reached my friends in Boston of what I
intended to do, before my arrival, and I was prepared to find them
favorably disposed toward my much cherished enterprise. In this I was
mistaken. I found them very earnestly opposed to the idea of my
starting a paper, and for several reasons. First, the paper was not
needed; secondly, it would interfere with my usefulness as a lecturer;
thirdly, I was better fitted to speak than to write; fourthly, the
paper could not succeed. This opposition, from a quarter so highly
esteemed, and to which I had been accustomed to look for advice and
direction, caused me not only to hesitate, but inclined me to abandon
the enterprise. All previous attempts to establish such a journal
having failed, I felt that probably I should but add another to the
list of failures, and thus contribute another proof of the mental and
moral deficiencies of my race. Very much that was said to me in respect
to my imperfect literary acquirements, I felt to be most painfully
true. The unsuccessful projectors of all the previous colored
newspapers were my superiors in point of education, and if they failed,
how could I hope for success? Yet I did hope for success, and persisted
in the undertaking. Some of my English friends greatly encouraged me to
go forward, and I shall never cease to be grateful for their words of
cheer and generous deeds.

I can easily pardon those who have denounced me as ambitious and
presumptuous, in view of my persistence in this enterprise. I was but
nine years from slavery. In point of mental experience, I was but nine
years old. That one, in such circumstances, should aspire to establish
a printing press, among an educated people, might well be considered,
if not ambitious, quite silly. My American friends looked at me with
astonishment! “A wood-sawyer” offering himself to the public as an
editor! A slave, brought up in the very depths of ignorance, assuming
to instruct the highly civilized people of the north in the principles
of liberty, justice, and humanity! The thing looked absurd.
Nevertheless, I persevered. I felt that the want of education, great as
it was, could be overcome by study, and that knowledge would come by
experience; and further (which was perhaps the most controlling
consideration). I thought that an intelligent public, knowing my early
history, would easily pardon a large share of the deficiencies which I
was sure that my paper would exhibit. The most distressing thing,
however, was the offense which I was about to give my Boston friends,
by what seemed to them a reckless disregard of their sage advice. I am
not sure that I was not under the influence of something like a slavish
adoration of my Boston friends, and I labored hard to convince them of
the wisdom of my undertaking, but without success. Indeed, I never
expect to succeed, although time has answered all their original
objections. The paper has been successful. It is a large sheet, costing
eighty dollars per week—has three thousand subscribers—has been
published regularly nearly eight years—and bids fair to stand eight
years longer. At any rate, the eight years to come are as full of
promise as were the eight that are past.

It is not to be concealed, however, that the maintenance of such a
journal, under the circumstances, has been a work of much difficulty;
and could all the perplexity, anxiety, and trouble attending it, have
been clearly foreseen, I might have shrunk from the undertaking. As it
is, I rejoice in having engaged in the enterprise, and count it joy to
have been able to suffer, in many ways, for its success, and for the
success of the cause to which it has been faithfully devoted. I look
upon the time, money, and labor bestowed upon it, as being amply
rewarded, in the development of my own mental and moral energies, and
in the corresponding development of my deeply injured and oppressed
people.

From motives of peace, instead of issuing my paper in Boston, among my
New England friends, I came to Rochester, western New York, among
strangers, where the circulation of my paper could not interfere with
the local circulation of the _Liberator_ and the _Standard;_ for at
that time I was, on the anti-slavery question, a faithful disciple of
William Lloyd Garrison, and fully committed to his doctrine touching
the pro-slavery character of the constitution of the United States, and
the _non-voting principle_, of which he is the known and distinguished
advocate. With Mr. Garrison, I held it to be the first duty of the
non-slaveholding states to dissolve the union with the slaveholding
states; and hence my cry, like his, was, “No union with slaveholders.”
With these views, I came into western New York; and during the first
four years of my labor here, I advocated them with pen and tongue,
according to the best of my ability.

About four years ago, upon a reconsideration of the whole subject, I
became convinced that there was no necessity for dissolving the “union
between the northern and southern states;” that to seek this
dissolution was no part of my duty as an abolitionist; that to abstain
from voting, was to refuse to exercise a legitimate and powerful means
for abolishing slavery; and that the constitution of the United States
not only contained no guarantees in favor of slavery, but, on the
contrary, it is, in its letter and spirit, an anti-slavery instrument,
demanding the abolition of slavery as a condition of its own existence,
as the supreme law of the land.

Here was a radical change in my opinions, and in the action logically
resulting from that change. To those with whom I had been in agreement
and in sympathy, I was now in opposition. What they held to be a great
and important truth, I now looked upon as a dangerous error. A very
painful, and yet a very natural, thing now happened. Those who could
not see any honest reasons for changing their views, as I had done,
could not easily see any such reasons for my change, and the common
punishment of apostates was mine.

The opinions first entertained were naturally derived and honestly
entertained, and I trust that my present opinions have the same claims
to respect. Brought directly, when I escaped from slavery, into contact
with a class of abolitionists regarding the constitution as a
slaveholding instrument, and finding their views supported by the
united and entire history of every department of the government, it is
not strange that I assumed the constitution to be just what their
interpretation made it. I was bound, not only by their superior
knowledge, to take their opinions as the true ones, in respect to the
subject, but also because I had no means of showing their unsoundness.
But for the responsibility of conducting a public journal, and the
necessity imposed upon me of meeting opposite views from abolitionists
in this state, I should in all probability have remained as firm in my
disunion views as any other disciple of William Lloyd Garrison.

My new circumstances compelled me to re-think the whole subject, and to
study, with some care, not only the just and proper rules of legal
interpretation, but the origin, design, nature, rights, powers, and
duties of civil government, and also the relations which human beings
sustain to it. By such a course of thought and reading, I was conducted
to the conclusion that the constitution of the United
States—inaugurated “to form a more perfect union, establish justice,
insure domestic tranquillity, provide for the common defense, promote
the general welfare, and secure the blessing of liberty”—could not well
have been designed at the same time to maintain and perpetuate a system
of rapine and murder, like slavery; especially, as not one word can be
found in the constitution to authorize such a belief. Then, again, if
the declared purposes of an instrument are to govern the meaning of all
its parts and details, as they clearly should, the constitution of our
country is our warrant for the abolition of slavery in every state in
the American Union. I mean, however, not to argue, but simply to state
my views. It would require very many pages of a volume like this, to
set forth the arguments demonstrating the unconstitutionality and the
complete illegality of slavery in our land; and as my experience, and
not my arguments, is within the scope and contemplation of this volume,
I omit the latter and proceed with the former.

I will now ask the kind reader to go back a little in my story, while I
bring up a thread left behind for convenience sake, but which, small as
it is, cannot be properly omitted altogether; and that thread is
American prejudice against color, and its varied illustrations in my
own experience.

When I first went among the abolitionists of New England, and began to
travel, I found this prejudice very strong and very annoying. The
abolitionists themselves were not entirely free from it, and I could
see that they were nobly struggling against it. In their eagerness,
sometimes, to show their contempt for the feeling, they proved that
they had not entirely recovered from it; often illustrating the saying,
in their conduct, that a man may “stand up so straight as to lean
backward.” When it was said to me, “Mr. Douglass, I will walk to
meeting with you; I am not afraid of a black man,” I could not help
thinking—seeing nothing very frightful in my appearance—“And why should
you be?” The children at the north had all been educated to believe
that if they were bad, the old _black_ man—not the old _devil_—would
get them; and it was evidence of some courage, for any so educated to
get the better of their fears.

The custom of providing separate cars for the accommodation of colored
travelers, was established on nearly all the railroads of New England,
a dozen years ago. Regarding this custom as fostering the spirit of
caste, I made it a rule to seat myself in the cars for the
accommodation of passengers generally. Thus seated, I was sure to be
called upon to betake myself to the “_Jim Crow car_.” Refusing to obey,
I was often dragged out of my seat, beaten, and severely bruised, by
conductors and brakemen. Attempting to start from Lynn, one day, for
Newburyport, on the Eastern railroad, I went, as my custom was, into
one of the best railroad carriages on the road. The seats were very
luxuriant and beautiful. I was soon waited upon by the conductor, and
ordered out; whereupon I demanded the reason for my invidious removal.
After a good deal of parleying, I was told that it was because I was
black. This I denied, and appealed to the company to sustain my denial;
but they were evidently unwilling to commit themselves, on a point so
delicate, and requiring such nice powers of discrimination, for they
remained as dumb as death. I was soon waited on by half a dozen fellows
of the baser sort (just such as would volunteer to take a bull-dog out
of a meeting-house in time of public worship), and told that I must
move out of that seat, and if I did not, they would drag me out. I
refused to move, and they clutched me, head, neck, and shoulders. But,
in anticipation of the stretching to which I was about to be subjected,
I had interwoven myself among the seats. In dragging me out, on this
occasion, it must have cost the company twenty-five or thirty dollars,
for I tore up seats and all. So great was the excitement in Lynn, on
the subject, that the superintendent, Mr. Stephen A. Chase, ordered the
trains to run through Lynn without stopping, while I remained in that
town; and this ridiculous farce was enacted. For several days the
trains went dashing through Lynn without stopping. At the same time
that they excluded a free colored man from their cars, this same
company allowed slaves, in company with their masters and mistresses,
to ride unmolested.

After many battles with the railroad conductors, and being roughly
handled in not a few instances, proscription was at last abandoned; and
the “Jim Crow car”—set up for the degradation of colored people—is
nowhere found in New England. This result was not brought about without
the intervention of the people, and the threatened enactment of a law
compelling railroad companies to respect the rights of travelers. Hon.
Charles Francis Adams performed signal service in the Massachusetts
legislature, in bringing this reformation; and to him the colored
citizens of that state are deeply indebted.

Although often annoyed, and sometimes outraged, by this prejudice
against color, I am indebted to it for many passages of quiet
amusement. A half-cured subject of it is sometimes driven into awkward
straits, especially if he happens to get a genuine specimen of the race
into his house.

In the summer of 1843, I was traveling and lecturing, in company with
William A. White, Esq., through the state of Indiana. Anti-slavery
friends were not very abundant in Indiana, at that time, and beds were
not more plentiful than friends. We often slept out, in preference to
sleeping in the houses, at some points. At the close of one of our
meetings, we were invited home with a kindly-disposed old farmer, who,
in the generous enthusiasm of the moment, seemed to have forgotten that
he had but one spare bed, and that his guests were an ill-matched pair.
All went on pretty well, till near bed time, when signs of uneasiness
began to show themselves, among the unsophisticated sons and daughters.
White is remarkably fine looking, and very evidently a born gentleman;
the idea of putting us in the same bed was hardly to be tolerated; and
yet, there we were, and but the one bed for us, and that, by the way,
was in the same room occupied by the other members of the family.
White, as well as I, perceived the difficulty, for yonder slept the old
folks, there the sons, and a little farther along slept the daughters;
and but one other bed remained. Who should have this bed, was the
puzzling question. There was some whispering between the old folks,
some confused looks among the young, as the time for going to bed
approached. After witnessing the confusion as long as I liked, I
relieved the kindly-disposed family by playfully saying, “Friend White,
having got entirely rid of my prejudice against color, I think, as a
proof of it, I must allow you to sleep with me to-night.” White kept up
the joke, by seeming to esteem himself the favored party, and thus the
difficulty was removed. If we went to a hotel, and called for dinner,
the landlord was sure to set one table for White and another for me,
always taking him to be master, and me the servant. Large eyes were
generally made when the order was given to remove the dishes from my
table to that of White’s. In those days, it was thought strange that a
white man and a colored man could dine peaceably at the same table, and
in some parts the strangeness of such a sight has not entirely
subsided.

Some people will have it that there is a natural, an inherent, and an
invincible repugnance in the breast of the white race toward
dark-colored people; and some very intelligent colored men think that
their proscription is owing solely to the color which nature has given
them. They hold that they are rated according to their color, and that
it is impossible for white people ever to look upon dark races of men,
or men belonging to the African race, with other than feelings of
aversion. My experience, both serious and mirthful, combats this
conclusion. Leaving out of sight, for a moment, grave facts, to this
point, I will state one or two, which illustrate a very interesting
feature of American character as well as American prejudice. Riding
from Boston to Albany, a few years ago, I found myself in a large car,
well filled with passengers. The seat next to me was about the only
vacant one. At every stopping place we took in new passengers, all of
whom, on reaching the seat next to me, cast a disdainful glance upon
it, and passed to another car, leaving me in the full enjoyment of a
hole form. For a time, I did not know but that my riding there was
prejudicial to the interest of the railroad company. A circumstance
occurred, however, which gave me an elevated position at once. Among
the passengers on this train was Gov. George N. Briggs. I was not
acquainted with him, and had no idea that I was known to him, however,
I was, for upon observing me, the governor left his place, and making
his way toward me, respectfully asked the privilege of a seat by my
side; and upon introducing himself, we entered into a conversation very
pleasant and instructive to me. The despised seat now became honored.
His excellency had removed all the prejudice against sitting by the
side of a Negro; and upon his leaving it, as he did, on reaching
Pittsfield, there were at least one dozen applicants for the place. The
governor had, without changing my skin a single shade, made the place
respectable which before was despicable.

A similar incident happened to me once on the Boston and New Bedford
railroad, and the leading party to it has since been governor of the
state of Massachusetts. I allude to Col. John Henry Clifford. Lest the
reader may fancy I am aiming to elevate myself, by claiming too much
intimacy with great men, I must state that my only acquaintance with
Col. Clifford was formed while I was _his hired servant_, during the
first winter of my escape from slavery. I owe it him to say, that in
that relation I found him always kind and gentlemanly. But to the
incident. I entered a car at Boston, for New Bedford, which, with the
exception of a single seat was full, and found I must occupy this, or
stand up, during the journey. Having no mind to do this, I stepped up
to the man having the next seat, and who had a few parcels on the seat,
and gently asked leave to take a seat by his side. My fellow-passenger
gave me a look made up of reproach and indignation, and asked me why I
should come to that particular seat. I assured him, in the gentlest
manner, that of all others this was the seat for me. Finding that I was
actually about to sit down, he sang out, “O! stop, stop! and let me get
out!” Suiting the action to the word, up the agitated man got, and
sauntered to the other end of the car, and was compelled to stand for
most of the way thereafter. Halfway to New Bedford, or more, Col.
Clifford, recognizing me, left his seat, and not having seen me before
since I had ceased to wait on him (in everything except hard arguments
against his pro-slavery position), apparently forgetful of his rank,
manifested, in greeting me, something of the feeling of an old friend.
This demonstration was not lost on the gentleman whose dignity I had,
an hour before, most seriously offended. Col. Clifford was known to be
about the most aristocratic gentleman in Bristol county; and it was
evidently thought that I must be somebody, else I should not have been
thus noticed, by a person so distinguished. Sure enough, after Col.
Clifford left me, I found myself surrounded with friends; and among the
number, my offended friend stood nearest, and with an apology for his
rudeness, which I could not resist, although it was one of the lamest
ever offered. With such facts as these before me—and I have many of
them—I am inclined to think that pride and fashion have much to do with
the treatment commonly extended to colored people in the United States.
I once heard a very plain man say (and he was cross-eyed, and awkwardly
flung together in other respects) that he should be a handsome man when
public opinion shall be changed.

Since I have been editing and publishing a journal devoted to the cause
of liberty and progress, I have had my mind more directed to the
condition and circumstances of the free colored people than when I was
the agent of an abolition society. The result has been a corresponding
change in the disposition of my time and labors. I have felt it to be a
part of my mission—under a gracious Providence to impress my sable
brothers in this country with the conviction that, notwithstanding the
ten thousand discouragements and the powerful hinderances, which beset
their existence in this country—notwithstanding the blood-written
history of Africa, and her children, from whom we have descended, or
the clouds and darkness (whose stillness and gloom are made only more
awful by wrathful thunder and lightning) now overshadowing
them—progress is yet possible, and bright skies shall yet shine upon
their pathway; and that “Ethiopia shall yet reach forth her hand unto
God.”

Believing that one of the best means of emancipating the slaves of the
south is to improve and elevate the character of the free colored
people of the north I shall labor in the future, as I have labored in
the past, to promote the moral, social, religious, and intellectual
elevation of the free colored people; never forgetting my own humble
orgin(sic), nor refusing, while Heaven lends me ability, to use my
voice, my pen, or my vote, to advocate the great and primary work of
the universal and unconditional emancipation of my entire race.




RECEPTION SPEECH 10. At Finsbury Chapel, Moorfields, England, May 12,


1846

Mr. Douglass rose amid loud cheers, and said: I feel exceedingly glad
of the opportunity now afforded me of presenting the claims of my
brethren in bonds in the United States, to so many in London and from
various parts of Britain, who have assembled here on the present
occasion. I have nothing to commend me to your consideration in the way
of learning, nothing in the way of education, to entitle me to your
attention; and you are aware that slavery is a very bad school for
rearing teachers of morality and religion. Twenty-one years of my life
have been spent in slavery—personal slavery—surrounded by degrading
influences, such as can exist nowhere beyond the pale of slavery; and
it will not be strange, if under such circumstances, I should betray,
in what I have to say to you, a deficiency of that refinement which is
seldom or ever found, except among persons that have experienced
superior advantages to those which I have enjoyed. But I will take it
for granted that you know something about the degrading influences of
slavery, and that you will not expect great things from me this
evening, but simply such facts as I may be able to advance immediately
in connection with my own experience of slavery.

Now, what is this system of slavery? This is the subject of my lecture
this evening—what is the character of this institution? I am about to
answer the inquiry, what is American slavery? I do this the more
readily, since I have found persons in this country who have identified
the term slavery with that which I think it is not, and in some
instances, I have feared, in so doing, have rather (unwittingly, I
know) detracted much from the horror with which the term slavery is
contemplated. It is common in this country to distinguish every bad
thing by the name of slavery. Intemperance is slavery; to be deprived
of the right to vote is slavery, says one; to have to work hard is
slavery, says another; and I do not know but that if we should let them
go on, they would say that to eat when we are hungry, to walk when we
desire to have exercise, or to minister to our necessities, or have
necessities at all, is slavery. I do not wish for a moment to detract
from the horror with which the evil of intemperance is contemplated—not
at all; nor do I wish to throw the slightest obstruction in the way of
any political freedom that any class of persons in this country may
desire to obtain. But I am here to say that I think the term slavery is
sometimes abused by identifying it with that which it is not. Slavery
in the United States is the granting of that power by which one man
exercises and enforces a right of property in the body and soul of
another. The condition of a slave is simply that of the brute beast. He
is a piece of property—a marketable commodity, in the language of the
law, to be bought or sold at the will and caprice of the master who
claims him to be his property; he is spoken of, thought of, and treated
as property. His own good, his conscience, his intellect, his
affections, are all set aside by the master. The will and the wishes of
the master are the law of the slave. He is as much a piece of property
as a horse. If he is fed, he is fed because he is property. If he is
clothed, it is with a view to the increase of his value as property.
Whatever of comfort is necessary to him for his body or soul that is
inconsistent with his being property, is carefully wrested from him,
not only by public opinion, but by the law of the country. He is
carefully deprived of everything that tends in the slightest degree to
detract from his value as property. He is deprived of education. God
has given him an intellect; the slaveholder declares it shall not be
cultivated. If his moral perception leads him in a course contrary to
his value as property, the slaveholder declares he shall not exercise
it. The marriage institution cannot exist among slaves, and one-sixth
of the population of democratic America is denied its privileges by the
law of the land. What is to be thought of a nation boasting of its
liberty, boasting of its humanity, boasting of its Christianity,
boasting of its love of justice and purity, and yet having within its
own borders three millions of persons denied by law the right of
marriage?—what must be the condition of that people? I need not lift up
the veil by giving you any experience of my own. Every one that can put
two ideas together, must see the most fearful results from such a state
of things as I have just mentioned. If any of these three millions find
for themselves companions, and prove themselves honest, upright,
virtuous persons to each other, yet in these cases—few as I am bound to
confess they are—the virtuous live in constant apprehension of being
torn asunder by the merciless men-stealers that claim them as their
property. This is American slavery; no marriage—no education—the light
of the gospel shut out from the dark mind of the bondman—and he
forbidden by law to learn to read. If a mother shall teach her children
to read, the law in Louisiana proclaims that she may be hanged by the
neck. If the father attempt to give his son a knowledge of letters, he
may be punished by the whip in one instance, and in another be killed,
at the discretion of the court. Three millions of people shut out from
the light of knowledge! It is easy for you to conceive the evil that
must result from such a state of things.

I now come to the physical evils of slavery. I do not wish to dwell at
length upon these, but it seems right to speak of them, not so much to
influence your minds on this question, as to let the slaveholders of
America know that the curtain which conceals their crimes is being
lifted abroad; that we are opening the dark cell, and leading the
people into the horrible recesses of what they are pleased to call
their domestic institution. We want them to know that a knowledge of
their whippings, their scourgings, their brandings, their chainings, is
not confined to their plantations, but that some Negro of theirs has
broken loose from his chains—has burst through the dark incrustation of
slavery, and is now exposing their deeds of deep damnation to the gaze
of the christian people of England.

The slaveholders resort to all kinds of cruelty. If I were disposed, I
have matter enough to interest you on this question for five or six
evenings, but I will not dwell at length upon these cruelties. Suffice
it to say, that all of the peculiar modes of torture that were resorted
to in the West India islands, are resorted to, I believe, even more
frequently, in the United States of America. Starvation, the bloody
whip, the chain, the gag, the thumb-screw, cat-hauling, the
cat-o’-nine-tails, the dungeon, the blood-hound, are all in requisition
to keep the slave in his condition as a slave in the United States. If
any one has a doubt upon this point, I would ask him to read the
chapter on slavery in Dickens’s _Notes on America_. If any man has a
doubt upon it, I have here the “testimony of a thousand witnesses,”
which I can give at any length, all going to prove the truth of my
statement. The blood-hound is regularly trained in the United States,
and advertisements are to be found in the southern papers of the Union,
from persons advertising themselves as blood-hound trainers, and
offering to hunt down slaves at fifteen dollars a piece, recommending
their hounds as the fleetest in the neighborhood, never known to fail.
Advertisements are from time to time inserted, stating that slaves have
escaped with iron collars about their necks, with bands of iron about
their feet, marked with the lash, branded with red-hot irons, the
initials of their master’s name burned into their flesh; and the
masters advertise the fact of their being thus branded with their own
signature, thereby proving to the world, that, however damning it may
appear to non-slavers, such practices are not regarded discreditable
among the slaveholders themselves. Why, I believe if a man should brand
his horse in this country—burn the initials of his name into any of his
cattle, and publish the ferocious deed here—that the united execrations
of Christians in Britain would descend upon him. Yet in the United
States, human beings are thus branded. As Whittier says—

... Our countrymen in chains,
The whip on woman’s shrinking flesh,
Our soil yet reddening with the stains
Caught from her scourgings warm and fresh.


The slave-dealer boldly publishes his infamous acts to the world. Of
all things that have been said of slavery to which exception has been
taken by slaveholders, this, the charge of cruelty, stands foremost,
and yet there is no charge capable of clearer demonstration, than that
of the most barbarous inhumanity on the part of the slaveholders toward
their slaves. And all this is necessary; it is necessary to resort to
these cruelties, in order to _make the slave a slave_, and to _keep him
a slave_. Why, my experience all goes to prove the truth of what you
will call a marvelous proposition, that the better you treat a slave,
the more you destroy his value _as a slave_, and enhance the
probability of his eluding the grasp of the slaveholder; the more
kindly you treat him, the more wretched you make him, while you keep
him in the condition of a slave. My experience, I say, confirms the
truth of this proposition. When I was treated exceedingly ill; when my
back was being scourged daily; when I was whipped within an inch of my
life—_life_ was all I cared for. “Spare my life,” was my continual
prayer. When I was looking for the blow about to be inflicted upon my
head, I was not thinking of my liberty; it was my life. But, as soon as
the blow was not to be feared, then came the longing for liberty. If a
slave has a bad master, his ambition is to get a better; when he gets a
better, he aspires to have the best; and when he gets the best, he
aspires to be his own master. But the slave must be brutalized to keep
him as a slave. The slaveholder feels this necessity. I admit this
necessity. If it be right to hold slaves at all, it is right to hold
them in the only way in which they can be held; and this can be done
only by shutting out the light of education from their minds, and
brutalizing their persons. The whip, the chain, the gag, the
thumb-screw, the blood-hound, the stocks, and all the other bloody
paraphernalia of the slave system, are indispensably necessary to the
relation of master and slave. The slave must be subjected to these, or
he ceases to be a slave. Let him know that the whip is burned; that the
fetters have been turned to some useful and profitable employment; that
the chain is no longer for his limbs; that the blood-hound is no longer
to be put upon his track; that his master’s authority over him is no
longer to be enforced by taking his life—and immediately he walks out
from the house of bondage and asserts his freedom as a man. The
slaveholder finds it necessary to have these implements to keep the
slave in bondage; finds it necessary to be able to say, “Unless you do
so and so; unless you do as I bid you—I will take away your life!”

Some of the most awful scenes of cruelty are constantly taking place in
the middle states of the Union. We have in those states what are called
the slave-breeding states. Allow me to speak plainly. Although it is
harrowing to your feelings, it is necessary that the facts of the case
should be stated. We have in the United States slave-breeding states.
The very state from which the minister from our court to yours comes,
is one of these states—Maryland, where men, women, and children are
reared for the market, just as horses, sheep, and swine are raised for
the market. Slave-rearing is there looked upon as a legitimate trade;
the law sanctions it, public opinion upholds it, the church does not
condemn it. It goes on in all its bloody horrors, sustained by the
auctioneer’s block. If you would see the cruelties of this system, hear
the following narrative. Not long since the following scene occurred. A
slave-woman and a slaveman had united themselves as man and wife in the
absence of any law to protect them as man and wife. They had lived
together by the permission, not by right, of their master, and they had
reared a family. The master found it expedient, and for his interest,
to sell them. He did not ask them their wishes in regard to the matter
at all; they were not consulted. The man and woman were brought to the
auctioneer’s block, under the sound of the hammer. The cry was raised,
“Here goes; who bids cash?” Think of it—a man and wife to be sold! The
woman was placed on the auctioneer’s block; her limbs, as is customary,
were brutally exposed to the purchasers, who examined her with all the
freedom with which they would examine a horse. There stood the husband,
powerless; no right to his wife; the master’s right preeminent. She was
sold. He was next brought to the auctioneer’s block. His eyes followed
his wife in the distance; and he looked beseechingly, imploringly, to
the man that had bought his wife, to buy him also. But he was at length
bid off to another person. He was about to be separated forever from
her he loved. No word of his, no work of his, could save him from this
separation. He asked permission of his new master to go and take the
hand of his wife at parting. It was denied him. In the agony of his
soul he rushed from the man who had just bought him, that he might take
a farewell of his wife; but his way was obstructed, he was struck over
the head with a loaded whip, and was held for a moment; but his agony
was too great. When he was let go, he fell a corpse at the feet of his
master. His heart was broken. Such scenes are the everyday fruits of
American slavery. Some two years since, the Hon. Seth. M. Gates, an
anti-slavery gentleman of the state of New York, a representative in
the congress of the United States, told me he saw with his own eyes the
following circumstances. In the national District of Columbia, over
which the star-spangled emblem is constantly waving, where orators are
ever holding forth on the subject of American liberty, American
democracy, American republicanism, there are two slave prisons. When
going across a bridge, leading to one of these prisons, he saw a young
woman run out, bare-footed and bare-headed, and with very little
clothing on. She was running with all speed to the bridge he was
approaching. His eye was fixed upon her, and he stopped to see what was
the matter. He had not paused long before he saw three men run out
after her. He now knew what the nature of the case was; a slave
escaping from her chains—a young woman, a sister—escaping from the
bondage in which she had been held. She made her way to the bridge, but
had not reached, ere from the Virginia side there came two
slaveholders. As soon as they saw them, her pursuers called out, “Stop
her!” True to their Virginian instincts, they came to the rescue of
their brother kidnappers, across the bridge. The poor girl now saw that
there was no chance for her. It was a trying time. She knew if she went
back, she must be a slave forever—she must be dragged down to the
scenes of pollution which the slaveholders continually provide for most
of the poor, sinking, wretched young women, whom they call their
property. She formed her resolution; and just as those who were about
to take her, were going to put hands upon her, to drag her back, she
leaped over the balustrades of the bridge, and down she went to rise no
more. She chose death, rather than to go back into the hands of those
christian slaveholders from whom she had escaped.

Can it be possible that such things as these exist in the United
States? Are not these the exceptions? Are any such scenes as this
general? Are not such deeds condemned by the law and denounced by
public opinion? Let me read to you a few of the laws of the
slaveholding states of America. I think no better exposure of slavery
can be made than is made by the laws of the states in which slavery
exists. I prefer reading the laws to making any statement in
confirmation of what I have said myself; for the slaveholders cannot
object to this testimony, since it is the calm, the cool, the
deliberate enactment of their wisest heads, of their most
clear-sighted, their own constituted representatives. “If more than
seven slaves together are found in any road without a white person,
twenty lashes a piece; for visiting a plantation without a written
pass, ten lashes; for letting loose a boat from where it is made fast,
thirty-nine lashes for the first offense; and for the second, shall
have cut off from his head one ear; for keeping or carrying a club,
thirty-nine lashes; for having any article for sale, without a ticket
from his master, ten lashes; for traveling in any other than the most
usual and accustomed road, when going alone to any place, forty lashes;
for traveling in the night without a pass, forty lashes.” I am afraid
you do not understand the awful character of these lashes. You must
bring it before your mind. A human being in a perfect state of nudity,
tied hand and foot to a stake, and a strong man standing behind with a
heavy whip, knotted at the end, each blow cutting into the flesh, and
leaving the warm blood dripping to the feet; and for these trifles.
“For being found in another person’s negro-quarters, forty lashes; for
hunting with dogs in the woods, thirty lashes; for being on horseback
without the written permission of his master, twenty-five lashes; for
riding or going abroad in the night, or riding horses in the day time,
without leave, a slave may be whipped, cropped, or branded in the cheek
with the letter R. or otherwise punished, such punishment not extending
to life, or so as to render him unfit for labor.” The laws referred to,
may be found by consulting _Brevard’s Digest; Haywood’s Manual;
Virginia Revised Code; Prince’s Digest; Missouri Laws; Mississippi
Revised Code_. A man, for going to visit his brethren, without the
permission of his master—and in many instances he may not have that
permission; his master, from caprice or other reasons, may not be
willing to allow it—may be caught on his way, dragged to a post, the
branding-iron heated, and the name of his master or the letter R
branded into his cheek or on his forehead. They treat slaves thus, on
the principle that they must punish for light offenses, in order to
prevent the commission of larger ones. I wish you to mark that in the
single state of Virginia there are seventy-one crimes for which a
colored man may be executed; while there are only three of these
crimes, which, when committed by a white man, will subject him to that
punishment. There are many of these crimes which if the white man did
not commit, he would be regarded as a scoundrel and a coward. In the
state of Maryland, there is a law to this effect: that if a slave shall
strike his master, he may be hanged, his head severed from his body,
his body quartered, and his head and quarters set up in the most
prominent places in the neighborhood. If a colored woman, in the
defense of her own virtue, in defense of her own person, should shield
herself from the brutal attacks of her tyrannical master, or make the
slightest resistance, she may be killed on the spot. No law whatever
will bring the guilty man to justice for the crime.

But you will ask me, can these things be possible in a land professing
Christianity? Yes, they are so; and this is not the worst. No; a darker
feature is yet to be presented than the mere existence of these facts.
I have to inform you that the religion of the southern states, at this
time, is the great supporter, the great sanctioner of the bloody
atrocities to which I have referred. While America is printing tracts
and bibles; sending missionaries abroad to convert the heathen;
expending her money in various ways for the promotion of the gospel in
foreign lands—the slave not only lies forgotten, uncared for, but is
trampled under foot by the very churches of the land. What have we in
America? Why, we have slavery made part of the religion of the land.
Yes, the pulpit there stands up as the great defender of this cursed
_institution_, as it is called. Ministers of religion come forward and
torture the hallowed pages of inspired wisdom to sanction the bloody
deed. They stand forth as the foremost, the strongest defenders of this
“institution.” As a proof of this, I need not do more than state the
general fact, that slavery has existed under the droppings of the
sanctuary of the south for the last two hundred years, and there has
not been any war between the _religion_ and the _slavery_ of the south.
Whips, chains, gags, and thumb-screws have all lain under the droppings
of the sanctuary, and instead of rusting from off the limbs of the
bondman, those droppings have served to preserve them in all their
strength. Instead of preaching the gospel against this tyranny, rebuke,
and wrong, ministers of religion have sought, by all and every means,
to throw in the back-ground whatever in the bible could be construed
into opposition to slavery, and to bring forward that which they could
torture into its support. This I conceive to be the darkest feature of
slavery, and the most difficult to attack, because it is identified
with religion, and exposes those who denounce it to the charge of
infidelity. Yes, those with whom I have been laboring, namely, the old
organization anti-slavery society of America, have been again and again
stigmatized as infidels, and for what reason? Why, solely in
consequence of the faithfulness of their attacks upon the slaveholding
religion of the southern states, and the northern religion that
sympathizes with it. I have found it difficult to speak on this matter
without persons coming forward and saying, “Douglass, are you not
afraid of injuring the cause of Christ? You do not desire to do so, we
know; but are you not undermining religion?” This has been said to me
again and again, even since I came to this country, but I cannot be
induced to leave off these exposures. I love the religion of our
blessed Savior. I love that religion that comes from above, in the
“wisdom of God,” which is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy
to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality and
without hypocrisy. I love that religion that sends its votaries to bind
up the wounds of him that has fallen among thieves. I love that
religion that makes it the duty of its disciples to visit the father
less and the widow in their affliction. I love that religion that is
based upon the glorious principle, of love to God and love to man;
which makes its followers do unto others as they themselves would be
done by. If you demand liberty to yourself, it says, grant it to your
neighbors. If you claim a right to think for yourself, it says, allow
your neighbors the same right. If you claim to act for yourself, it
says, allow your neighbors the same right. It is because I love this
religion that I hate the slaveholding, the woman-whipping, the
mind-darkening, the soul-destroying religion that exists in the
southern states of America. It is because I regard the one as good, and
pure, and holy, that I cannot but regard the other as bad, corrupt, and
wicked. Loving the one I must hate the other; holding to the one I must
reject the other.

I may be asked, why I am so anxious to bring this subject before the
British public—why I do not confine my efforts to the United States? My
answer is, first, that slavery is the common enemy of mankind, and all
mankind should be made acquainted with its abominable character. My
next answer is, that the slave is a man, and, as such, is entitled to
your sympathy as a brother. All the feelings, all the susceptibilities,
all the capacities, which you have, he has. He is a part of the human
family. He has been the prey—the common prey—of Christendom for the
last three hundred years, and it is but right, it is but just, it is
but proper, that his wrongs should be known throughout the world. I
have another reason for bringing this matter before the British public,
and it is this: slavery is a system of wrong, so blinding to all
around, so hardening to the heart, so corrupting to the morals, so
deleterious to religion, so sapping to all the principles of justice in
its immediate vicinity, that the community surrounding it lack the
moral stamina necessary to its removal. It is a system of such gigantic
evil, so strong, so overwhelming in its power, that no one nation is
equal to its removal. It requires the humanity of Christianity, the
morality of the world to remove it. Hence, I call upon the people of
Britain to look at this matter, and to exert the influence I am about
to show they possess, for the removal of slavery from America. I can
appeal to them, as strongly by their regard for the slaveholder as for
the slave, to labor in this cause. I am here, because you have an
influence on America that no other nation can have. You have been drawn
together by the power of steam to a marvelous extent; the distance
between London and Boston is now reduced to some twelve or fourteen
days, so that the denunciations against slavery, uttered in London this
week, may be heard in a fortnight in the streets of Boston, and
reverberating amidst the hills of Massachusetts. There is nothing said
here against slavery that will not be recorded in the United States. I
am here, also, because the slaveholders do not want me to be here; they
would rather that I were not here. I have adopted a maxim laid down by
Napoleon, never to occupy ground which the enemy would like me to
occupy. The slaveholders would much rather have me, if I will denounce
slavery, denounce it in the northern states, where their friends and
supporters are, who will stand by and mob me for denouncing it. They
feel something as the man felt, when he uttered his prayer, in which he
made out a most horrible case for himself, and one of his neighbors
touched him and said, “My friend, I always had the opinion of you that
you have now expressed for yourself—that you are a very great sinner.”
Coming from himself, it was all very well, but coming from a stranger
it was rather cutting. The slaveholders felt that when slavery was
denounced among themselves, it was not so bad; but let one of the
slaves get loose, let him summon the people of Britain, and make known
to them the conduct of the slaveholders toward their slaves, and it
cuts them to the quick, and produces a sensation such as would be
produced by nothing else. The power I exert now is something like the
power that is exerted by the man at the end of the lever; my influence
now is just in proportion to the distance that I am from the United
States. My exposure of slavery abroad will tell more upon the hearts
and consciences of slaveholders, than if I was attacking them in
America; for almost every paper that I now receive from the United
States, comes teeming with statements about this fugitive Negro,
calling him a “glib-tongued scoundrel,” and saying that he is running
out against the institutions and people of America. I deny the charge
that I am saying a word against the institutions of America, or the
people, as such. What I have to say is against slavery and
slaveholders. I feel at liberty to speak on this subject. I have on my
back the marks of the lash; I have four sisters and one brother now
under the galling chain. I feel it my duty to cry aloud and spare not.
I am not averse to having the good opinion of my fellow creatures. I am
not averse to being kindly regarded by all men; but I am bound, even at
the hazard of making a large class of religionists in this country hate
me, oppose me, and malign me as they have done—I am bound by the
prayers, and tears, and entreaties of three millions of kneeling
bondsmen, to have no compromise with men who are in any shape or form
connected with the slaveholders of America. I expose slavery in this
country, because to expose it is to kill it. Slavery is one of those
monsters of darkness to whom the light of truth is death. Expose
slavery, and it dies. Light is to slavery what the heat of the sun is
to the root of a tree; it must die under it. All the slaveholder asks
of me is silence. He does not ask me to go abroad and preach _in favor_
of slavery; he does not ask any one to do that. He would not say that
slavery is a good thing, but the best under the circumstances. The
slaveholders want total darkness on the subject. They want the hatchway
shut down, that the monster may crawl in his den of darkness, crushing
human hopes and happiness, destroying the bondman at will, and having
no one to reprove or rebuke him. Slavery shrinks from the light; it
hateth the light, neither cometh to the light, lest its deeds should be
reproved. To tear off the mask from this abominable system, to expose
it to the light of heaven, aye, to the heat of the sun, that it may
burn and wither it out of existence, is my object in coming to this
country. I want the slaveholder surrounded, as by a wall of
anti-slavery fire, so that he may see the condemnation of himself and
his system glaring down in letters of light. I want him to feel that he
has no sympathy in England, Scotland, or Ireland; that he has none in
Canada, none in Mexico, none among the poor wild Indians; that the
voice of the civilized, aye, and savage world is against him. I would
have condemnation blaze down upon him in every direction, till, stunned
and overwhelmed with shame and confusion, he is compelled to let go the
grasp he holds upon the persons of his victims, and restore them to
their long-lost rights.




Dr. Campbell’s Reply


From Rev. Dr. Campbell’s brilliant reply we extract the following:
FREDERICK DOUGLASS, “the beast of burden,” the portion of “goods and
chattels,” the representative of three millions of men, has been raised
up! Shall I say the _man?_ If there is a man on earth, he is a man. My
blood boiled within me when I heard his address tonight, and thought
that he had left behind him three millions of such men.

We must see more of this man; we must have more of this man. One would
have taken a voyage round the globe some forty years back—especially
since the introduction of steam—to have heard such an exposure of
slavery from the lips of a slave. It will be an era in the individual
history of the present assembly. Our children—our boys and girls—I have
tonight seen the delightful sympathy of their hearts evinced by their
heaving breasts, while their eyes sparkled with wonder and admiration,
that this black man—this slave—had so much logic, so much wit, so much
fancy, so much eloquence. He was something more than a man, according
to their little notions. Then, I say, we must hear him again. We have
got a purpose to accomplish. He has appealed to the pulpit of England.
The English pulpit is with him. He has appealed to the press of
England; the press of England is conducted by English hearts, and that
press will do him justice. About ten days hence, and his second master,
who may well prize “such a piece of goods,” will have the pleasure of
reading his burning words, and his first master will bless himself that
he has got quit of him. We have to create public opinion, or rather,
not to create it, for it is created already; but we have to foster it;
and when tonight I heard those magnificent words—the words of Curran,
by which my heart, from boyhood, has ofttimes been deeply moved—I
rejoice to think that they embody an instinct of an Englishman’s
nature. I heard, with inexpressible delight, how they told on this
mighty mass of the citizens of the metropolis.

Britain has now no slaves; we can therefore talk to the other nations
now, as we could not have talked a dozen years ago. I want the whole of
the London ministry to meet Douglass. For as his appeal is to England,
and throughout England, I should rejoice in the idea of churchmen and
dissenters merging all sectional distinctions in this cause. Let us
have a public breakfast. Let the ministers meet him; let them hear him;
let them grasp his hand; and let him enlist their sympathies on behalf
of the slave. Let him inspire them with abhorrence of the
man-stealer—the slaveholder. No slaveholding American shall ever my
cross my door. No slaveholding or slavery-supporting minister shall
ever pollute my pulpit. While I have a tongue to speak, or a hand to
write, I will, to the utmost of my power, oppose these slaveholding
men. We must have Douglass amongst us to aid in fostering public
opinion.

The great conflict with slavery must now take place in America; and
while they are adding other slave states to the Union, our business is
to step forward and help the abolitionists there. It is a pleasing
circumstance that such a body of men has risen in America, and whilst
we hurl our thunders against her slavers, let us make a distinction
between those who advocate slavery and those who oppose it. George
Thompson has been there. This man, Frederick Douglass, has been there,
and has been compelled to flee. I wish, when he first set foot on our
shores, he had made a solemn vow, and said, “Now that I am free, and in
the sanctuary of freedom, I will never return till I have seen the
emancipation of my country completed.” He wants to surround these men,
the slaveholders, as by a wall of fire; and he himself may do much
toward kindling it. Let him travel over the island—east, west, north,
and south—everywhere diffusing knowledge and awakening principle, till
the whole nation become a body of petitioners to America. He will, he
must, do it. He must for a season make England his home. He must send
for his wife. He must send for his children. I want to see the sons and
daughters of such a sire. We, too, must do something for him and them
worthy of the English name. I do not like the idea of a man of such
mental dimensions, such moral courage, and all but incomparable talent,
having his own small wants, and the wants of a distant wife and
children, supplied by the poor profits of his publication, the sketch
of his life. Let the pamphlet be bought by tens of thousands. But we
will do something more for him, shall we not?

It only remains that we pass a resolution of thanks to Frederick
Douglass, the slave that was, the man that is! He that was covered with
chains, and that is now being covered with glory, and whom we will send
back a gentleman.




LETTER TO HIS OLD MASTER. 11. To My Old Master, Thomas Auld


SIR—The long and intimate, though by no means friendly, relation which
unhappily subsisted between you and myself, leads me to hope that you
will easily account for the great liberty which I now take in
addressing you in this open and public manner. The same fact may remove
any disagreeable surprise which you may experience on again finding
your name coupled with mine, in any other way than in an advertisement,
accurately describing my person, and offering a large sum for my
arrest. In thus dragging you again before the public, I am aware that I
shall subject myself to no inconsiderable amount of censure. I shall
probably be charged with an unwarrantable, if not a wanton and reckless
disregard of the rights and properties of private life. There are those
north as well as south who entertain a much higher respect for rights
which are merely conventional, than they do for rights which are
personal and essential. Not a few there are in our country, who, while
they have no scruples against robbing the laborer of the hard earned
results of his patient industry, will be shocked by the extremely
indelicate manner of bringing your name before the public. Believing
this to be the case, and wishing to meet every reasonable or plausible
objection to my conduct, I will frankly state the ground upon which I
justfy(sic) myself in this instance, as well as on former occasions
when I have thought proper to mention your name in public. All will
agree that a man guilty of theft, robbery, or murder, has forfeited the
right to concealment and private life; that the community have a right
to subject such persons to the most complete exposure. However much
they may desire retirement, and aim to conceal themselves and their
movements from the popular gaze, the public have a right to ferret them
out, and bring their conduct before the proper tribunals of the country
for investigation. Sir, you will undoubtedly make the proper
application of these generally admitted principles, and will easily see
the light in which you are regarded by me; I will not therefore
manifest ill temper, by calling you hard names. I know you to be a man
of some intelligence, and can readily determine the precise estimate
which I entertain of your character. I may therefore indulge in
language which may seem to others indirect and ambiguous, and yet be
quite well understood by yourself.

I have selected this day on which to address you, because it is the
anniversary of my emancipation; and knowing no better way, I am led to
this as the best mode of celebrating that truly important events. Just
ten years ago this beautiful September morning, yon bright sun beheld
me a slave—a poor degraded chattel—trembling at the sound of your
voice, lamenting that I was a man, and wishing myself a brute. The
hopes which I had treasured up for weeks of a safe and successful
escape from your grasp, were powerfully confronted at this last hour by
dark clouds of doubt and fear, making my person shake and my bosom to
heave with the heavy contest between hope and fear. I have no words to
describe to you the deep agony of soul which I experienced on that
never-to-be-forgotten morning—for I left by daylight. I was making a
leap in the dark. The probabilities, so far as I could by reason
determine them, were stoutly against the undertaking. The preliminaries
and precautions I had adopted previously, all worked badly. I was like
one going to war without weapons—ten chances of defeat to one of
victory. One in whom I had confided, and one who had promised me
assistance, appalled by fear at the trial hour, deserted me, thus
leaving the responsibility of success or failure solely with myself.
You, sir, can never know my feelings. As I look back to them, I can
scarcely realize that I have passed through a scene so trying. Trying,
however, as they were, and gloomy as was the prospect, thanks be to the
Most High, who is ever the God of the oppressed, at the moment which
was to determine my whole earthly career, His grace was sufficient; my
mind was made up. I embraced the golden opportunity, took the morning
tide at the flood, and a free man, young, active, and strong, is the
result.

I have often thought I should like to explain to you the grounds upon
which I have justified myself in running away from you. I am almost
ashamed to do so now, for by this time you may have discovered them
yourself. I will, however, glance at them. When yet but a child about
six years old, I imbibed the determination to run away. The very first
mental effort that I now remember on my part, was an attempt to solve
the mystery—why am I a slave? and with this question my youthful mind
was troubled for many days, pressing upon me more heavily at times than
others. When I saw the slave-driver whip a slave-woman, cut the blood
out of her neck, and heard her piteous cries, I went away into the
corner of the fence, wept and pondered over the mystery. I had, through
some medium, I know not what, got some idea of God, the Creator of all
mankind, the black and the white, and that he had made the blacks to
serve the whites as slaves. How he could do this and be _good_, I could
not tell. I was not satisfied with this theory, which made God
responsible for slavery, for it pained me greatly, and I have wept over
it long and often. At one time, your first wife, Mrs. Lucretia, heard
me sighing and saw me shedding tears, and asked of me the matter, but I
was afraid to tell her. I was puzzled with this question, till one
night while sitting in the kitchen, I heard some of the old slaves
talking of their parents having been stolen from Africa by white men,
and were sold here as slaves. The whole mystery was solved at once.
Very soon after this, my Aunt Jinny and Uncle Noah ran away, and the
great noise made about it by your father-in-law, made me for the first
time acquainted with the fact, that there were free states as well as
slave states. From that time, I resolved that I would some day run
away. The morality of the act I dispose of as follows: I am myself; you
are yourself; we are two distinct persons, equal persons. What you are,
I am. You are a man, and so am I. God created both, and made us
separate beings. I am not by nature bond to you, or you to me. Nature
does not make your existence depend upon me, or mine to depend upon
yours. I cannot walk upon your legs, or you upon mine. I cannot breathe
for you, or you for me; I must breathe for myself, and you for
yourself. We are distinct persons, and are each equally provided with
faculties necessary to our individual existence. In leaving you, I took
nothing but what belonged to me, and in no way lessened your means for
obtaining an _honest_ living. Your faculties remained yours, and mine
became useful to their rightful owner. I therefore see no wrong in any
part of the transaction. It is true, I went off secretly; but that was
more your fault than mine. Had I let you into the secret, you would
have defeated the enterprise entirely; but for this, I should have been
really glad to have made you acquainted with my intentions to leave.

You may perhaps want to know how I like my present condition. I am free
to say, I greatly prefer it to that which I occupied in Maryland. I am,
however, by no means prejudiced against the state as such. Its
geography, climate, fertility, and products, are such as to make it a
very desirable abode for any man; and but for the existence of slavery
there, it is not impossible that I might again take up my abode in that
state. It is not that I love Maryland less, but freedom more. You will
be surprised to learn that people at the north labor under the strange
delusion that if the slaves were emancipated at the south, they would
flock to the north. So far from this being the case, in that event, you
would see many old and familiar faces back again to the south. The fact
is, there are few here who would not return to the south in the event
of emancipation. We want to live in the land of our birth, and to lay
our bones by the side of our fathers; and nothing short of an intense
love of personal freedom keeps us from the south. For the sake of this,
most of us would live on a crust of bread and a cup of cold water.

Since I left you, I have had a rich experience. I have occupied
stations which I never dreamed of when a slave. Three out of the ten
years since I left you, I spent as a common laborer on the wharves of
New Bedford, Massachusetts. It was there I earned my first free dollar.
It was mine. I could spend it as I pleased. I could buy hams or herring
with it, without asking any odds of anybody. That was a precious dollar
to me. You remember when I used to make seven, or eight, or even nine
dollars a week in Baltimore, you would take every cent of it from me
every Saturday night, saying that I belonged to you, and my earnings
also. I never liked this conduct on your part—to say the best, I
thought it a little mean. I would not have served you so. But let that
pass. I was a little awkward about counting money in New England
fashion when I first landed in New Bedford. I came near betraying
myself several times. I caught myself saying phip, for fourpence; and
at one time a man actually charged me with being a runaway, whereupon I
was silly enough to become one by running away from him, for I was
greatly afraid he might adopt measures to get me again into slavery, a
condition I then dreaded more than death.

I soon learned, however, to count money, as well as to make it, and got
on swimmingly. I married soon after leaving you; in fact, I was engaged
to be married before I left you; and instead of finding my companion a
burden, she was truly a helpmate. She went to live at service, and I to
work on the wharf, and though we toiled hard the first winter, we never
lived more happily. After remaining in New Bedford for three years, I
met with William Lloyd Garrison, a person of whom you have _possibly_
heard, as he is pretty generally known among slaveholders. He put it
into my head that I might make myself serviceable to the cause of the
slave, by devoting a portion of my time to telling my own sorrows, and
those of other slaves, which had come under my observation. This was
the commencement of a higher state of existence than any to which I had
ever aspired. I was thrown into society the most pure, enlightened, and
benevolent, that the country affords. Among these I have never
forgotten you, but have invariably made you the topic of
conversation—thus giving you all the notoriety I could do. I need not
tell you that the opinion formed of you in these circles is far from
being favorable. They have little respect for your honesty, and less
for your religion.

But I was going on to relate to you something of my interesting
experience. I had not long enjoyed the excellent society to which I
have referred, before the light of its excellence exerted a beneficial
influence on my mind and heart. Much of my early dislike of white
persons was removed, and their manners, habits, and customs, so
entirely unlike what I had been used to in the kitchen-quarters on the
plantations of the south, fairly charmed me, and gave me a strong
disrelish for the coarse and degrading customs of my former condition.
I therefore made an effort so to improve my mind and deportment, as to
be somewhat fitted to the station to which I seemed almost
providentially called. The transition from degradation to
respectability was indeed great, and to get from one to the other
without carrying some marks of one’s former condition, is truly a
difficult matter. I would not have you think that I am now entirely
clear of all plantation peculiarities, but my friends here, while they
entertain the strongest dislike to them, regard me with that charity to
which my past life somewhat entitles me, so that my condition in this
respect is exceedingly pleasant. So far as my domestic affairs are
concerned, I can boast of as comfortable a dwelling as your own. I have
an industrious and neat companion, and four dear children—the oldest a
girl of nine years, and three fine boys, the oldest eight, the next
six, and the youngest four years old. The three oldest are now going
regularly to school—two can read and write, and the other can spell,
with tolerable correctness, words of two syllables. Dear fellows! they
are all in comfortable beds, and are sound asleep, perfectly secure
under my own roof. There are no slaveholders here to rend my heart by
snatching them from my arms, or blast a mother’s dearest hopes by
tearing them from her bosom. These dear children are ours—not to work
up into rice, sugar, and tobacco, but to watch over, regard, and
protect, and to rear them up in the nurture and admonition of the
gospel—to train them up in the paths of wisdom and virtue, and, as far
as we can, to make them useful to the world and to themselves. Oh! sir,
a slaveholder never appears to me so completely an agent of hell, as
when I think of and look upon my dear children. It is then that my
feelings rise above my control. I meant to have said more with respect
to my own prosperity and happiness, but thoughts and feelings which
this recital has quickened, unfit me to proceed further in that
direction. The grim horrors of slavery rise in all their ghastly terror
before me; the wails of millions pierce my heart and chill my blood. I
remember the chain, the gag, the bloody whip; the death-like gloom
overshadowing the broken spirit of the fettered bondman; the appalling
liability of his being torn away from wife and children, and sold like
a beast in the market. Say not that this is a picture of fancy. You
well know that I wear stripes on my back, inflicted by your direction;
and that you, while we were brothers in the same church, caused this
right hand, with which I am now penning this letter, to be closely tied
to my left, and my person dragged, at the pistol’s mouth, fifteen
miles, from the Bay Side to Easton, to be sold like a beast in the
market, for the alleged crime of intending to escape from your
possession. All this, and more, you remember, and know to be perfectly
true, not only of yourself, but of nearly all of the slaveholders
around you.

At this moment, you are probably the guilty holder of at least three of
my own dear sisters, and my only brother, in bondage. These you regard
as your property. They are recorded on your ledger, or perhaps have
been sold to human flesh-mongers, with a view to filling our own
ever-hungry purse. Sir, I desire to know how and where these dear
sisters are. Have you sold them? or are they still in your possession?
What has become of them? are they living or dead? And my dear old
grandmother, whom you turned out like an old horse to die in the
woods—is she still alive? Write and let me know all about them. If my
grandmother be still alive, she is of no service to you, for by this
time she must be nearly eighty years old—too old to be cared for by one
to whom she has ceased to be of service; send her to me at Rochester,
or bring her to Philadelphia, and it shall be the crowning happiness of
my life to take care of her in her old age. Oh! she was to me a mother
and a father, so far as hard toil for my comfort could make her such.
Send me my grandmother! that I may watch over and take care of her in
her old age. And my sisters—let me know all about them. I would write
to them, and learn all I want to know of them, without disturbing you
in any way, but that, through your unrighteous conduct, they have been
entirely deprived of the power to read and write. You have kept them in
utter ignorance, and have therefore robbed them of the sweet enjoyments
of writing or receiving letters from absent friends and relatives. Your
wickedness and cruelty, committed in this respect on your
fellow-creatures, are greater than all the stripes you have laid upon
my back or theirs. It is an outrage upon the soul, a war upon the
immortal spirit, and one for which you must give account at the bar of
our common Father and Creator.

The responsibility which you have assumed in this regard is truly
awful, and how you could stagger under it these many years is
marvelous. Your mind must have become darkened, your heart hardened,
your conscience seared and petrified, or you would have long since
thrown off the accursed load, and sought relief at the hands of a
sin-forgiving God. How, let me ask, would you look upon me, were I,
some dark night, in company with a band of hardened villains, to enter
the precincts of your elegant dwelling, and seize the person of your
own lovely daughter, Amanda, and carry her off from your family,
friends, and all the loved ones of her youth—make her my slave—compel
her to work, and I take her wages—place her name on my ledger as
property—disregard her personal rights—fetter the powers of her
immortal soul by denying her the right and privilege of learning to
read and write—feed her coarsely—clothe her scantily, and whip her on
the naked back occasionally; more, and still more horrible, leave her
unprotected—a degraded victim to the brutal lust of fiendish overseers,
who would pollute, blight, and blast her fair soul—rob her of all
dignity—destroy her virtue, and annihilate in her person all the graces
that adorn the character of virtuous womanhood? I ask, how would you
regard me, if such were my conduct? Oh! the vocabulary of the damned
would not afford a word sufficiently infernal to express your idea of
my God-provoking wickedness. Yet, sir, your treatment of my beloved
sisters is in all essential points precisely like the case I have now
supposed. Damning as would be such a deed on my part, it would be no
more so than that which you have committed against me and my sisters.

I will now bring this letter to a close; you shall hear from me again
unless you let me hear from you. I intend to make use of you as a
weapon with which to assail the system of slavery—as a means of
concentrating public attention on the system, and deepening the horror
of trafficking in the souls and bodies of men. I shall make use of you
as a means of exposing the character of the American church and
clergy—and as a means of bringing this guilty nation, with yourself, to
repentance. In doing this, I entertain no malice toward you personally.
There is no roof under which you would be more safe than mine, and
there is nothing in my house which you might need for your comfort,
which I would not readily grant. Indeed, I should esteem it a privilege
to set you an example as to how mankind ought to treat each other.

I am your fellow-man, but not your slave.




THE NATURE OF SLAVERY. Extract from a Lecture on Slavery, at Rochester,


December 1, 1850

More than twenty years of my life were consumed in a state of slavery.
My childhood was environed by the baneful peculiarities of the slave
system. I grew up to manhood in the presence of this hydra headed
monster—not as a master—not as an idle spectator—not as the guest of
the slaveholder—but as A SLAVE, eating the bread and drinking the cup
of slavery with the most degraded of my brother-bondmen, and sharing
with them all the painful conditions of their wretched lot. In
consideration of these facts, I feel that I have a right to speak, and
to speak _strongly_. Yet, my friends, I feel bound to speak truly.

Goading as have been the cruelties to which I have been
subjected—bitter as have been the trials through which I have
passed—exasperating as have been, and still are, the indignities
offered to my manhood—I find in them no excuse for the slightest
departure from truth in dealing with any branch of this subject.

First of all, I will state, as well as I can, the legal and social
relation of master and slave. A master is one—to speak in the
vocabulary of the southern states—who claims and exercises a right of
property in the person of a fellow-man. This he does with the force of
the law and the sanction of southern religion. The law gives the master
absolute power over the slave. He may work him, flog him, hire him out,
sell him, and, in certain contingencies, _kill_ him, with perfect
impunity. The slave is a human being, divested of all rights—reduced to
the level of a brute—a mere “chattel” in the eye of the law—placed
beyond the circle of human brotherhood—cut off from his kind—his name,
which the “recording angel” may have enrolled in heaven, among the
blest, is impiously inserted in a _master’s ledger_, with horses,
sheep, and swine. In law, the slave has no wife, no children, no
country, and no home. He can own nothing, possess nothing, acquire
nothing, but what must belong to another. To eat the fruit of his own
toil, to clothe his person with the work of his own hands, is
considered stealing. He toils that another may reap the fruit; he is
industrious that another may live in idleness; he eats unbolted meal
that another may eat the bread of fine flour; he labors in chains at
home, under a burning sun and biting lash, that another may ride in
ease and splendor abroad; he lives in ignorance that another may be
educated; he is abused that another may be exalted; he rests his
toil-worn limbs on the cold, damp ground that another may repose on the
softest pillow; he is clad in coarse and tattered raiment that another
may be arrayed in purple and fine linen; he is sheltered only by the
wretched hovel that a master may dwell in a magnificent mansion; and to
this condition he is bound down as by an arm of iron.

From this monstrous relation there springs an unceasing stream of most
revolting cruelties. The very accompaniments of the slave system stamp
it as the offspring of hell itself. To ensure good behavior, the
slaveholder relies on the whip; to induce proper humility, he relies on
the whip; to rebuke what he is pleased to term insolence, he relies on
the whip; to supply the place of wages as an incentive to toil, he
relies on the whip; to bind down the spirit of the slave, to imbrute
and destroy his manhood, he relies on the whip, the chain, the gag, the
thumb-screw, the pillory, the bowie knife the pistol, and the
blood-hound. These are the necessary and unvarying accompaniments of
the system. Wherever slavery is found, these horrid instruments are
also found. Whether on the coast of Africa, among the savage tribes, or
in South Carolina, among the refined and civilized, slavery is the
same, and its accompaniments one and the same. It makes no difference
whether the slaveholder worships the God of the Christians, or is a
follower of Mahomet, he is the minister of the same cruelty, and the
author of the same misery. _Slavery_ is always _slavery;_ always the
same foul, haggard, and damning scourge, whether found in the eastern
or in the western hemisphere.

There is a still deeper shade to be given to this picture. The physical
cruelties are indeed sufficiently harassing and revolting; but they are
as a few grains of sand on the sea shore, or a few drops of water in
the great ocean, compared with the stupendous wrongs which it inflicts
upon the mental, moral, and religious nature of its hapless victims. It
is only when we contemplate the slave as a moral and intellectual
being, that we can adequately comprehend the unparalleled enormity of
slavery, and the intense criminality of the slaveholder. I have said
that the slave was a man. “What a piece of work is man! How noble in
reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and moving how express and
admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a God!
The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!”

The slave is a man, “the image of God,” but “a little lower than the
angels;” possessing a soul, eternal and indestructible; capable of
endless happiness, or immeasurable woe; a creature of hopes and fears,
of affections and passions, of joys and sorrows, and he is endowed with
those mysterious powers by which man soars above the things of time and
sense, and grasps, with undying tenacity, the elevating and sublimely
glorious idea of a God. It is _such_ a being that is smitten and
blasted. The first work of slavery is to mar and deface those
characteristics of its victims which distinguish _men_ from _things_,
and _persons_ from _property_. Its first aim is to destroy all sense of
high moral and religious responsibility. It reduces man to a mere
machine. It cuts him off from his Maker, it hides from him the laws of
God, and leaves him to grope his way from time to eternity in the dark,
under the arbitrary and despotic control of a frail, depraved, and
sinful fellow-man. As the serpent-charmer of India is compelled to
extract the deadly teeth of his venomous prey before he is able to
handle him with impunity, so the slaveholder must strike down the
conscience of the slave before he can obtain the entire mastery over
his victim.

It is, then, the first business of the enslaver of men to blunt,
deaden, and destroy the central principle of human responsibility.
Conscience is, to the individual soul, and to society, what the law of
gravitation is to the universe. It holds society together; it is the
basis of all trust and confidence; it is the pillar of all moral
rectitude. Without it, suspicion would take the place of trust; vice
would be more than a match for virtue; men would prey upon each other,
like the wild beasts of the desert; and earth would become a _hell_.

Nor is slavery more adverse to the conscience than it is to the mind.
This is shown by the fact, that in every state of the American Union,
where slavery exists, except the state of Kentucky, there are laws
absolutely prohibitory of education among the slaves. The crime of
teaching a slave to read is punishable with severe fines and
imprisonment, and, in some instances, with _death itself_.

Nor are the laws respecting this matter a dead letter. Cases may occur
in which they are disregarded, and a few instances may be found where
slaves may have learned to read; but such are isolated cases, and only
prove the rule. The great mass of slaveholders look upon education
among the slaves as utterly subversive of the slave system. I well
remember when my mistress first announced to my master that she had
discovered that I could read. His face colored at once with surprise
and chagrin. He said that “I was ruined, and my value as a slave
destroyed; that a slave should know nothing but to obey his master;
that to give a negro an inch would lead him to take an ell; that having
learned how to read, I would soon want to know how to write; and that
by-and-by I would be running away.” I think my audience will bear
witness to the correctness of this philosophy, and to the literal
fulfillment of this prophecy.

It is perfectly well understood at the south, that to educate a slave
is to make him discontened(sic) with slavery, and to invest him with a
power which shall open to him the treasures of freedom; and since the
object of the slaveholder is to maintain complete authority over his
slave, his constant vigilance is exercised to prevent everything which
militates against, or endangers, the stability of his authority.
Education being among the menacing influences, and, perhaps, the most
dangerous, is, therefore, the most cautiously guarded against.

It is true that we do not often hear of the enforcement of the law,
punishing as a crime the teaching of slaves to read, but this is not
because of a want of disposition to enforce it. The true reason or
explanation of the matter is this: there is the greatest unanimity of
opinion among the white population in the south in favor of the policy
of keeping the slave in ignorance. There is, perhaps, another reason
why the law against education is so seldom violated. The slave is too
poor to be able to offer a temptation sufficiently strong to induce a
white man to violate it; and it is not to be supposed that in a
community where the moral and religious sentiment is in favor of
slavery, many martyrs will be found sacrificing their liberty and lives
by violating those prohibitory enactments.

As a general rule, then, darkness reigns over the abodes of the
enslaved, and “how great is that darkness!”

We are sometimes told of the contentment of the slaves, and are
entertained with vivid pictures of their happiness. We are told that
they often dance and sing; that their masters frequently give them
wherewith to make merry; in fine, that they have little of which to
complain. I admit that the slave does sometimes sing, dance, and appear
to be merry. But what does this prove? It only proves to my mind, that
though slavery is armed with a thousand stings, it is not able entirely
to kill the elastic spirit of the bondman. That spirit will rise and
walk abroad, despite of whips and chains, and extract from the cup of
nature occasional drops of joy and gladness. No thanks to the
slaveholder, nor to slavery, that the vivacious captive may sometimes
dance in his chains; his very mirth in such circumstances stands before
God as an accusing angel against his enslaver.

It is often said, by the opponents of the anti-slavery cause, that the
condition of the people of Ireland is more deplorable than that of the
American slaves. Far be it from me to underrate the sufferings of the
Irish people. They have been long oppressed; and the same heart that
prompts me to plead the cause of the American bondman, makes it
impossible for me not to sympathize with the oppressed of all lands.
Yet I must say that there is no analogy between the two cases. The
Irishman is poor, but he is not a slave. He may be in rags, but he is
not a slave. He is still the master of his own body, and can say with
the poet, “The hand of Douglass is his own.” “The world is all before
him, where to choose;” and poor as may be my opinion of the British
parliament, I cannot believe that it will ever sink to such a depth of
infamy as to pass a law for the recapture of fugitive Irishmen! The
shame and scandal of kidnapping will long remain wholly monopolized by
the American congress. The Irishman has not only the liberty to
emigrate from his country, but he has liberty at home. He can write,
and speak, and cooperate for the attainment of his rights and the
redress of his wrongs.

The multitude can assemble upon all the green hills and fertile plains
of the Emerald Isle; they can pour out their grievances, and proclaim
their wants without molestation; and the press, that “swift-winged
messenger,” can bear the tidings of their doings to the extreme bounds
of the civilized world. They have their “Conciliation Hall,” on the
banks of the Liffey, their reform clubs, and their newspapers; they
pass resolutions, send forth addresses, and enjoy the right of
petition. But how is it with the American slave? Where may he assemble?
Where is his Conciliation Hall? Where are his newspapers? Where is his
right of petition? Where is his freedom of speech? his liberty of the
press? and his right of locomotion? He is said to be happy; happy men
can speak. But ask the slave what is his condition—what his state of
mind—what he thinks of enslavement? and you had as well address your
inquiries to the _silent dead_. There comes no _voice_ from the
enslaved. We are left to gather his feelings by imagining what ours
would be, were our souls in his soul’s stead.

If there were no other fact descriptive of slavery, than that the slave
is dumb, this alone would be sufficient to mark the slave system as a
grand aggregation of human horrors.

Most who are present, will have observed that leading men in this
country have been putting forth their skill to secure quiet to the
nation. A system of measures to promote this object was adopted a few
months ago in congress. The result of those measures is known. Instead
of quiet, they have produced alarm; instead of peace, they have brought
us war; and so it must ever be.

While this nation is guilty of the enslavement of three millions of
innocent men and women, it is as idle to think of having a sound and
lasting peace, as it is to think there is no God to take cognizance of
the affairs of men. There can be no peace to the wicked while slavery
continues in the land. It will be condemned; and while it is condemned
there will be agitation. Nature must cease to be nature; men must
become monsters; humanity must be transformed; Christianity must be
exterminated; all ideas of justice and the laws of eternal goodness
must be utterly blotted out from the human soul—ere a system so foul
and infernal can escape condemnation, or this guilty republic can have
a sound, enduring peace.




INHUMANITY OF SLAVERY. Extract from A Lecture on Slavery, at Rochester,


December 8, 1850

The relation of master and slave has been called patriarchal, and only
second in benignity and tenderness to that of the parent and child.
This representation is doubtless believed by many northern people; and
this may account, in part, for the lack of interest which we find among
persons whom we are bound to believe to be honest and humane. What,
then, are the facts? Here I will not quote my own experience in
slavery; for this you might call one-sided testimony. I will not cite
the declarations of abolitionists; for these you might pronounce
exaggerations. I will not rely upon advertisements cut from newspapers;
for these you might call isolated cases. But I will refer you to the
laws adopted by the legislatures of the slave states. I give you such
evidence, because it cannot be invalidated nor denied. I hold in my
hand sundry extracts from the slave codes of our country, from which I
will quote. * * *

Now, if the foregoing be an indication of kindness, _what is cruelty_?
If this be parental affection, _what is bitter malignity_? A more
atrocious and blood-thirsty string of laws could not well be conceived
of. And yet I am bound to say that they fall short of indicating the
horrible cruelties constantly practiced in the slave states.

I admit that there are individual slaveholders less cruel and barbarous
than is allowed by law; but these form the exception. The majority of
slaveholders find it necessary, to insure obedience, at times, to avail
themselves of the utmost extent of the law, and many go beyond it. If
kindness were the rule, we should not see advertisements filling the
columns of almost every southern newspaper, offering large rewards for
fugitive slaves, and describing them as being branded with irons,
loaded with chains, and scarred by the whip. One of the most telling
testimonies against the pretended kindness of slaveholders, is the fact
that uncounted numbers of fugitives are now inhabiting the Dismal
Swamp, preferring the untamed wilderness to their cultivated
homes—choosing rather to encounter hunger and thirst, and to roam with
the wild beasts of the forest, running the hazard of being hunted and
shot down, than to submit to the authority of _kind_ masters.

I tell you, my friends, humanity is never driven to such an unnatural
course of life, without great wrong. The slave finds more of the milk
of human kindness in the bosom of the savage Indian, than in the heart
of his _Christian_ master. He leaves the man of the _bible_, and takes
refuge with the man of the _tomahawk_. He rushes from the praying
slaveholder into the paws of the bear. He quits the homes of men for
the haunts of wolves. He prefers to encounter a life of trial, however
bitter, or death, however terrible, to dragging out his existence under
the dominion of these _kind_ masters.

The apologists for slavery often speak of the abuses of slavery; and
they tell us that they are as much opposed to those abuses as we are;
and that they would go as far to correct those abuses and to ameliorate
the condition of the slave as anybody. The answer to that view is, that
slavery is itself an abuse; that it lives by abuse; and dies by the
absence of abuse. Grant that slavery is right; grant that the relations
of master and slave may innocently exist; and there is not a single
outrage which was ever committed against the slave but what finds an
apology in the very necessity of the case. As we said by a slaveholder
(the Rev. A. G. Few) to the Methodist conference, “If the relation be
right, the means to maintain it are also right;” for without those
means slavery could not exist. Remove the dreadful scourge—the plaited
thong—the galling fetter—the accursed chain—and let the slaveholder
rely solely upon moral and religious power, by which to secure
obedience to his orders, and how long do you suppose a slave would
remain on his plantation? The case only needs to be stated; it carries
its own refutation with it.

Absolute and arbitrary power can never be maintained by one man over
the body and soul of another man, without brutal chastisement and
enormous cruelty.

To talk of _kindness_ entering into a relation in which one party is
robbed of wife, of children, of his hard earnings, of home, of friends,
of society, of knowledge, and of all that makes this life desirable, is
most absurd, wicked, and preposterous.

I have shown that slavery is wicked—wicked, in that it violates the
great law of liberty, written on every human heart—wicked, in that it
violates the first command of the decalogue—wicked, in that it fosters
the most disgusting licentiousness—wicked, in that it mars and defaces
the image of God by cruel and barbarous inflictions—wicked, in that it
contravenes the laws of eternal justice, and tramples in the dust all
the humane and heavenly precepts of the New Testament.

The evils resulting from this huge system of iniquity are not confined
to the states south of Mason and Dixon’s line. Its noxious influence
can easily be traced throughout our northern borders. It comes even as
far north as the state of New York. Traces of it may be seen even in
Rochester; and travelers have told me it casts its gloomy shadows
across the lake, approaching the very shores of Queen Victoria’s
dominions.

The presence of slavery may be explained by—as it is the explanation
of—the mobocratic violence which lately disgraced New York, and which
still more recently disgraced the city of Boston. These violent
demonstrations, these outrageous invasions of human rights, faintly
indicate the presence and power of slavery here. It is a significant
fact, that while meetings for almost any purpose under heaven may be
held unmolested in the city of Boston, that in the same city, a meeting
cannot be peaceably held for the purpose of preaching the doctrine of
the American Declaration of Independence, “that all men are created
equal.” The pestiferous breath of slavery taints the whole moral
atmosphere of the north, and enervates the moral energies of the whole
people.

The moment a foreigner ventures upon our soil, and utters a natural
repugnance to oppression, that moment he is made to feel that there is
little sympathy in this land for him. If he were greeted with smiles
before, he meets with frowns now; and it shall go well with him if he
be not subjected to that peculiarly fining method of showing fealty to
slavery, the assaults of a mob.

Now, will any man tell me that such a state of things is natural, and
that such conduct on the part of the people of the north, springs from
a consciousness of rectitude? No! every fibre of the human heart unites
in detestation of tyranny, and it is only when the human mind has
become familiarized with slavery, is accustomed to its injustice, and
corrupted by its selfishness, that it fails to record its abhorrence of
slavery, and does not exult in the triumphs of liberty.

The northern people have been long connected with slavery; they have
been linked to a decaying corpse, which has destroyed the moral health.
The union of the government; the union of the north and south, in the
political parties; the union in the religious organizations of the
land, have all served to deaden the moral sense of the northern people,
and to impregnate them with sentiments and ideas forever in conflict
with what as a nation we call _genius of American institutions_.
Rightly viewed, this is an alarming fact, and ought to rally all that
is pure, just, and holy in one determined effort to crush the monster
of corruption, and to scatter “its guilty profits” to the winds. In a
high moral sense, as well as in a national sense, the whole American
people are responsible for slavery, and must share, in its guilt and
shame, with the most obdurate men-stealers of the south.

While slavery exists, and the union of these states endures, every
American citizen must bear the chagrin of hearing his country branded
before the world as a nation of liars and hypocrites; and behold his
cherished flag pointed at with the utmost scorn and derision. Even now
an American _abroad_ is pointed out in the crowd, as coming from a land
where men gain their fortunes by “the blood of souls,” from a land of
slave markets, of blood-hounds, and slave-hunters; and, in some
circles, such a man is shunned altogether, as a moral pest. Is it not
time, then, for every American to awake, and inquire into his duty with
respect to this subject?

Wendell Phillips—the eloquent New England orator—on his return from
Europe, in 1842, said, “As I stood upon the shores of Genoa, and saw
floating on the placid waters of the Mediterranean, the beautiful
American war ship Ohio, with her masts tapering proportionately aloft,
and an eastern sun reflecting her noble form upon the sparkling waters,
attracting the gaze of the multitude, my first impulse was of pride, to
think myself an American; but when I thought that the first time that
gallant ship would gird on her gorgeous apparel, and wake from beneath
her sides her dormant thunders, it would be in defense of the African
slave trade, I blushed in utter _shame_ for my country.”

Let me say again, _slavery is alike the sin and the shame of the
American people;_ it is a blot upon the American name, and the only
national reproach which need make an American hang his head in shame,
in the presence of monarchical governments.

With this gigantic evil in the land, we are constantly told to look _at
home;_ if we say ought against crowned heads, we are pointed to our
enslaved millions; if we talk of sending missionaries and bibles
abroad, we are pointed to three millions now lying in worse than
heathen darkness; if we express a word of sympathy for Kossuth and his
Hungarian fugitive brethren, we are pointed to that horrible and
hell-black enactment, “the fugitive slave bill.”

Slavery blunts the edge of all our rebukes of tyranny abroad—the
criticisms that we make upon other nations, only call forth ridicule,
contempt, and scorn. In a word, we are made a reproach and a by-word to
a mocking earth, and we must continue to be so made, so long as slavery
continues to pollute our soil.

We have heard much of late of the virtue of patriotism, the love of
country, &c., and this sentiment, so natural and so strong, has been
impiously appealed to, by all the powers of human selfishness, to
cherish the viper which is stinging our national life away. In its
name, we have been called upon to deepen our infamy before the world,
to rivet the fetter more firmly on the limbs of the enslaved, and to
become utterly insensible to the voice of human woe that is wafted to
us on every southern gale. We have been called upon, in its name, to
desecrate our whole land by the footprints of slave-hunters, and even
to engage ourselves in the horrible business of kidnapping.

I, too, would invoke the spirit of patriotism; not in a narrow and
restricted sense, but, I trust, with a broad and manly signification;
not to cover up our national sins, but to inspire us with sincere
repentance; not to hide our shame from the the(sic) world’s gaze, but
utterly to abolish the cause of that shame; not to explain away our
gross inconsistencies as a nation, but to remove the hateful, jarring,
and incongruous elements from the land; not to sustain an egregious
wrong, but to unite all our energies in the grand effort to remedy that
wrong.

I would invoke the spirit of patriotism, in the name of the law of the
living God, natural and revealed, and in the full belief that
“righteousness exalteth a nation, while sin is a reproach to any
people.” “He that walketh righteously, and speaketh uprightly; he that
despiseth the gain of oppressions, that shaketh his hands from the
holding of bribes, he shall dwell on high, his place of defense shall
be the munitions of rocks, bread shall be given him, his water shall be
sure.”

We have not only heard much lately of patriotism, and of its aid being
invoked on the side of slavery and injustice, but the very prosperity
of this people has been called in to deafen them to the voice of duty,
and to lead them onward in the pathway of sin. Thus has the blessing of
God been converted into a curse. In the spirit of genuine patriotism, I
warn the American people, by all that is just and honorable, to BEWARE!

I warn them that, strong, proud, and prosperous though we be, there is
a power above us that can “bring down high looks; at the breath of
whose mouth our wealth may take wings; and before whom every knee shall
bow;” and who can tell how soon the avenging angel may pass over our
land, and the sable bondmen now in chains, may become the instruments
of our nation’s chastisement! Without appealing to any higher feeling,
I would warn the American people, and the American government, to be
wise in their day and generation. I exhort them to remember the history
of other nations; and I remind them that America cannot always sit “as
a queen,” in peace and repose; that prouder and stronger governments
than this have been shattered by the bolts of a just God; that the time
may come when those they now despise and hate, may be needed; when
those whom they now compel by oppression to be enemies, may be wanted
as friends. What has been, may be again. There is a point beyond which
human endurance cannot go. The crushed worm may yet turn under the heel
of the oppressor. I warn them, then, with all solemnity, and in the
name of retributive justice, _to look to their ways;_ for in an evil
hour, those sable arms that have, for the last two centuries, been
engaged in cultivating and adorning the fair fields of our country, may
yet become the instruments of terror, desolation, and death, throughout
our borders.

It was the sage of the Old Dominion that said—while speaking of the
possibility of a conflict between the slaves and the slaveholders—“God
has no attribute that could take sides with the oppressor in such a
contest. I tremble for my country when I reflect that God _is just_,
and that his justice cannot sleep forever.” Such is the warning voice
of Thomas Jefferson; and every day’s experience since its utterance
until now, confirms its wisdom, and commends its truth.




WHAT TO THE SLAVE IS THE FOURTH OF JULY?. Extract from an Oration, at


Rochester, July 5, 1852

Fellow-Citizens—Pardon me, and allow me to ask, why am I called upon to
speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your
national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom
and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence,
extended to us? and am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble
offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits, and
express devout gratitude for the blessings, resulting from your
independence to us?

Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer
could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be
light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold that
a nation’s sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the
claims of gratitude, that would not thankfully acknowledge such
priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish, that would not give his
voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation’s jubilee, when the chains
of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case
like that, the dumb might eloquently speak, and the “lame man leap as
an hart.”

But, such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of
the disparity between us. I am not included within the pale of this
glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the
immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you this day
rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice,
liberty, prosperity, and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is
shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to
you, has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is
_yours_, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in
fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him
to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious
irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day?
If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that it
is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes, towering up
to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that
nation in irrecoverable ruin! I can to-day take up the plaintive lament
of a peeled and woe-smitten people.

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! we wept when we
remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst
thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a
song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one
of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange
land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her
cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of
my mouth.”

Fellow-citizens, above your national, tumultous joy, I hear the
mournful wail of millions, whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday,
are to-day rendered more intolerable by the jubilant shouts that reach
them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding
children of sorrow this day, “may my right hand forget her cunning, and
may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!” To forget them, to pass
lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme,
would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a
reproach before God and the world. My subject, then, fellow-citizens,
is AMERICAN SLAVERY. I shall see this day and its popular
characteristics from the slave’s point of view. Standing there,
identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not
hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct
of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this Fourth of July.
Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions
of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and
revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and
solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and
the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of
humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered,
in the name of the constitution and the bible, which are disregarded
and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all
the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate
slavery—the great sin and shame of America! “I will not equivocate; I
will not excuse;” I will use the severest language I can command; and
yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not
blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a slaveholder, shall not
confess to be right and just.

But I fancy I hear some one of my audience say, it is just in this
circumstance that you and your brother abolitionists fail to make a
favorable impression on the public mind. Would you argue more, and
denounce less, would you persuade more and rebuke less, your cause
would be much more likely to succeed. But, I submit, where all is plain
there is nothing to be argued. What point in the anti-slavery creed
would you have me argue? On what branch of the subject do the people of
this country need light? Must I undertake to prove that the slave is a
man? That point is conceded already. Nobody doubts it. The slaveholders
themselves acknowledge it in the enactment of laws for their
government. They acknowledge it when they punish disobedience on the
part of the slave. There are seventy-two crimes in the state of
Virginia, which, if committed by a black man (no matter how ignorant he
be), subject him to the punishment of death; while only two of these
same crimes will subject a white man to the like punishment. What is
this but the acknowledgement that the slave is a moral, intellectual,
and responsible being. The manhood of the slave is conceded. It is
admitted in the fact that southern statute books are covered with
enactments forbidding, under severe fines and penalties, the teaching
of the slave to read or write. When you can point to any such laws, in
reference to the beasts of the field, then I may consent to argue the
manhood of the slave. When the dogs in your streets, when the fowls of
the air, when the cattle on your hills, when the fish of the sea, and
the reptiles that crawl, shall be unable to distinguish the slave from
a brute, then will I argue with you that the slave is a man!

For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro
race. Is it not astonishing that, while we are plowing, planting, and
reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses,
constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron,
copper, silver, and gold; that, while we are reading, writing, and
cyphering, acting as clerks, merchants, and secretaries, having among
us lawyers, doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and
teachers; that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises
common to other men—digging gold in California, capturing the whale in
the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hillside, living, moving,
acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives, and
children, and, above all, confessing and worshiping the Christian’s
God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave—we
are called upon to prove that we are men!

Would you have me argue that man is entitled to liberty? that he is the
rightful owner of his own body? You have already declared it. Must I
argue the wrongfulness of slavery? Is that a question for republicans?
Is it to be settled by the rules of logic and argumentation, as a
matter beset with great difficulty, involving a doubtful application of
the principle of justice, hard to be understood? How should I look
to-day in the presence of Americans, dividing and subdividing a
discourse, to show that men have a natural right to freedom, speaking
of it relatively and positively, negatively and affirmatively? To do
so, would be to make myself ridiculous, and to offer an insult to your
understanding. There is not a man beneath the canopy of heaven that
does not know that slavery is wrong for _him_.

What! am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of
their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of
their relations to their fellow-men, to beat them with sticks, to flay
their flesh with the lash, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them
with dogs, to sell them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock
out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and
submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system, thus marked
with blood and stained with pollution, is wrong? No; I will not. I have
better employment for my time and strength than such arguments would
imply.

What, then, remains to be argued? Is it that slavery is not divine;
that God did not establish it; that our doctors of divinity are
mistaken? There is blasphemy in the thought. That which is inhuman
cannot be divine. Who can reason on such a proposition! They that can,
may! I cannot. The time for such argument is past.

At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is
needed. Oh! had I the ability, and could I reach the nation’s ear, I
would to-day pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting
reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that
is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need
the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation
must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the
propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation
must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be proclaimed
and denounced.

What to the American slave is your Fourth of July? I answer, a day that
reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross
injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your
celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your
national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty
and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence;
your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and
hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade
and solemnity, are to him mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and
hypocrisy—a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation
of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more
shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at
this very hour.

Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the
monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel through South
America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay
your facts by the side of the every-day practices of this nation, and
you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless
hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.




THE INTERNAL SLAVE TRADE. Extract from an Oration, at Rochester, July


5, 1852

Take the American slave trade, which, we are told by the papers, is
especially prosperous just now. Ex-senator Benton tells us that the
price of men was never higher than now. He mentions the fact to show
that slavery is in no danger. This trade is one of the peculiarities of
American institutions. It is carried on in all the large towns and
cities in one-half of this confederacy; and millions are pocketed every
year by dealers in this horrid traffic. In several states this trade is
a chief source of wealth. It is called (in contradistinction to the
foreign slave trade) _“the internal slave trade_.” It is, probably,
called so, too, in order to divert from it the horror with which the
foreign slave trade is contemplated. That trade has long since been
denounced by this government as piracy. It has been denounced with
burning words, from the high places of the nation, as an execrable
traffic. To arrest it, to put an end to it, this nation keeps a
squadron, at immense cost, on the coast of Africa. Everywhere in this
country, it is safe to speak of this foreign slave trade as a most
inhuman traffic, opposed alike to the laws of God and of man. The duty
to extirpate and destroy it is admitted even by our _doctors of
divinity_. In order to put an end to it, some of these last have
consented that their colored brethren (nominally free) should leave
this country, and establish themselves on the western coast of Africa.
It is, however, a notable fact, that, while so much execration is
poured out by Americans, upon those engaged in the foreign slave trade,
the men engaged in the slave trade between the states pass without
condemnation, and their business is deemed honorable.

Behold the practical operation of this internal slave trade—the
American slave trade sustained by American politics and American
religion! Here you will see men and women reared like swine for the
market. You know what is a swine-drover? I will show you a man-drover.
They inhabit all our southern states. They perambulate the country, and
crowd the highways of the nation with droves of human stock. You will
see one of these human-flesh-jobbers, armed with pistol, whip, and
bowie-knife, driving a company of a hundred men, women, and children,
from the Potomac to the slave market at New Orleans. These wretched
people are to be sold singly, or in lots, to suit purchasers. They are
food for the cotton-field and the deadly sugar-mill. Mark the sad
procession as it moves wearily along, and the inhuman wretch who drives
them. Hear his savage yells and his blood-chilling oaths, as he hurries
on his affrighted captives. There, see the old man, with locks thinned
and gray. Cast one glance, if you please, upon that young mother, whose
shoulders are bare to the scorching sun, her briny tears falling on the
brow of the babe in her arms. See, too, that girl of thirteen, weeping,
yes, weeping, as she thinks of the mother from whom she has been torn.
The drove moves tardily. Heat and sorrow have nearly consumed their
strength. Suddenly you hear a quick snap, like the discharge of a
rifle; the fetters clank, and the chain rattles simultaneously; your
ears are saluted with a scream that seems to have torn its way to the
center of your soul. The crack you heard was the sound of the slave
whip; the scream you heard was from the woman you saw with the babe.
Her speed had faltered under the weight of her child and her chains;
that gash on her shoulder tells her to move on. Follow this drove to
New Orleans. Attend the auction; see men examined like horses; see the
forms of women rudely and brutally exposed to the shocking gaze of
American slave-buyers. See this drove sold and separated forever; and
never forget the deep, sad sobs that arose from that scattered
multitude. Tell me, citizens, where, under the sun, can you witness a
spectacle more fiendish and shocking. Yet this is but a glance at the
American slave trade, as it exists at this moment, in the ruling part
of the United States.

I was born amid such sights and scenes. To me the American slave trade
is a terrible reality. When a child, my soul was often pierced with a
sense of its horrors. I lived on Philpot street, Fell’s Point,
Baltimore, and have watched from the wharves the slave ships in the
basin, anchored from the shore, with their cargoes of human flesh,
waiting for favorable winds to waft them down the Chesapeake. There
was, at that time, a grand slave mart kept at the head of Pratt street,
by Austin Woldfolk. His agents were sent into every town and county in
Maryland, announcing their arrival through the papers, and on flaming
hand-bills, headed, “cash for negroes.” These men were generally well
dressed, and very captivating in their manners; ever ready to drink, to
treat, and to gamble. The fate of many a slave has depended upon the
turn of a single card; and many a child has been snatched from the arms
of its mothers by bargains arranged in a state of brutal drunkenness.

The flesh-mongers gather up their victims by dozens, and drive them,
chained, to the general depot at Baltimore. When a sufficient number
have been collected here, a ship is chartered, for the purpose of
conveying the forlorn crew to Mobile or to New Orleans. From the
slave-prison to the ship, they are usually driven in the darkness of
night; for since the anti-slavery agitation a certain caution is
observed.

In the deep, still darkness of midnight, I have been often aroused by
the dead, heavy footsteps and the piteous cries of the chained gangs
that passed our door. The anguish of my boyish heart was intense; and I
was often consoled, when speaking to my mistress in the morning, to
hear her say that the custom was very wicked; that she hated to hear
the rattle of the chains, and the heart-rending cries. I was glad to
find one who sympathized with me in my horror.

Fellow citizens, this murderous traffic is to-day in active operation
in this boasted republic. In the solitude of my spirit, I see clouds of
dust raised on the highways of the south; I see the bleeding footsteps;
I hear the doleful wail of fettered humanity, on the way to the slave
markets, where the victims are to be sold like horses, sheep, and
swine, knocked off to the highest bidder. There I see the tenderest
ties ruthlessly broken, to gratify the lust, caprice, and rapacity of
the buyers and sellers of men. My soul sickens at the sight.

Is this the land your fathers loved?
    The freedom which they toiled to win?
Is this the earth whereon they moved?
    Are these the graves they slumber in?


But a still more inhuman, disgraceful, and scandalous state of things
remains to be presented. By an act of the American congress, not yet
two years old, slavery has been nationalized in its most horrible and
revolting form. By that act, Mason and Dixon’s line has been
obliterated; New York has become as Virginia; and the power to hold,
hunt, and sell men, women, and children as slaves, remains no longer a
mere state institution, but is now an institution of the whole United
States. The power is coextensive with the star-spangled banner and
American christianity. Where these go, may also go the merciless
slave-hunter. Where these are, man is not sacred. He is a bird for the
sportsman’s gun. By that most foul and fiendish of all human decrees,
the liberty and person of every man are put in peril. Your broad
republican domain is a hunting-ground for _men_. Not for thieves and
robbers, enemies of society, merely, but for men guilty of no crime.
Your law-makers have commanded all good citizens to engage in this
hellish sport. Your president, your secretary of state, your lords,
nobles, and ecclesiastics, enforce as a duty you owe to your free and
glorious country and to your God, that you do this accursed thing. Not
fewer than forty Americans have within the past two years been hunted
down, and without a moment’s warning, hurried away in chains, and
consigned to slavery and excruciating torture. Some of these have had
wives and children dependent on them for bread; but of this no account
was made. The right of the hunter to his prey, stands superior to the
right of marriage, and to _all_ rights in this republic, the rights of
God included! For black men there are neither law, justice, humanity,
nor religion. The fugitive slave law makes MERCY TO THEM A CRIME; and
bribes the judge who tries them. An American judge GETS TEN DOLLARS FOR
EVERY VICTIM HE CONSIGNS to slavery, and five, when he fails to do so.
The oath of an(sic) two villains is sufficient, under this hell-black
enactment, to send the most pious and exemplary black man into the
remorseless jaws of slavery! His own testimony is nothing. He can bring
no witnesses for himself. The minister of American justice is bound by
the law to hear but _one side_, and that side is the side of the
oppressor. Let this damning fact be perpetually told. Let it be
thundered around the world, that, in tyrant-killing, king hating,
people-loving, democratic, Christian America, the seats of justice are
filled with judges, who hold their office under an open and palpable
_bribe_, and are bound, in deciding in the case of a man’s liberty, _to
hear only his accusers!_

In glaring violation of justice, in shameless disregard of the forms of
administering law, in cunning arrangement to entrap the defenseless,
and in diabolical intent, this fugitive slave law stands alone in the
annals of tyrannical legislation. I doubt if there be another nation on
the globe having the brass and the baseness to put such a law on the
statute-book. If any man in this assembly thinks differently from me in
this matter, and feels able to disprove my statements, I will gladly
confront him at any suitable time and place he may select.




THE SLAVERY PARTY. Extract from a Speech Delivered before the A. A. S.


Society, in New York, May, 1853.

Sir, it is evident that there is in this country a purely slavery
party—a party which exists for no other earthly purpose but to promote
the interests of slavery. The presence of this party is felt everywhere
in the republic. It is known by no particular name, and has assumed no
definite shape; but its branches reach far and wide in the church and
in the state. This shapeless and nameless party is not intangible in
other and more important respects. That party, sir, has determined upon
a fixed, definite, and comprehensive policy toward the whole colored
population of the United States. What that policy is, it becomes us as
abolitionists, and especially does it become the colored people
themselves, to consider and to understand fully. We ought to know who
our enemies are, where they are, and what are their objects and
measures. Well, sir, here is my version of it—not original with me—but
mine because I hold it to be true.

I understand this policy to comprehend five cardinal objects. They are
these: 1st. The complete suppression of all anti-slavery discussion.
2d. The expatriation of the entire free people of color from the United
States. 3d. The unending perpetuation of slavery in this republic. 4th.
The nationalization of slavery to the extent of making slavery
respected in every state of the Union. 5th. The extension of slavery
over Mexico and the entire South American states.

Sir, these objects are forcibly presented to us in the stern logic of
passing events; in the facts which are and have been passing around us
during the last three years. The country has been and is now dividing
on these grand issues. In their magnitude, these issues cast all others
into the shade, depriving them of all life and vitality. Old party ties
are broken. Like is finding its like on either side of these great
issues, and the great battle is at hand. For the present, the best
representative of the slavery party in politics is the democratic
party. Its great head for the present is President Pierce, whose boast
it was, before his election, that his whole life had been consistent
with the interests of slavery, that he is above reproach on that score.
In his inaugural address, he reassures the south on this point. Well,
the head of the slave power being in power, it is natural that the pro
slavery elements should cluster around the administration, and this is
rapidly being done. A fraternization is going on. The stringent
protectionists and the free-traders strike hands. The supporters of
Fillmore are becoming the supporters of Pierce. The silver-gray whig
shakes hands with the hunker democrat; the former only differing from
the latter in name. They are of one heart, one mind, and the union is
natural and perhaps inevitable. Both hate Negroes; both hate progress;
both hate the “higher law;” both hate William H. Seward; both hate the
free democratic party; and upon this hateful basis they are forming a
union of hatred. “Pilate and Herod are thus made friends.” Even the
central organ of the whig party is extending its beggar hand for a
morsel from the table of slavery democracy, and when spurned from the
feast by the more deserving, it pockets the insult; when kicked on one
side it turns the other, and preseveres in its importunities. The fact
is, that paper comprehends the demands of the times; it understands the
age and its issues; it wisely sees that slavery and freedom are the
great antagonistic forces in the country, and it goes to its own side.
Silver grays and hunkers all understand this. They are, therefore,
rapidly sinking all other questions to nothing, compared with the
increasing demands of slavery. They are collecting, arranging, and
consolidating their forces for the accomplishment of their appointed
work.

The keystone to the arch of this grand union of the slavery party of
the United States, is the compromise of 1850. In that compromise we
have all the objects of our slaveholding policy specified. It is, sir,
favorable to this view of the designs of the slave power, that both the
whig and the democratic party bent lower, sunk deeper, and strained
harder, in their conventions, preparatory to the late presidential
election, to meet the demands of the slavery party than at any previous
time in their history. Never did parties come before the northern
people with propositions of such undisguised contempt for the moral
sentiment and the religious ideas of that people. They virtually asked
them to unite in a war upon free speech, and upon conscience, and to
drive the Almighty presence from the councils of the nation. Resting
their platforms upon the fugitive slave bill, they boldly asked the
people for political power to execute the horrible and hell-black
provisions of that bill. The history of that election reveals, with
great clearness, the extent to which slavery has shot its leprous
distillment through the life-blood of the nation. The party most
thoroughly opposed to the cause of justice and humanity, triumphed;
while the party suspected of a leaning toward liberty, was
overwhelmingly defeated, some say annihilated.

But here is a still more important fact, illustrating the designs of
the slave power. It is a fact full of meaning, that no sooner did the
democratic slavery party come into power, than a system of legislation
was presented to the legislatures of the northern states, designed to
put the states in harmony with the fugitive slave law, and the
malignant bearing of the national government toward the colored
inhabitants of the country. This whole movement on the part of the
states, bears the evidence of having one origin, emanating from one
head, and urged forward by one power. It was simultaneous, uniform, and
general, and looked to one end. It was intended to put thorns under
feet already bleeding; to crush a people already bowed down; to enslave
a people already but half free; in a word, it was intended to
discourage, dishearten, and drive the free colored people out of the
country. In looking at the recent black law of Illinois, one is struck
dumb with its enormity. It would seem that the men who enacted that
law, had not only banished from their minds all sense of justice, but
all sense of shame. It coolly proposes to sell the bodies and souls of
the blacks to increase the intelligence and refinement of the whites;
to rob every black stranger who ventures among them, to increase their
literary fund.

While this is going on in the states, a pro-slavery, political board of
health is established at Washington. Senators Hale, Chase, and Sumner
are robbed of a part of their senatorial dignity and consequence as
representing sovereign states, because they have refused to be
inoculated with the slavery virus. Among the services which a senator
is expected by his state to perform, are many that can only be done
efficiently on committees; and, in saying to these honorable senators,
you shall not serve on the committees of this body, the slavery party
took the responsibility of robbing and insulting the states that sent
them. It is an attempt at Washington to decide for the states who shall
be sent to the senate. Sir, it strikes me that this aggression on the
part of the slave power did not meet at the hands of the proscribed
senators the rebuke which we had a right to expect would be
administered. It seems to me that an opportunity was lost, that the
great principle of senatorial equality was left undefended, at a time
when its vindication was sternly demanded. But it is not to the purpose
of my present statement to criticise the conduct of our friends. I am
persuaded that much ought to be left to the discretion of anti slavery
men in congress, and charges of recreancy should never be made but on
the most sufficient grounds. For, of all the places in the world where
an anti-slavery man needs the confidence and encouragement of friends,
I take Washington to be that place.

Let me now call attention to the social influences which are operating
and cooperating with the slavery party of the country, designed to
contribute to one or all of the grand objects aimed at by that party.
We see here the black man attacked in his vital interests; prejudice
and hate are excited against him; enmity is stirred up between him and
other laborers. The Irish people, warm-hearted, generous, and
sympathizing with the oppressed everywhere, when they stand upon their
own green island, are instantly taught, on arriving in this Christian
country, to hate and despise the colored people. They are taught to
believe that we eat the bread which of right belongs to them. The cruel
lie is told the Irish, that our adversity is essential to their
prosperity. Sir, the Irish-American will find out his mistake one day.
He will find that in assuming our avocation he also has assumed our
degradation. But for the present we are sufferers. The old employments
by which we have heretofore gained our livelihood, are gradually, and
it may be inevitably, passing into other hands. Every hour sees us
elbowed out of some employment to make room perhaps for some
newly-arrived emigrants, whose hunger and color are thought to give
them a title to especial favor. White men are becoming house-servants,
cooks, and stewards, common laborers, and flunkeys to our gentry, and,
for aught I see, they adjust themselves to their stations with all
becoming obsequiousness. This fact proves that if we cannot rise to the
whites, the whites can fall to us. Now, sir, look once more. While the
colored people are thus elbowed out of employment; while the enmity of
emigrants is being excited against us; while state after state enacts
laws against us; while we are hunted down, like wild game, and
oppressed with a general feeling of insecurity—the American
colonization society—that old offender against the best interests and
slanderer of the colored people—awakens to new life, and vigorously
presses its scheme upon the consideration of the people and the
government. New papers are started—some for the north and some for the
south—and each in its tone adapting itself to its latitude. Government,
state and national, is called upon for appropriations to enable the
society to send us out of the country by steam! They want steamers to
carry letters and Negroes to Africa. Evidently, this society looks upon
our “extremity as its opportunity,” and we may expect that it will use
the occasion well. They do not deplore, but glory, in our misfortunes.

But, sir, I must hasten. I have thus briefly given my view of one
aspect of the present condition and future prospects of the colored
people of the United States. And what I have said is far from
encouraging to my afflicted people. I have seen the cloud gather upon
the sable brows of some who hear me. I confess the case looks black
enough. Sir, I am not a hopeful man. I think I am apt even to
undercalculate the benefits of the future. Yet, sir, in this seemingly
desperate case, I do not despair for my people. There is a bright side
to almost every picture of this kind; and ours is no exception to the
general rule. If the influences against us are strong, those for us are
also strong. To the inquiry, will our enemies prevail in the execution
of their designs. In my God and in my soul, I believe they _will not_.
Let us look at the first object sought for by the slavery party of the
country, viz: the suppression of anti slavery discussion. They desire
to suppress discussion on this subject, with a view to the peace of the
slaveholder and the security of slavery. Now, sir, neither the
principle nor the subordinate objects here declared, can be at all
gained by the slave power, and for this reason: It involves the
proposition to padlock the lips of the whites, in order to secure the
fetters on the limbs of the blacks. The right of speech, precious and
priceless, _cannot, will not_, be surrendered to slavery. Its
suppression is asked for, as I have said, to give peace and security to
slaveholders. Sir, that thing cannot be done. God has interposed an
insuperable obstacle to any such result. “There can be _no peace_,
saith my God, to the wicked.” Suppose it were possible to put down this
discussion, what would it avail the guilty slaveholder, pillowed as he
is upon heaving bosoms of ruined souls? He could not have a peaceful
spirit. If every anti-slavery tongue in the nation were silent—every
anti-slavery organization dissolved—every anti-slavery press
demolished—every anti slavery periodical, paper, book, pamphlet, or
what not, were searched out, gathered, deliberately burned to ashes,
and their ashes given to the four winds of heaven, still, still the
slaveholder could have _“no peace_.” In every pulsation of his heart,
in every throb of his life, in every glance of his eye, in the breeze
that soothes, and in the thunder that startles, would be waked up an
accuser, whose cause is, “Thou art, verily, guilty concerning thy
brother.”




THE ANTI-SLAVERY MOVEMENT. Extracts from a Lecture before Various


Anti-Slavery Bodies, in the Winter of 1855.

A grand movement on the part of mankind, in any direction, or for any
purpose, moral or political, is an interesting fact, fit and proper to
be studied. It is such, not only for those who eagerly participate in
it, but also for those who stand aloof from it—even for those by whom
it is opposed. I take the anti-slavery movement to be such an one, and
a movement as sublime and glorious in its character, as it is holy and
beneficent in the ends it aims to accomplish. At this moment, I deem it
safe to say, it is properly engrossing more minds in this country than
any other subject now before the American people. The late John C.
Calhoun—one of the mightiest men that ever stood up in the American
senate—did not deem it beneath him; and he probably studied it as
deeply, though not as honestly, as Gerrit Smith, or William Lloyd
Garrison. He evinced the greatest familiarity with the subject; and the
greatest efforts of his last years in the senate had direct reference
to this movement. His eagle eye watched every new development connected
with it; and he was ever prompt to inform the south of every important
step in its progress. He never allowed himself to make light of it; but
always spoke of it and treated it as a matter of grave import; and in
this he showed himself a master of the mental, moral, and religious
constitution of human society. Daniel Webster, too, in the better days
of his life, before he gave his assent to the fugitive slave bill, and
trampled upon all his earlier and better convictions—when his eye was
yet single—he clearly comprehended the nature of the elements involved
in this movement; and in his own majestic eloquence, warned the south,
and the country, to have a care how they attempted to put it down. He
is an illustration that it is easier to give, than to take, good
advice. To these two men—the greatest men to whom the nation has yet
given birth—may be traced the two great facts of the present—the south
triumphant, and the north humbled. Their names may stand thus—Calhoun
and domination—Webster and degradation. Yet again. If to the enemies of
liberty this subject is one of engrossing interest, vastly more so
should it be such to freedom’s friends. The latter, it leads to the
gates of all valuable knowledge—philanthropic, ethical, and religious;
for it brings them to the study of man, wonderfully and fearfully
made—the proper study of man through all time—the open book, in which
are the records of time and eternity.

Of the existence and power of the anti-slavery movement, as a fact, you
need no evidence. The nation has seen its face, and felt the
controlling pressure of its hand. You have seen it moving in all
directions, and in all weathers, and in all places, appearing most
where desired least, and pressing hardest where most resisted. No place
is exempt. The quiet prayer meeting, and the stormy halls of national
debate, share its presence alike. It is a common intruder, and of
course has the name of being ungentlemanly. Brethren who had long sung,
in the most affectionate fervor, and with the greatest sense of
security,

Together let us sweetly live—together let us die,


have been suddenly and violently separated by it, and ranged in hostile
attitude toward each other. The Methodist, one of the most powerful
religious organizations of this country, has been rent asunder, and its
strongest bolts of denominational brotherhood started at a single
surge. It has changed the tone of the northern pulpit, and modified
that of the press. A celebrated divine, who, four years ago, was for
flinging his own mother, or brother, into the remorseless jaws of the
monster slavery, lest he should swallow up the Union, now recognizes
anti-slavery as a characteristic of future civilization. Signs and
wonders follow this movement; and the fact just stated is one of them.
Party ties are loosened by it; and men are compelled to take sides for
or against it, whether they will or not. Come from where he may, or
come for what he may, he is compelled to show his hand. What is this
mighty force? What is its history? and what is its destiny? Is it
ancient or modern, transient or permanent? Has it turned aside, like a
stranger and a sojourner, to tarry for a night? or has it come to rest
with us forever? Excellent chances are here for speculation; and some
of them are quite profound. We might, for instance, proceed to inquire
not only into the philosophy of the anti-slavery movement, but into the
philosophy of the law, in obedience to which that movement started into
existence. We might demand to know what is that law or power, which, at
different times, disposes the minds of men to this or that particular
object—now for peace, and now for war—now for freedom, and now for
slavery; but this profound question I leave to the abolitionists of the
superior class to answer. The speculations which must precede such
answer, would afford, perhaps, about the same satisfaction as the
learned theories which have rained down upon the world, from time to
time, as to the origin of evil. I shall, therefore, avoid water in
which I cannot swim, and deal with anti-slavery as a fact, like any
other fact in the history of mankind, capable of being described and
understood, both as to its internal forces, and its external phases and
relations.

[After an eloquent, a full, and highly interesting exposition of the
nature, character, and history of the anti-slavery movement, from the
insertion of which want of space precludes us, he concluded in the
following happy manner.]

Present organizations may perish, but the cause will go on. That cause
has a life, distinct and independent of the organizations patched up
from time to time to carry it forward. Looked at, apart from the bones
and sinews and body, it is a thing immortal. It is the very essence of
justice, liberty, and love. The moral life of human society, it cannot
die while conscience, honor, and humanity remain. If but one be filled
with it, the cause lives. Its incarnation in any one individual man,
leaves the whole world a priesthood, occupying the highest moral
eminence even that of disinterested benevolence. Whoso has ascended his
height, and has the grace to stand there, has the world at his feet,
and is the world’s teacher, as of divine right. He may set in judgment
on the age, upon the civilization of the age, and upon the religion of
the age; for he has a test, a sure and certain test, by which to try
all institutions, and to measure all men. I say, he may do this, but
this is not the chief business for which he is qualified. The great
work to which he is called is not that of judgment. Like the Prince of
Peace, he may say, if I judge, I judge righteous judgment; still
mainly, like him, he may say, this is not his work. The man who has
thoroughly embraced the principles of justice, love, and liberty, like
the true preacher of Christianity, is less anxious to reproach the
world of its sins, than to win it to repentance. His great work on
earth is to exemplify, and to illustrate, and to ingraft those
principles upon the living and practical understandings of all men
within the reach of his influence. This is his work; long or short his
years, many or few his adherents, powerful or weak his
instrumentalities, through good report, or through bad report, this is
his work. It is to snatch from the bosom of nature the latent facts of
each individual man’s experience, and with steady hand to hold them up
fresh and glowing, enforcing, with all his power, their acknowledgment
and practical adoption. If there be but _one_ such man in the land, no
matter what becomes of abolition societies and parties, there will be
an anti-slavery cause, and an anti-slavery movement. Fortunately for
that cause, and fortunately for him by whom it is espoused, it requires
no extraordinary amount of talent to preach it or to receive it when
preached. The grand secret of its power is, that each of its principles
is easily rendered appreciable to the faculty of reason in man, and
that the most unenlightened conscience has no difficulty in deciding on
which side to register its testimony. It can call its preachers from
among the fishermen, and raise them to power. In every human breast, it
has an advocate which can be silent only when the heart is dead. It
comes home to every man’s understanding, and appeals directly to every
man’s conscience. A man that does not recognize and approve for himself
the rights and privileges contended for, in behalf of the American
slave, has not yet been found. In whatever else men may differ, they
are alike in the apprehension of their natural and personal rights. The
difference between abolitionists and those by whom they are opposed, is
not as to principles. All are agreed in respect to these. The manner of
applying them is the point of difference.

The slaveholder himself, the daily robber of his equal brother,
discourses eloquently as to the excellency of justice, and the man who
employs a brutal driver to flay the flesh of his negroes, is not
offended when kindness and humanity are commended. Every time the
abolitionist speaks of justice, the anti-abolitionist assents says,
yes, I wish the world were filled with a disposition to render to every
man what is rightfully due him; I should then get what is due me.
That’s right; let us have justice. By all means, let us have justice.
Every time the abolitionist speaks in honor of human liberty, he
touches a chord in the heart of the anti-abolitionist, which responds
in harmonious vibrations. Liberty—yes, that is evidently my right, and
let him beware who attempts to invade or abridge that right. Every time
he speaks of love, of human brotherhood, and the reciprocal duties of
man and man, the anti-abolitionist assents—says, yes, all right—all
true—we cannot have such ideas too often, or too fully expressed. So he
says, and so he feels, and only shows thereby that he is a man as well
as an anti-abolitionist. You have only to keep out of sight the manner
of applying your principles, to get them endorsed every time.
Contemplating himself, he sees truth with absolute clearness and
distinctness. He only blunders when asked to lose sight of himself. In
his own cause he can beat a Boston lawyer, but he is dumb when asked to
plead the cause of others. He knows very well whatsoever he would have
done unto himself, but is quite in doubt as to having the same thing
done unto others. It is just here, that lions spring up in the path of
duty, and the battle once fought in heaven is refought on the earth. So
it is, so hath it ever been, and so must it ever be, when the claims of
justice and mercy make their demand at the door of human selfishness.
Nevertheless, there is that within which ever pleads for the right and
the just.

In conclusion, I have taken a sober view of the present anti-slavery
movement. I am sober, but not hopeless. There is no denying, for it is
everywhere admitted, that the anti-slavery question is the great moral
and social question now before the American people. A state of things
has gradually been developed, by which that question has become the
first thing in order. It must be met. Herein is my hope. The great idea
of impartial liberty is now fairly before the American people.
Anti-slavery is no longer a thing to be prevented. The time for
prevention is past. This is great gain. When the movement was younger
and weaker—when it wrought in a Boston garret to human apprehension, it
might have been silently put out of the way. Things are different now.
It has grown too large—its friends are too numerous—its facilities too
abundant—its ramifications too extended—its power too omnipotent, to be
snuffed out by the contingencies of infancy. A thousand strong men
might be struck down, and its ranks still be invincible. One flash from
the heart-supplied intellect of Harriet Beecher Stowe could light a
million camp fires in front of the embattled host of slavery, which not
all the waters of the Mississippi, mingled as they are with blood,
could extinguish. The present will be looked to by after coming
generations, as the age of anti-slavery literature—when supply on the
gallop could not keep pace with the ever growing demand—when a picture
of a Negro on the cover was a help to the sale of a book—when
conservative lyceums and other American literary associations began
first to select their orators for distinguished occasions from the
ranks of the previously despised abolitionists. If the anti-slavery
movement shall fail now, it will not be from outward opposition, but
from inward decay. Its auxiliaries are everywhere. Scholars, authors,
orators, poets, and statesmen give it their aid. The most brilliant of
American poets volunteer in its service. Whittier speaks in burning
verse to more than thirty thousand, in the National Era. Your own
Longfellow whispers, in every hour of trial and disappointment, “labor
and wait.” James Russell Lowell is reminding us that “men are more than
institutions.” Pierpont cheers the heart of the pilgrim in search of
liberty, by singing the praises of “the north star.” Bryant, too, is
with us; and though chained to the car of party, and dragged on amidst
a whirl of political excitement, he snatches a moment for letting drop
a smiling verse of sympathy for the man in chains. The poets are with
us. It would seem almost absurd to say it, considering the use that has
been made of them, that we have allies in the Ethiopian songs; those
songs that constitute our national music, and without which we have no
national music. They are heart songs, and the finest feelings of human
nature are expressed in them. “Lucy Neal,” “Old Kentucky Home,” and
“Uncle Ned,” can make the heart sad as well as merry, and can call
forth a tear as well as a smile. They awaken the sympathies for the
slave, in which antislavery principles take root, grow, and flourish.
In addition to authors, poets, and scholars at home, the moral sense of
the civilized world is with us. England, France, and Germany, the three
great lights of modern civilization, are with us, and every American
traveler learns to regret the existence of slavery in his country. The
growth of intelligence, the influence of commerce, steam, wind, and
lightning are our allies. It would be easy to amplify this summary, and
to swell the vast conglomeration of our material forces; but there is a
deeper and truer method of measuring the power of our cause, and of
comprehending its vitality. This is to be found in its accordance with
the best elements of human nature. It is beyond the power of slavery to
annihilate affinities recognized and established by the Almighty. The
slave is bound to mankind by the powerful and inextricable net-work of
human brotherhood. His voice is the voice of a man, and his cry is the
cry of a man in distress, and man must cease to be man before he can
become insensible to that cry. It is the righteous of the cause—the
humanity of the cause—which constitutes its potency. As one genuine
bankbill is worth more than a thousand counterfeits, so is one man,
with right on his side, worth more than a thousand in the wrong. “One
may chase a thousand, and put ten thousand to flight.” It is,
therefore, upon the goodness of our cause, more than upon all other
auxiliaries, that we depend for its final triumph.

Another source of congratulations is the fact that, amid all the
efforts made by the church, the government, and the people at large, to
stay the onward progress of this movement, its course has been onward,
steady, straight, unshaken, and unchecked from the beginning. Slavery
has gained victories large and numerous; but never as against this
movement—against a temporizing policy, and against northern timidity,
the slave power has been victorious; but against the spread and
prevalence in the country, of a spirit of resistance to its aggression,
and of sentiments favorable to its entire overthrow, it has yet
accomplished nothing. Every measure, yet devised and executed, having
for its object the suppression of anti-slavery, has been as idle and
fruitless as pouring oil to extinguish fire. A general rejoicing took
place on the passage of “the compromise measures” of 1850. Those
measures were called peace measures, and were afterward termed by both
the great parties of the country, as well as by leading statesmen, a
final settlement of the whole question of slavery; but experience has
laughed to scorn the wisdom of pro-slavery statesmen; and their final
settlement of agitation seems to be the final revival, on a broader and
grander scale than ever before, of the question which they vainly
attempted to suppress forever. The fugitive slave bill has especially
been of positive service to the anti-slavery movement. It has
illustrated before all the people the horrible character of slavery
toward the slave, in hunting him down in a free state, and tearing him
away from wife and children, thus setting its claims higher than
marriage or parental claims. It has revealed the arrogant and
overbearing spirit of the slave states toward the free states;
despising their principles—shocking their feelings of humanity, not
only by bringing before them the abominations of slavery, but by
attempting to make them parties to the crime. It has called into
exercise among the colored people, the hunted ones, a spirit of manly
resistance well calculated to surround them with a bulwark of sympathy
and respect hitherto unknown. For men are always disposed to respect
and defend rights, when the victims of oppression stand up manfully for
themselves.

There is another element of power added to the anti-slavery movement,
of great importance; it is the conviction, becoming every day more
general and universal, that slavery must be abolished at the south, or
it will demoralize and destroy liberty at the north. It is the nature
of slavery to beget a state of things all around it favorable to its
own continuance. This fact, connected with the system of bondage, is
beginning to be more fully realized. The slave-holder is not satisfied
to associate with men in the church or in the state, unless he can
thereby stain them with the blood of his slaves. To be a slave-holder
is to be a propagandist from necessity; for slavery can only live by
keeping down the under-growth morality which nature supplies. Every
new-born white babe comes armed from the Eternal presence, to make war
on slavery. The heart of pity, which would melt in due time over the
brutal chastisements it sees inflicted on the helpless, must be
hardened. And this work goes on every day in the year, and every hour
in the day.

What is done at home is being done also abroad here in the north. And
even now the question may be asked, have we at this moment a single
free state in the Union? The alarm at this point will become more
general. The slave power must go on in its career of exactions. Give,
give, will be its cry, till the timidity which concedes shall give
place to courage, which shall resist. Such is the voice of experience,
such has been the past, such is the present, and such will be that
future, which, so sure as man is man, will come. Here I leave the
subject; and I leave off where I began, consoling myself and
congratulating the friends of freedom upon the fact that the
anti-slavery cause is not a new thing under the sun; not some moral
delusion which a few years’ experience may dispel. It has appeared
among men in all ages, and summoned its advocates from all ranks. Its
foundations are laid in the deepest and holiest convictions, and from
whatever soul the demon, selfishness, is expelled, there will this
cause take up its abode. Old as the everlasting hills; immovable as the
throne of God; and certain as the purposes of eternal power, against
all hinderances, and against all delays, and despite all the mutations
of human instrumentalities, it is the faith of my soul, that this
anti-slavery cause will triumph.




FOOTNOTES


1 (return) [ Letter, Introduction to _Life of Frederick Douglass_,
Boston, 1841.]

2 (return) [ One of these ladies, impelled by the same noble spirit
which carried Miss Nightingale to Scutari, has devoted her time, her
untiring energies, to a great extent her means, and her high literary
abilities, to the advancement and support of Frederick Douglass’ Paper,
the only organ of the downtrodden, edited and published by one of
themselves, in the United States.]

3 (return) [ Mr. Stephen Myers, of Albany, deserves mention as one of
the most persevering among the colored editorial fraternity.]

4 (return) [ The German physiologists have even discovered vegetable
matter—starch—in the human body. See _Med. Chirurgical Rev_., Oct.,
1854, p. 339.]

5 (return) [ Mr. Wm. H. Topp, of Albany.]

6 (return) [ This is the same man who gave me the roots to prevent my
being whipped by Mr. Covey. He was “a clever soul.” We used frequently
to talk about the fight with Covey, and as often as we did so, he would
claim my success as the result of the roots which he gave me. This
superstition is very common among the more ignorant slaves. A slave
seldom dies, but that his death is attributed to trickery.]

7 (return) [ He was a whole-souled man, fully imbued with a love of his
afflicted and hunted people, and took pleasure in being to me, as was
his wont, “Eyes to the blind, and legs to the lame.” This brave and
devoted man suffered much from the persecutions common to all who have
been prominent benefactors. He at last became blind, and needed a
friend to guide him, even as he had been a guide to others. Even in his
blindness, he exhibited his manly character. In search of health, he
became a physician. When hope of gaining is(sic) own was gone, he had
hope for others. Believing in hydropathy, he established, at
Northampton, Massachusetts, a large _“Water Cure,”_ and became one of
the most successful of all engaged in that mode of treatment.]

8 (return) [ The following is a copy of these curious papers, both of
my transfer from Thomas to Hugh Auld, and from Hugh to myself:

“Know all men by these Presents, That I, Thomas Auld, of Talbot county,
and state of Maryland, for and in consideration of the sum of one
hundred dollars, current money, to me paid by Hugh Auld, of the city of
Baltimore, in the said state, at and before the sealing and delivery of
these presents, the receipt whereof, I, the said Thomas Auld, do hereby
acknowledge, have granted, bargained, and sold, and by these presents
do grant, bargain, and sell unto the said Hugh Auld, his executors,
administrators, and assigns, ONE NEGRO MAN, by the name of FREDERICK
BAILY, or DOUGLASS, as he callls(sic) himself—he is now about
twenty-eight years of age—to have and to hold the said negro man for
life. And I, the said Thomas Auld, for myself my heirs, executors, and
administrators, all and singular, the said FREDERICK BAILY _alias_
DOUGLASS, unto the said Hugh Auld, his executors, administrators, and
assigns against me, the said Thomas Auld, my executors, and
administrators, and against ali and every other person or persons
whatsoever, shall and will warrant and forever defend by these
presents. In witness whereof, I set my hand and seal, this thirteenth
day of November, eighteen hundred and forty-six.

THOMAS AULD

“Signed, sealed, and delivered in presence of Wrightson Jones.

“JOHN C. LEAS.

The authenticity of this bill of sale is attested by N. Harrington, a
justice of the peace of the state of Maryland, and for the county of
Talbot, dated same day as above.

“To all whom it may concern: Be it known, that I, Hugh Auld, of the
city of Baltimore, in Baltimore county, in the state of Maryland, for
divers good causes and considerations, me thereunto moving, have
released from slavery, liberated, manumitted, and set free, and by
these presents do hereby release from slavery, liberate, manumit, and
set free, MY NEGRO MAN, named FREDERICK BAILY, otherwise called
DOUGLASS, being of the age of twenty-eight years, or thereabouts, and
able to work and gain a sufficient livelihood and maintenance; and him
the said negro man named FREDERICK BAILY, otherwise called FREDERICK
DOUGLASS, I do declare to be henceforth free, manumitted, and
discharged from all manner of servitude to me, my executors, and
administrators forever.

“In witness whereof, I, the said Hugh Auld, have hereunto set my hand
and seal the fifth of December, in the year one thousand eight hundred
and forty-six.

Hugh Auld

“Sealed and delivered in presence of T. Hanson Belt.

“JAMES N. S. T. WRIGHT”]

9 (return) [ See Appendix to this volume, page 317.]

10 (return) [ Mr. Douglass’ published speeches alone, would fill two
volumes of the size of this. Our space will only permit the insertion
of the extracts which follow; and which, for originality of thought,
beauty and force of expression, and for impassioned, indignatory
eloquence, have seldom been equaled.]

11 (return) [ It is not often that chattels address their owners. The
following letter is unique; and probably the only specimen of the kind
extant. It was written while in England.]




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