Narrative
of the
Life
of
FREDERICK DOUGLASS

AN
AMERICAN SLAVE.
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

BOSTON

 PUBLISHED AT THE ANTI-SLAVERY OFFICE,
 NO. 25 CORNHILL
 1845

ENTERED, ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS,
 IN THE YEAR 1845
 BY FREDERICK DOUGLASS,
 IN THE CLERK’S OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT COURT
OF MASSACHUSETTS.

Note from the original file: This electronic book is being released at
this time to honor the birthday of Martin Luther King Jr. [Born January
15, 1929] [Officially celebrated January 20, 1992]


Contents

  PREFACE 
  LETTER FROM WENDELL PHILLIPS, ESQ. 
  FREDERICK DOUGLASS. 
  CHAPTER I 
  CHAPTER II 
  CHAPTER III 
  CHAPTER IV 
  CHAPTER V 
  CHAPTER VI 
  CHAPTER VII 
  CHAPTER VIII 
  CHAPTER IX 
  CHAPTER X 
  CHAPTER XI 
  APPENDIX 
  A PARODY 




 PREFACE


In the month of August, 1841, I attended an anti-slavery convention in
Nantucket, at which it was my happiness to become acquainted with
_Frederick Douglass_, the writer of the following Narrative. He was a
stranger to nearly every member of that body; but, having recently made
his escape from the southern prison-house of bondage, and feeling his
curiosity excited to ascertain the principles and measures of the
abolitionists,—of whom he had heard a somewhat vague description while
he was a slave,—he was induced to give his attendance, on the occasion
alluded to, though at that time a resident in New Bedford.

Fortunate, most fortunate occurrence!—fortunate for the millions of his
manacled brethren, yet panting for deliverance from their awful
thraldom!—fortunate for the cause of negro emancipation, and of
universal liberty!—fortunate for the land of his birth, which he has
already done so much to save and bless!—fortunate for a large circle of
friends and acquaintances, whose sympathy and affection he has strongly
secured by the many sufferings he has endured, by his virtuous traits
of character, by his ever-abiding remembrance of those who are in
bonds, as being bound with them!—fortunate for the multitudes, in
various parts of our republic, whose minds he has enlightened on the
subject of slavery, and who have been melted to tears by his pathos, or
roused to virtuous indignation by his stirring eloquence against the
enslavers of men!—fortunate for himself, as it at once brought him into
the field of public usefulness, “gave the world assurance of a MAN,”
quickened the slumbering energies of his soul, and consecrated him to
the great work of breaking the rod of the oppressor, and letting the
oppressed go free!

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—the
applause which followed from the beginning to the end of his felicitous
remarks. 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 proportion and stature
commanding and exact—in intellect richly endowed—in natural eloquence a
prodigy—in soul manifestly “created but a little lower than the
angels”—yet a slave, ay, a fugitive slave,—trembling for his safety,
hardly daring to believe that on the American soil, a single white
person could be found who would befriend him at all hazards, for the
love of God and humanity! Capable of high attainments as an
intellectual and moral being—needing nothing but a comparatively small
amount of cultivation to make him an ornament to society and a blessing
to his race—by the law of the land, by the voice of the people, by the
terms of the slave code, he was only a piece of property, a beast of
burden, a chattel personal, nevertheless!

A beloved friend from New Bedford prevailed on Mr. DOUGLASS  to address
the convention. He came forward to the platform with a hesitancy and
embarrassment, necessarily the attendants of a sensitive mind in such a
novel position. After apologizing for his ignorance, and reminding the
audience that slavery was a poor school for the human intellect and
heart, he proceeded to narrate some of the facts in his own history as
a slave, and in the course of his speech gave utterance to many noble
thoughts and thrilling reflections. As soon as he had taken his seat,
filled with hope and admiration, I rose, and declared that PATRICK
HENRY, of revolutionary fame, never made a speech more eloquent in the
cause of liberty, than the one we had just listened to from the lips of
that hunted fugitive. So I believed at that time—such is my belief now.
I reminded the audience of the peril which surrounded this
self-emancipated young man at the North,—even in Massachusetts, on the
soil of the Pilgrim Fathers, among the descendants of revolutionary
sires; and I appealed to them, whether they would ever allow him to be
carried back into slavery,—law or no law, constitution or no
constitution. The response was unanimous and in thunder-tones—“NO!”
“Will you succor and protect him as a brother-man—a resident of the old
Bay State?” “YES!” shouted the whole mass, with an energy so startling,
that the ruthless tyrants south of Mason and Dixon’s line might almost
have heard the mighty burst of feeling, and recognized it as the pledge
of an invincible determination, on the part of those who gave it, never
to betray him that wanders, but to hide the outcast, and firmly to
abide the consequences.

It was at once deeply impressed upon my mind, that, if Mr. DOUGLASS
could be persuaded to consecrate his time and talents to the promotion
of the anti-slavery enterprise, a powerful impetus would be given to
it, and a stunning blow at the same time inflicted on northern
prejudice against a colored complexion. I therefore endeavored to
instil hope and courage into his mind, in order that he might dare to
engage in a vocation so anomalous and responsible for a person in his
situation; and I was seconded in this effort by warm-hearted friends,
especially by the late General Agent of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery
Society, Mr. JOHN A. COLLINS, whose judgment in this instance entirely
coincided with my own. At first, he could give no encouragement; with
unfeigned diffidence, he expressed his conviction that he was not
adequate to the performance of so great a task; the path marked out was
wholly an untrodden one; he was sincerely apprehensive that he should
do more harm than good. After much deliberation, however, he consented
to make a trial; and ever since that period, he has acted as a
lecturing agent, under the auspices either of the American or the
Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. In labors he has been most
abundant; and his success in combating prejudice, in gaining
proselytes, in agitating the public mind, has far surpassed the most
sanguine expectations that were raised at the commencement of his
brilliant career. He has borne himself with gentleness and meekness,
yet with true manliness of character. As a public speaker, he excels in
pathos, wit, comparison, imitation, strength of reasoning, and fluency
of language. There is in him that union of head and heart, which is
indispensable to an enlightenment of the heads and a winning of the
hearts of others. May his strength continue to be equal to his day! May
he continue to “grow in grace, and in the knowledge of God,” that he
may be increasingly serviceable in the cause of bleeding humanity,
whether at home or abroad!

It is certainly a very remarkable fact, that one of the most efficient
advocates of the slave population, now before the public, is a fugitive
slave, in the person of _Frederick Douglass_; and that the free colored
population of the United States are as ably represented by one of their
own number, in the person of _Charles Lenox Remond_, whose eloquent
appeals have extorted the highest applause of multitudes on both sides
of the Atlantic. Let the calumniators of the colored race despise
themselves for their baseness and illiberality of spirit, and
henceforth cease to talk of the natural inferiority of those who
require nothing but time and opportunity to attain to the highest point
of human excellence.

It may, perhaps, be fairly questioned, whether any other portion of the
population of the earth could have endured the privations, sufferings
and horrors of slavery, without having become more degraded in the
scale of humanity than the slaves of African descent. Nothing has been
left undone to cripple their intellects, darken their minds, debase
their moral nature, obliterate all traces of their relationship to
mankind; and yet how wonderfully they have sustained the mighty load of
a most frightful bondage, under which they have been groaning for
centuries! To illustrate the effect of slavery on the white man,—to
show that he has no powers of endurance, in such a condition, superior
to those of his black brother,—_Daniel O’Connell_, the distinguished
advocate of universal emancipation, and the mightiest champion of
prostrate but not conquered Ireland, relates the following anecdote in
a speech delivered by him in the Conciliation Hall, Dublin, before the
Loyal National Repeal Association, March 31, 1845. “No matter,” said
_Mr. O’Connell_, “under what specious term it may disguise itself,
slavery is still hideous. _It has a natural, an inevitable tendency to
brutalize every noble faculty of man._ An American sailor, who was cast
away on the shore of Africa, where he was kept in slavery for three
years, was, at the expiration of that period, found to be imbruted and
stultified—he had lost all reasoning power; and having forgotten his
native language, could only utter some savage gibberish between Arabic
and English, which nobody could understand, and which even he himself
found difficulty in pronouncing. So much for the humanizing influence
of _The Domestic Institution_!” Admitting this to have been an
extraordinary case of mental deterioration, it proves at least that the
white slave can sink as low in the scale of humanity as the black one.

_Mr. Douglass_ has very properly chosen to write his own Narrative, in
his own style, and according to the best of his ability, rather than to
employ some one else. It is, therefore, entirely his own production;
and, considering how long and dark was the career he had to run as a
slave,—how few have been his opportunities to improve his mind since he
broke his iron fetters,—it is, in my judgment, highly creditable to his
head and heart. He who can peruse it without a tearful eye, a heaving
breast, an afflicted spirit,—without being filled with an unutterable
abhorrence of slavery and all its abettors, and animated with a
determination to seek the immediate overthrow of that execrable
system,—without trembling for the fate of this country in the hands of
a righteous God, who is ever on the side of the oppressed, and whose
arm is not shortened that it cannot save,—must have a flinty heart, and
be qualified to act the part of a trafficker “in slaves and the souls
of men.” I am confident that it is essentially true in all its
statements; that nothing has been set down in malice, nothing
exaggerated, nothing drawn from the imagination; that it comes short of
the reality, rather than overstates a single fact in regard to _slavery
as it is_. The experience of _Frederick Douglass_, as a slave, was not
a peculiar one; his lot was not especially a hard one; his case may be
regarded as a very fair specimen of the treatment of slaves in
Maryland, in which State it is conceded that they are better fed and
less cruelly treated than in Georgia, Alabama, or Louisiana. Many have
suffered incomparably more, while very few on the plantations have
suffered less, than himself. Yet how deplorable was his situation! what
terrible chastisements were inflicted upon his person! what still more
shocking outrages were perpetrated upon his mind! with all his noble
powers and sublime aspirations, how like a brute was he treated, even
by those professing to have the same mind in them that was in Christ
Jesus! to what dreadful liabilities was he continually subjected! how
destitute of friendly counsel and aid, even in his greatest
extremities! how heavy was the midnight of woe which shrouded in
blackness the last ray of hope, and filled the future with terror and
gloom! what longings after freedom took possession of his breast, and
how his misery augmented, in proportion as he grew reflective and
intelligent,—thus demonstrating that a happy slave is an extinct man!
how he thought, reasoned, felt, under the lash of the driver, with the
chains upon his limbs! what perils he encountered in his endeavors to
escape from his horrible doom! and how signal have been his deliverance
and preservation in the midst of a nation of pitiless enemies!

This Narrative contains many affecting incidents, many passages of
great eloquence and power; but I think the most thrilling one of them
all is the description _Douglass_ gives of his feelings, as he stood
soliloquizing respecting his fate, and the chances of his one day being
a freeman, on the banks of the Chesapeake Bay—viewing the receding
vessels as they flew with their white wings before the breeze, and
apostrophizing them as animated by the living spirit of freedom. Who
can read that passage, and be insensible to its pathos and sublimity?
Compressed into it is a whole Alexandrian library of thought, feeling,
and sentiment—all that can, all that need be urged, in the form of
expostulation, entreaty, rebuke, against that crime of crimes,—making
man the property of his fellow-man! O, how accursed is that system,
which entombs the godlike mind of man, defaces the divine image,
reduces those who by creation were crowned with glory and honor to a
level with four-footed beasts, and exalts the dealer in human flesh
above all that is called God! Why should its existence be prolonged one
hour? Is it not evil, only evil, and that continually? What does its
presence imply but the absence of all fear of God, all regard for man,
on the part of the people of the United States? Heaven speed its
eternal overthrow!

So profoundly ignorant of the nature of slavery are many persons, that
they are stubbornly incredulous whenever they read or listen to any
recital of the cruelties which are daily inflicted on its victims. They
do not deny that the slaves are held as property; but that terrible
fact seems to convey to their minds no idea of injustice, exposure to
outrage, or savage barbarity. Tell them of cruel scourgings, of
mutilations and brandings, of scenes of pollution and blood, of the
banishment of all light and knowledge, and they affect to be greatly
indignant at such enormous exaggerations, such wholesale misstatements,
such abominable libels on the character of the southern planters! As if
all these direful outrages were not the natural results of slavery! As
if it were less cruel to reduce a human being to the condition of a
thing, than to give him a severe flagellation, or to deprive him of
necessary food and clothing! As if whips, chains, thumb-screws,
paddles, blood-hounds, overseers, drivers, patrols, were not all
indispensable to keep the slaves down, and to give protection to their
ruthless oppressors! As if, when the marriage institution is abolished,
concubinage, adultery, and incest, must not necessarily abound; when
all the rights of humanity are annihilated, any barrier remains to
protect the victim from the fury of the spoiler; when absolute power is
assumed over life and liberty, it will not be wielded with destructive
sway! Skeptics of this character abound in society. In some few
instances, their incredulity arises from a want of reflection; but,
generally, it indicates a hatred of the light, a desire to shield
slavery from the assaults of its foes, a contempt of the colored race,
whether bond or free. Such will try to discredit the shocking tales of
slaveholding cruelty which are recorded in this truthful Narrative; but
they will labor in vain. _Mr. Douglass_ has frankly disclosed the place
of his birth, the names of those who claimed ownership in his body and
soul, and the names also of those who committed the crimes which he has
alleged against them. His statements, therefore, may easily be
disproved, if they are untrue.

In the course of his Narrative, he relates two instances of murderous
cruelty,—in one of which a planter deliberately shot a slave belonging
to a neighboring plantation, who had unintentionally gotten within his
lordly domain in quest of fish; and in the other, an overseer blew out
the brains of a slave who had fled to a stream of water to escape a
bloody scourging. _Mr. Douglass_ states that in neither of these
instances was any thing done by way of legal arrest or judicial
investigation. The Baltimore American, of March 17, 1845, relates a
similar case of atrocity, perpetrated with similar impunity—as
follows:—“_Shooting a slave._—We learn, upon the authority of a letter
from Charles county, Maryland, received by a gentleman of this city,
that a young man, named Matthews, a nephew of General Matthews, and
whose father, it is believed, holds an office at Washington, killed one
of the slaves upon his father’s farm by shooting him. The letter states
that young Matthews had been left in charge of the farm; that he gave
an order to the servant, which was disobeyed, when he proceeded to the
house, _obtained a gun, and, returning, shot the servant._ He
immediately, the letter continues, fled to his father’s residence,
where he still remains unmolested.”—Let it never be forgotten, that no
slaveholder or overseer can be convicted of any outrage perpetrated on
the person of a slave, however diabolical it may be, on the testimony
of colored witnesses, whether bond or free. By the slave code, they are
adjudged to be as incompetent to testify against a white man, as though
they were indeed a part of the brute creation. Hence, there is no legal
protection in fact, whatever there may be in form, for the slave
population; and any amount of cruelty may be inflicted on them with
impunity. Is it possible for the human mind to conceive of a more
horrible state of society?

The effect of a religious profession on the conduct of southern masters
is vividly described in the following Narrative, and shown to be any
thing but salutary. In the nature of the case, it must be in the
highest degree pernicious. The testimony of _Mr. Douglass_, on this
point, is sustained by a cloud of witnesses, whose veracity is
unimpeachable. “A slaveholder’s profession of Christianity is a
palpable imposture. He is a felon of the highest grade. He is a
man-stealer. It is of no importance what you put in the other scale.”

Reader! are you with the man-stealers in sympathy and purpose, or on
the side of their down-trodden victims? If with the former, then are
you the foe of God and man. If with the latter, what are you prepared
to do and dare in their behalf? Be faithful, be vigilant, be untiring
in your efforts to break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free.
Come what may—cost what it may—inscribe on the banner which you unfurl
to the breeze, as your religious and political motto—“NO COMPROMISE
WITH SLAVERY! NO UNION WITH SLAVEHOLDERS!”

WM. LLOYD GARRISON BOSTON,

_May_ 1, 1845.




 LETTER FROM WENDELL PHILLIPS, ESQ.


BOSTON, _April_ 22, 1845.

My Dear Friend:

You remember the old fable of “The Man and the Lion,” where the lion
complained that he should not be so misrepresented “when the lions
wrote history.”

I am glad the time has come when the “lions write history.” We have
been left long enough to gather the character of slavery from the
involuntary evidence of the masters. One might, indeed, rest
sufficiently satisfied with what, it is evident, must be, in general,
the results of such a relation, without seeking farther to find whether
they have followed in every instance. Indeed, those who stare at the
half-peck of corn a week, and love to count the lashes on the slave’s
back, are seldom the “stuff” out of which reformers and abolitionists
are to be made. I remember that, in 1838, many were waiting for the
results of the West India experiment, before they could come into our
ranks. Those “results” have come long ago; but, alas! few of that
number have come with them, as converts. A man must be disposed to
judge of emancipation by other tests than whether it has increased the
produce of sugar,—and to hate slavery for other reasons than because it
starves men and whips women,—before he is ready to lay the first stone
of his anti-slavery life.

I was glad to learn, in your story, how early the most neglected of
God’s children waken to a sense of their rights, and of the injustice
done them. Experience is a keen teacher; and long before you had
mastered your A B C, or knew where the “white sails” of the Chesapeake
were bound, you began, I see, to gauge the wretchedness of the slave,
not by his hunger and want, not by his lashes and toil, but by the
cruel and blighting death which gathers over his soul.

In connection with this, there is one circumstance which makes your
recollections peculiarly valuable, and renders your early insight the
more remarkable. You come from that part of the country where we are
told slavery appears with its fairest features. Let us hear, then, what
it is at its best estate—gaze on its bright side, if it has one; and
then imagination may task her powers to add dark lines to the picture,
as she travels southward to that (for the colored man) Valley of the
Shadow of Death, where the Mississippi sweeps along.

Again, we have known you long, and can put the most entire confidence
in your truth, candor, and sincerity. Every one who has heard you speak
has felt, and, I am confident, every one who reads your book will feel,
persuaded that you give them a fair specimen of the whole truth. No
one-sided portrait,—no wholesale complaints,—but strict justice done,
whenever individual kindliness has neutralized, for a moment, the
deadly system with which it was strangely allied. You have been with
us, too, some years, and can fairly compare the twilight of rights,
which your race enjoy at the North, with that “noon of night” under
which they labor south of Mason and Dixon’s line. Tell us whether,
after all, the half-free colored man of Massachusetts is worse off than
the pampered slave of the rice swamps!

In reading your life, no one can say that we have unfairly picked out
some rare specimens of cruelty. We know that the bitter drops, which
even you have drained from the cup, are no incidental aggravations, no
individual ills, but such as must mingle always and necessarily in the
lot of every slave. They are the essential ingredients, not the
occasional results, of the system.

After all, I shall read your book with trembling for you. Some years
ago, when you were beginning to tell me your real name and birthplace,
you may remember I stopped you, and preferred to remain ignorant of
all. With the exception of a vague description, so I continued, till
the other day, when you read me your memoirs. I hardly knew, at the
time, whether to thank you or not for the sight of them, when I
reflected that it was still dangerous, in Massachusetts, for honest men
to tell their names! They say the fathers, in 1776, signed the
Declaration of Independence with the halter about their necks. You,
too, publish your declaration of freedom with danger compassing you
around. In all the broad lands which the Constitution of the United
States overshadows, there is no single spot,—however narrow or
desolate,—where a fugitive slave can plant himself and say, “I am
safe.” The whole armory of Northern Law has no shield for you. I am
free to say that, in your place, I should throw the MS. into the fire.

You, perhaps, may tell your story in safety, endeared as you are to so
many warm hearts by rare gifts, and a still rarer devotion of them to
the service of others. But it will be owing only to your labors, and
the fearless efforts of those who, trampling the laws and Constitution
of the country under their feet, are determined that they will “hide
the outcast,” and that their hearths shall be, spite of the law, an
asylum for the oppressed, if, some time or other, the humblest may
stand in our streets, and bear witness in safety against the cruelties
of which he has been the victim.

Yet it is sad to think, that these very throbbing hearts which welcome
your story, and form your best safeguard in telling it, are all beating
contrary to the “statute in such case made and provided.” Go on, my
dear friend, till you, and those who, like you, have been saved, so as
by fire, from the dark prison-house, shall stereotype these free,
illegal pulses into statutes; and New England, cutting loose from a
blood-stained Union, shall glory in being the house of refuge for the
oppressed,—till we no longer merely “_hide_ the outcast,” or make a
merit of standing idly by while he is hunted in our midst; but,
consecrating anew the soil of the Pilgrims as an asylum for the
oppressed, proclaim our _welcome_ to the slave so loudly, that the
tones shall reach every hut in the Carolinas, and make the
broken-hearted bondman leap up at the thought of old Massachusetts.

God speed the day!
_Till then, and ever,_
Yours truly,
WENDELL PHILLIPS




 FREDERICK DOUGLASS.


Frederick Douglass was born in slavery as Frederick Augustus Washington
Bailey near Easton in Talbot County, Maryland. He was not sure of the
exact year of his birth, but he knew that it was 1817 or 1818. As a
young boy he was sent to Baltimore, to be a house servant, where he
learned to read and write, with the assistance of his master’s wife. In
1838 he escaped from slavery and went to New York City, where he
married Anna Murray, a free colored woman whom he had met in Baltimore.
Soon thereafter he changed his name to Frederick Douglass. In 1841 he
addressed a convention of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society in
Nantucket and so greatly impressed the group that they immediately
employed him as an agent. He was such an impressive orator that
numerous persons doubted if he had ever been a slave, so he wrote
_Narrative Of The Life Of Frederick Douglass_. During the Civil War he
assisted in the recruiting of colored men for the 54th and 55th
Massachusetts Regiments and consistently argued for the emancipation of
slaves. After the war he was active in securing and protecting the
rights of the freemen. In his later years, at different times, he was
secretary of the Santo Domingo Commission, marshall and recorder of
deeds of the District of Columbia, and United States Minister to Haiti.
His other autobiographical works are _My Bondage And My Freedom_ and
_Life And Times Of Frederick Douglass_, published in 1855 and 1881
respectively. He died in 1895.




 CHAPTER I


I was born in Tuckahoe, near Hillsborough, and about twelve miles from
Easton, in Talbot county, Maryland. I have no accurate knowledge of my
age, never having seen any authentic record containing it. By far the
larger part of the slaves know as little of their ages as horses know
of theirs, and it is the wish of most masters within my knowledge to
keep their slaves thus ignorant. I do not remember to have ever met a
slave who could tell of his birthday. They seldom come nearer to it
than planting-time, harvest-time, cherry-time, spring-time, or
fall-time. A want of information concerning my own was a source of
unhappiness to me even during childhood. The white children could tell
their ages. I could not tell why I ought to be deprived of the same
privilege. I was not allowed to make any inquiries of my master
concerning it. He deemed all such inquiries on the part of a slave
improper and impertinent, and evidence of a restless spirit. The
nearest estimate I can give makes me now between twenty-seven and
twenty-eight years of age. I come to this, from hearing my master say,
some time during 1835, I was about seventeen years old.

My mother was named Harriet Bailey. She was the daughter of Isaac and
Betsey Bailey, both colored, and quite dark. My mother was of a darker
complexion than either my grandmother or grandfather.

My father was a white man. He was admitted to be such by all I ever
heard speak of my parentage. The opinion was also whispered that my
master was my father; but of the correctness of this opinion, I know
nothing; the means of knowing was withheld from me. My mother and I
were separated when I was but an infant—before I knew her as my mother.
It is a common custom, in the part of Maryland from which I ran away,
to part children from their mothers at a very early age. Frequently,
before the child has reached its twelfth month, its mother is taken
from it, and hired out on some farm a considerable distance off, and
the child is placed under the care of an old woman, too old for field
labor. For what this separation is done, I do not know, unless it be to
hinder the development of the child’s affection toward its mother, and
to blunt and destroy the natural affection of the mother for the child.
This is the inevitable result.

I never saw my mother, to know her as such, more than four or five
times in my life; and each of these times was very short in duration,
and at night. She was hired by a Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve
miles from my home. She made her journeys to see me in the night,
travelling the whole distance on foot, after the performance of her
day’s work. She was a field hand, and a whipping is the penalty of not
being in the field at sunrise, unless a slave has special permission
from his or her master to the contrary—a permission which they seldom
get, and one that gives to him that gives it the proud name of being a
kind master. I do not recollect of ever seeing my mother by the light
of day. She was with me in the night. She would lie down with me, and
get me to sleep, but long before I waked she was gone. Very little
communication ever took place between us. Death soon ended what little
we could have while she lived, and with it her hardships and suffering.
She died when I was about seven years old, on one of my master’s farms,
near Lee’s Mill. I was not allowed to be present during her illness, at
her death, or burial. She was gone long before I knew any thing about
it. Never having enjoyed, to any considerable extent, her soothing
presence, her tender and watchful care, I received the tidings of her
death with much the same emotions I should have probably felt at the
death of a stranger.

Called thus suddenly away, she left me without the slightest intimation
of who my father was. The whisper that my master was my father, may or
may not be true; and, true or false, it is of but little consequence to
my purpose whilst the fact remains, in all its glaring odiousness, that
slaveholders have ordained, and by law established, that the children
of slave women shall in all cases follow the condition of their
mothers; and this is done too obviously to administer to their own
lusts, and make a gratification of their wicked desires profitable as
well as pleasurable; for by this cunning arrangement, the slaveholder,
in cases not a few, sustains to his slaves the double relation of
master and father.

I know of such cases; and it is worthy of remark that such slaves
invariably suffer greater hardships, and have more to contend with,
than others. They are, in the first place, a constant offence to their
mistress. She is ever disposed to find fault with them; they can seldom
do any thing to please her; she is never better pleased than when she
sees them under the lash, especially when she suspects her husband of
showing to his mulatto children favors which he withholds from his
black slaves. The master is frequently compelled to sell this class of
his slaves, out of deference to the feelings of his white wife; and,
cruel as the deed may strike any one to be, for a man to sell his own
children to human flesh-mongers, it is often the dictate of humanity
for him to do so; for, unless he does this, he must not only whip them
himself, but must stand by and see one white son tie up his brother, of
but few shades darker complexion than himself, and ply the gory lash to
his naked back; and if he lisp one word of disapproval, it is set down
to his parental partiality, and only makes a bad matter worse, both for
himself and the slave whom he would protect and defend.

Every year brings with it multitudes of this class of slaves. It was
doubtless in consequence of a knowledge of this fact, that one great
statesman of the south predicted the downfall of slavery by the
inevitable laws of population. Whether this prophecy is ever fulfilled
or not, it is nevertheless plain that a very different-looking class of
people are springing up at the south, and are now held in slavery, from
those originally brought to this country from Africa; and if their
increase do no other good, it will do away the force of the argument,
that God cursed Ham, and therefore American slavery is right. If the
lineal descendants of Ham are alone to be scripturally enslaved, it is
certain that slavery at the south must soon become unscriptural; for
thousands are ushered into the world, annually, who, like myself, owe
their existence to white fathers, and those fathers most frequently
their own masters.

I have had two masters. My first master’s name was Anthony. I do not
remember his first name. He was generally called Captain Anthony—a
title which, I presume, he acquired by sailing a craft on the
Chesapeake Bay. He was not considered a rich slaveholder. He owned two
or three farms, and about thirty slaves. His farms and slaves were
under the care of an overseer. The overseer’s name was Plummer. Mr.
Plummer was a miserable drunkard, a profane swearer, and a savage
monster. He always went armed with a cowskin and a heavy cudgel. I have
known him to cut and slash the women’s heads so horribly, that even
master would be enraged at his cruelty, and would threaten to whip him
if he did not mind himself. Master, however, was not a humane
slaveholder. It required extraordinary barbarity on the part of an
overseer to affect him. He was a cruel man, hardened by a long life of
slaveholding. He would at times seem to take great pleasure in whipping
a slave. I have often been awakened at the dawn of day by the most
heart-rending shrieks of an own aunt of mine, whom he used to tie up to
a joist, and whip upon her naked back till she was literally covered
with blood. No words, no tears, no prayers, from his gory victim,
seemed to move his iron heart from its bloody purpose. The louder she
screamed, the harder he whipped; and where the blood ran fastest, there
he whipped longest. He would whip her to make her scream, and whip her
to make her hush; and not until overcome by fatigue, would he cease to
swing the blood-clotted cowskin. I remember the first time I ever
witnessed this horrible exhibition. I was quite a child, but I well
remember it. I never shall forget it whilst I remember any thing. It
was the first of a long series of such outrages, of which I was doomed
to be a witness and a participant. It struck me with awful force. It
was the blood-stained gate, the entrance to the hell of slavery,
through which I was about to pass. It was a most terrible spectacle. I
wish I could commit to paper the feelings with which I beheld it.

This occurrence took place very soon after I went to live with my old
master, and under the following circumstances. Aunt Hester went out one
night,—where or for what I do not know,—and happened to be absent when
my master desired her presence. He had ordered her not to go out
evenings, and warned her that she must never let him catch her in
company with a young man, who was paying attention to her belonging to
Colonel Lloyd. The young man’s name was Ned Roberts, generally called
Lloyd’s Ned. Why master was so careful of her, may be safely left to
conjecture. She was a woman of noble form, and of graceful proportions,
having very few equals, and fewer superiors, in personal appearance,
among the colored or white women of our neighborhood.

Aunt Hester had not only disobeyed his orders in going out, but had
been found in company with Lloyd’s Ned; which circumstance, I found,
from what he said while whipping her, was the chief offence. Had he
been a man of pure morals himself, he might have been thought
interested in protecting the innocence of my aunt; but those who knew
him will not suspect him of any such virtue. Before he commenced
whipping Aunt Hester, he took her into the kitchen, and stripped her
from neck to waist, leaving her neck, shoulders, and back, entirely
naked. He then told her to cross her hands, calling her at the same
time a d——d b—-h. After crossing her hands, he tied them with a strong
rope, and led her to a stool under a large hook in the joist, put in
for the purpose. He made her get upon the stool, and tied her hands to
the hook. She now stood fair for his infernal purpose. Her arms were
stretched up at their full length, so that she stood upon the ends of
her toes. He then said to her, “Now, you d——d b—-h, I’ll learn you how
to disobey my orders!” and after rolling up his sleeves, he commenced
to lay on the heavy cowskin, and soon the warm, red blood (amid
heart-rending shrieks from her, and horrid oaths from him) came
dripping to the floor. I was so terrified and horror-stricken at the
sight, that I hid myself in a closet, and dared not venture out till
long after the bloody transaction was over. I expected it would be my
turn next. It was all new to me. I had never seen any thing like it
before. I had always lived with my grandmother on the outskirts of the
plantation, where she was put to raise the children of the younger
women. I had therefore been, until now, out of the way of the bloody
scenes that often occurred on the plantation.




 CHAPTER II


My master’s family consisted of two sons, Andrew and Richard; one
daughter, Lucretia, and her husband, Captain Thomas Auld. They lived in
one house, upon the home plantation of Colonel Edward Lloyd. My master
was Colonel Lloyd’s clerk and superintendent. He was what might be
called the overseer of the overseers. I spent two years of childhood on
this plantation in my old master’s family. It was here that I witnessed
the bloody transaction recorded in the first chapter; and as I received
my first impressions of slavery on this plantation, I will give some
description of it, and of slavery as it there existed. The plantation
is about twelve miles north of Easton, in Talbot county, and is
situated on the border of Miles River. The principal products raised
upon it were tobacco, corn, and wheat. These were raised in great
abundance; so that, with the products of this and the other farms
belonging to him, he was able to keep in almost constant employment a
large sloop, in carrying them to market at Baltimore. This sloop was
named Sally Lloyd, in honor of one of the colonel’s daughters. My
master’s son-in-law, Captain Auld, was master of the vessel; she was
otherwise manned by the colonel’s own slaves. Their names were Peter,
Isaac, Rich, and Jake. These were esteemed very highly by the other
slaves, and looked upon as the privileged ones of the plantation; for
it was no small affair, in the eyes of the slaves, to be allowed to see
Baltimore.

Colonel Lloyd kept from three to four hundred slaves on his home
plantation, and owned a large number more on the neighboring farms
belonging to him. The names of the farms nearest to the home plantation
were Wye Town and New Design. “Wye Town” was under the overseership of
a man named Noah Willis. New Design was under the overseership of a Mr.
Townsend. The overseers of these, and all the rest of the farms,
numbering over twenty, received advice and direction from the managers
of the home plantation. This was the great business place. It was the
seat of government for the whole twenty farms. All disputes among the
overseers were settled here. If a slave was convicted of any high
misdemeanor, became unmanageable, or evinced a determination to run
away, he was brought immediately here, severely whipped, put on board
the sloop, carried to Baltimore, and sold to Austin Woolfolk, or some
other slave-trader, as a warning to the slaves remaining.

Here, too, the slaves of all the other farms received their monthly
allowance of food, and their yearly clothing. The men and women slaves
received, as their monthly allowance of food, eight pounds of pork, or
its equivalent in fish, and one bushel of corn meal. Their yearly
clothing consisted of two coarse linen shirts, one pair of linen
trousers, like the shirts, one jacket, one pair of trousers for winter,
made of coarse negro cloth, one pair of stockings, and one pair of
shoes; the whole of which could not have cost more than seven dollars.
The allowance of the slave children was given to their mothers, or the
old women having the care of them. The children unable to work in the
field had neither shoes, stockings, jackets, nor trousers, given to
them; their clothing consisted of two coarse linen shirts per year.
When these failed them, they went naked until the next allowance-day.
Children from seven to ten years old, of both sexes, almost naked,
might be seen at all seasons of the year.

There were no beds given the slaves, unless one coarse blanket be
considered such, and none but the men and women had these. This,
however, is not considered a very great privation. They find less
difficulty from the want of beds, than from the want of time to sleep;
for when their day’s work in the field is done, the most of them having
their washing, mending, and cooking to do, and having few or none of
the ordinary facilities for doing either of these, very many of their
sleeping hours are consumed in preparing for the field the coming day;
and when this is done, old and young, male and female, married and
single, drop down side by side, on one common bed,—the cold, damp
floor,—each covering himself or herself with their miserable blankets;
and here they sleep till they are summoned to the field by the driver’s
horn. At the sound of this, all must rise, and be off to the field.
There must be no halting; every one must be at his or her post; and woe
betides them who hear not this morning summons to the field; for if
they are not awakened by the sense of hearing, they are by the sense of
feeling: no age nor sex finds any favor. Mr. Severe, the overseer, used
to stand by the door of the quarter, armed with a large hickory stick
and heavy cowskin, ready to whip any one who was so unfortunate as not
to hear, or, from any other cause, was prevented from being ready to
start for the field at the sound of the horn.

Mr. Severe was rightly named: he was a cruel man. I have seen him whip
a woman, causing the blood to run half an hour at the time; and this,
too, in the midst of her crying children, pleading for their mother’s
release. He seemed to take pleasure in manifesting his fiendish
barbarity. Added to his cruelty, he was a profane swearer. It was
enough to chill the blood and stiffen the hair of an ordinary man to
hear him talk. Scarce a sentence escaped him but that was commenced or
concluded by some horrid oath. The field was the place to witness his
cruelty and profanity. His presence made it both the field of blood and
of blasphemy. From the rising till the going down of the sun, he was
cursing, raving, cutting, and slashing among the slaves of the field,
in the most frightful manner. His career was short. He died very soon
after I went to Colonel Lloyd’s; and he died as he lived, uttering,
with his dying groans, bitter curses and horrid oaths. His death was
regarded by the slaves as the result of a merciful providence.

Mr. Severe’s place was filled by a Mr. Hopkins. He was a very different
man. He was less cruel, less profane, and made less noise, than Mr.
Severe. His course was characterized by no extraordinary demonstrations
of cruelty. He whipped, but seemed to take no pleasure in it. He was
called by the slaves a good overseer.

The home plantation of Colonel Lloyd wore the appearance of a country
village. All the mechanical operations for all the farms were performed
here. The shoemaking and mending, the blacksmithing, cartwrighting,
coopering, weaving, and grain-grinding, were all performed by the
slaves on the home plantation. The whole place wore a business-like
aspect very unlike the neighboring farms. The number of houses, too,
conspired to give it advantage over the neighboring farms. It was
called by the slaves the _Great House Farm._ Few privileges were
esteemed higher, by the slaves of the out-farms, than that of being
selected to do errands at the Great House Farm. It was associated in
their minds with greatness. A representative could not be prouder of
his election to a seat in the American Congress, than a slave on one of
the out-farms would be of his election to do errands at the Great House
Farm. They regarded it as evidence of great confidence reposed in them
by their overseers; and it was on this account, as well as a constant
desire to be out of the field from under the driver’s lash, that they
esteemed it a high privilege, one worth careful living for. He was
called the smartest and most trusty fellow, who had this honor
conferred upon him the most frequently. The competitors for this office
sought as diligently to please their overseers, as the office-seekers
in the political parties seek to please and deceive the people. The
same traits of character might be seen in Colonel Lloyd’s slaves, as
are seen in the slaves of the political parties.

The slaves selected to go to the Great House Farm, for the monthly
allowance for themselves and their fellow-slaves, were peculiarly
enthusiastic. While on their way, they would make the dense old woods,
for miles around, reverberate with their wild songs, revealing at once
the highest joy and the deepest sadness. They would compose and sing as
they went along, consulting neither time nor tune. The thought that
came up, came out—if not in the word, in the sound;—and as frequently
in the one as in the other. They would sometimes sing the most pathetic
sentiment in the most rapturous tone, and the most rapturous sentiment
in the most pathetic tone. Into all of their songs they would manage to
weave something of the Great House Farm. Especially would they do this,
when leaving home. They would then sing most exultingly the following
words:—

“I am going away to the Great House Farm!
O, yea! O, yea! O!”


This they would sing, as a chorus, to words which to many would seem
unmeaning jargon, but which, nevertheless, were full of meaning to
themselves. I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those
songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character
of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the
subject could do.

I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and
apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle; so that I
neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear. They told a
tale of woe which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension;
they were tones loud, long, and deep; they breathed 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
spirit, and filled me with ineffable sadness. I have frequently found
myself in tears while hearing them. The mere recurrence to those songs,
even now, afflicts me; and while I am writing these lines, an
expression of feeling has already found its way down my cheek. To those
songs I trace my first glimmering conception 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 the soul-killing effects of slavery, let him go to Colonel Lloyd’s
plantation, and, on allowance-day, place himself in the deep pine
woods, and there let him, in silence, 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.”

I have often been utterly astonished, since I came to the north, to
find persons who could speak of the singing, among slaves, as evidence
of their contentment and happiness. It is impossible to conceive of a
greater mistake. Slaves sing most when they are most unhappy. The songs
of the slave represent the sorrows of his heart; and he is relieved by
them, only as an aching heart is relieved by its tears. At least, such
is my experience. I have often sung to drown my sorrow, but seldom to
express my happiness. Crying for joy, and singing for joy, were alike
uncommon to me while in the jaws of slavery. The singing of a man cast
away upon a desolate island might be as appropriately considered as
evidence of contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave; the
songs of the one and of the other are prompted by the same emotion.




 CHAPTER III


Colonel Lloyd kept a large and finely cultivated garden, which afforded
almost constant employment for four men, besides the chief gardener,
(Mr. M’Durmond.) This garden was probably the greatest attraction of
the place. During the summer months, people came from far and near—from
Baltimore, Easton, and Annapolis—to see it. It abounded in fruits of
almost every description, from the hardy apple of the north to the
delicate orange of the south. This garden was not the least source of
trouble on the plantation. Its excellent fruit was quite a temptation
to the hungry swarms of boys, as well as the older slaves, belonging to
the colonel, few of whom had the virtue or the vice to resist it.
Scarcely a day passed, during the summer, but that some slave had to
take the lash for stealing fruit. The colonel had to resort to all
kinds of stratagems to keep his slaves out of the garden. The last and
most successful one was that of tarring his fence all around; after
which, if a slave was caught with any tar upon his person, it was
deemed sufficient proof that he had either been into the garden, or had
tried to get in. In either case, he was severely whipped by the chief
gardener. This plan worked well; the slaves became as fearful of tar as
of the lash. They seemed to realize the impossibility of touching _tar_
without being defiled.

The colonel also kept a splendid riding equipage. His stable and
carriage-house presented the appearance of some of our large city
livery establishments. His horses were of the finest form and noblest
blood. His carriage-house contained three splendid coaches, three or
four gigs, besides dearborns and barouches of the most fashionable
style.

This establishment was under the care of two slaves—old Barney and
young Barney—father and son. To attend to this establishment was their
sole work. But it was by no means an easy employment; for in nothing
was Colonel Lloyd more particular than in the management of his horses.
The slightest inattention to these was unpardonable, and was visited
upon those, under whose care they were placed, with the severest
punishment; no excuse could shield them, if the colonel only suspected
any want of attention to his horses—a supposition which he frequently
indulged, and one which, of course, made the office of old and young
Barney a very trying one. They never knew when they were safe from
punishment. They were frequently whipped when least deserving, and
escaped whipping when most deserving it. Every thing depended upon the
looks of the horses, and the state of Colonel Lloyd’s own mind when his
horses were brought to him for use. If a horse did not move fast
enough, or hold his head high enough, it was owing to some fault of his
keepers. It was painful to stand near the stable-door, and hear the
various complaints against the keepers when a horse was taken out for
use. “This horse has not had proper attention. He has not been
sufficiently rubbed and curried, or he has not been properly fed; his
food was too wet or too dry; he got it too soon or too late; he was too
hot or too cold; he had too much hay, and not enough of grain; or he
had too much grain, and not enough of hay; instead of old Barney’s
attending to the horse, he had very improperly left it to his son.” To
all these complaints, no matter how unjust, the slave must answer never
a word. Colonel Lloyd could not brook any contradiction from a slave.
When he spoke, a slave must stand, listen, and tremble; and such was
literally the case. I have seen Colonel Lloyd make old Barney, a man
between fifty and sixty years of age, uncover his bald head, kneel down
upon the cold, damp ground, and receive upon his naked and toil-worn
shoulders more than thirty lashes at the time. Colonel Lloyd had three
sons—Edward, Murray, and Daniel,—and three sons-in-law, Mr. Winder, Mr.
Nicholson, and Mr. Lowndes. All of these lived at the Great House Farm,
and enjoyed the luxury of whipping the servants when they pleased, from
old Barney down to William Wilkes, the coach-driver. I have seen Winder
make one of the house-servants stand off from him a suitable distance
to be touched with the end of his whip, and at every stroke raise great
ridges upon his back.

To describe the wealth of Colonel Lloyd would be almost equal to
describing the riches of Job. He kept from ten to fifteen
house-servants. He was said to own a thousand slaves, and I think this
estimate quite within the truth. Colonel Lloyd owned so many that he
did not know them when he saw them; nor did all the slaves of the
out-farms know him. It is reported of him, that, while riding along the
road one day, he met a colored man, and addressed him in the usual
manner of speaking to colored people on the public highways of the
south: “Well, boy, whom do you belong to?” “To Colonel 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 you enough to eat?” “Yes, sir, he gives me enough, such
as it is.”

The colonel, after ascertaining where the slave belonged, rode on; the
man 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 death. This is the penalty of telling the truth, 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
universally say they are contented, and that their masters are kind.
The slaveholders have been known to send in spies among their slaves,
to ascertain their views and feelings in regard to their condition. The
frequency of this has 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 consequences of telling it, and in so doing prove
themselves a part of the human family. If they have any thing to say of
their masters, it is generally in their masters’ favor, especially when
speaking to an untried man. I have been frequently asked, when a slave,
if I had a kind master, and do not remember ever to have given a
negative answer; nor did I, in pursuing this course, consider myself as
uttering what was absolutely false; for I always measured the kindness
of my master by the standard of kindness set up among slaveholders
around us. Moreover, slaves are like other people, and imbibe
prejudices quite common to others. They think their own 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 goodness of their masters, each contending for the
superior goodness of his own over that of the others. At the very same
time, they mutually execrate their masters when viewed separately. It
was so on our plantation. When Colonel Lloyd’s slaves met the slaves of
Jacob Jepson, they seldom parted without a quarrel about their masters;
Colonel Lloyd’s slaves contending that he was the richest, and Mr.
Jepson’s slaves that he was the smartest, and most of a man. Colonel
Lloyd’s slaves would boast his ability to buy and sell Jacob Jepson.
Mr. Jepson’s slaves would boast his ability to whip Colonel Lloyd.
These quarrels would almost always end in a fight between the parties,
and those that whipped were supposed to have gained the point at issue.
They seemed to think that the greatness of their masters was
transferable to themselves. It was considered as being bad enough to be
a slave; but to be a poor man’s slave was deemed a disgrace indeed!




 CHAPTER IV


Mr. Hopkins remained but a short time in the office of overseer. Why
his career was so short, I do not know, but suppose he lacked the
necessary severity to suit Colonel Lloyd. Mr. Hopkins was succeeded by
Mr. Austin Gore, a man possessing, in an eminent degree, all those
traits of character indispensable to what is called a first-rate
overseer. Mr. Gore had served Colonel Lloyd, in the capacity of
overseer, upon one of the out-farms, and had shown himself worthy of
the high station of overseer upon the home or Great House Farm.

Mr. Gore was proud, ambitious, and persevering. He was artful, cruel,
and obdurate. He was just the man for such a place, and it was just the
place for such a man. It afforded scope for the full exercise of all
his powers, and he seemed to be perfectly at home in it. He was one of
those who could torture the slightest look, word, or gesture, on the
part of the slave, into impudence, and would treat it accordingly.
There must be no answering back to him; no explanation was allowed a
slave, showing himself to have been wrongfully accused. Mr. Gore acted
fully up to the maxim laid down by slaveholders,—“It is better that a
dozen slaves should suffer under the lash, than that the overseer
should be convicted, in the presence of the slaves, of having been at
fault.” No matter how innocent a slave might be—it availed him nothing,
when accused by Mr. Gore of any misdemeanor. To be accused was to be
convicted, and to be convicted was to be punished; the one always
following the other with immutable certainty. To escape punishment was
to escape accusation; and few slaves had the fortune to do either,
under the overseership of Mr. Gore. He was just proud enough to demand
the most debasing homage of the slave, and quite servile enough to
crouch, himself, at the feet of the master. He was ambitious enough to
be contented with nothing short of the highest rank of overseers, and
persevering enough to reach the height of his ambition. He was cruel
enough to inflict the severest punishment, artful enough to descend to
the lowest trickery, and obdurate enough to be insensible to the voice
of a reproving conscience. He was, of all the overseers, the most
dreaded by the slaves. His presence was painful; his eye flashed
confusion; and seldom was his sharp, shrill voice heard, without
producing horror and trembling in their ranks.

Mr. Gore was a grave man, and, though a young man, he indulged in no
jokes, said no funny words, seldom smiled. His words were in perfect
keeping with his looks, and his looks were in perfect keeping with his
words. Overseers will sometimes indulge in a witty word, even with the
slaves; not so with Mr. Gore. He spoke but to command, and commanded
but to be obeyed; he dealt sparingly with his words, and bountifully
with his whip, never using the former where the latter would answer as
well. When he whipped, he seemed to do so from a sense of duty, and
feared no consequences. He did nothing reluctantly, no matter how
disagreeable; always at his post, never inconsistent. He never promised
but to fulfil. He was, in a word, a man of the most inflexible firmness
and stone-like coolness.

His savage barbarity was equalled only by the consummate coolness with
which he committed the grossest and most savage deeds upon the slaves
under his charge. Mr. Gore once undertook to whip one of Colonel
Lloyd’s slaves, by the name of Demby. He had given Demby but few
stripes, when, to get rid of the scourging, he ran and plunged himself
into a creek, and stood there at the depth of his shoulders, refusing
to come out. Mr. Gore told him that he would give him three calls, and
that, if he did not come out at the third call, he would shoot him. The
first call was given. Demby made no response, but stood his ground. The
second and third calls were given with the same result. Mr. Gore then,
without consultation or deliberation with any one, not even giving
Demby an additional call, raised his musket to his face, taking deadly
aim at his standing victim, and in an instant poor Demby was no more.
His mangled body sank out of sight, and blood and brains marked the
water where he had stood.

A thrill of horror flashed through every soul upon the plantation,
excepting Mr. Gore. He alone seemed cool and collected. He was asked by
Colonel Lloyd and my old master, why he resorted to this extraordinary
expedient. His reply was, (as well as I can remember,) that Demby had
become unmanageable. He was setting a dangerous example to the other
slaves,—one which, if suffered to pass without some such demonstration
on his part, would finally lead to the total subversion of all rule and
order upon the plantation. He argued that if one slave refused to be
corrected, and escaped with his life, the other slaves would soon copy
the example; the result of which would be, the freedom of the slaves,
and the enslavement of the whites. Mr. Gore’s defence was satisfactory.
He was continued in his station as overseer upon the home plantation.
His fame as an overseer went abroad. His horrid crime was not even
submitted to judicial investigation. It was committed in the presence
of slaves, and they of course could neither institute a suit, nor
testify against him; and thus the guilty perpetrator of one of the
bloodiest and 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, Maryland, when I left there; and if he is
still alive, he very probably lives there now; and if so, he is now, as
he was then, as highly esteemed and as much respected as though his
guilty soul had not been stained with his brother’s blood.

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, of St. Michael’s,
killed two slaves, one of whom he killed 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.”

The wife of Mr. Giles Hicks, living but a short distance from where I
used to live, murdered my wife’s cousin, a young girl between fifteen
and sixteen years of age, mangling her person in the most horrible
manner, breaking her nose and breastbone with a stick, so that the poor
girl expired in a few hours afterward. She was immediately buried, but
had not been in her untimely grave but a few hours before she was taken
up and examined by the coroner, who decided that she had come to her
death by severe beating. The offence for which this girl was thus
murdered was this:—She had been set that night to mind Mrs. Hicks’s
baby, and during the night she fell asleep, and the baby cried. She,
having lost her rest for several nights previous, did not hear the
crying. They were both in the room with Mrs. Hicks. Mrs. Hicks, finding
the girl slow to move, jumped from her bed, seized an oak stick of wood
by the fireplace, and with it broke the girl’s nose and breastbone, and
thus ended her life. I will not say that this most horrid murder
produced no sensation in the community. It did produce sensation, but
not enough to bring the murderess to punishment. There was a warrant
issued for her arrest, but it was never served. Thus she escaped not
only punishment, but even the pain of being arraigned before a court
for her horrid crime.

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

Colonel Lloyd’s slaves were in the habit of spending a part of their
nights and Sundays in fishing for oysters, and in this way made up the
deficiency of their scanty allowance. An old man belonging to Colonel
Lloyd, while thus engaged, happened to get beyond the limits of Colonel
Lloyd’s, and on the premises of Mr. Beal Bondly. At this trespass, Mr.
Bondly took offence, and with his musket came down to the shore, and
blew its deadly contents into the poor old man.

Mr. Bondly came over to see Colonel Lloyd the next day, whether to pay
him for his property, or to justify himself in what he had done, I know
not. At any rate, this whole fiendish transaction was soon hushed up.
There was very little said about it at all, and nothing done. It was a
common saying, even among little white boys, that it was worth a
half-cent to kill a “nigger,” and a half-cent to bury one.




 CHAPTER V


As to my own treatment while I lived on Colonel Lloyd’s plantation, it
was very similar to that of the other slave children. I was not old
enough to work in the field, and there being little else than field
work to do, I had a great deal of leisure time. The most I had to do
was to drive up the cows at evening, keep the fowls out of the garden,
keep the front yard clean, and run of errands for my old master’s
daughter, Mrs. Lucretia Auld. The most of my leisure time I spent in
helping Master Daniel Lloyd in finding his birds, after he had shot
them. My connection with Master Daniel was of some advantage to me. He
became quite attached to me, and was a sort of protector of me. He
would not allow the older boys to impose upon me, and would divide his
cakes with me.

I was seldom whipped by my old master, and suffered little from any
thing else than hunger and cold. I suffered much from hunger, but much
more from cold. In hottest summer and coldest winter, I was kept almost
naked—no shoes, no stockings, no jacket, no trousers, nothing on but a
coarse tow linen shirt, reaching only to my knees. I had no bed. I must
have perished with cold, but that, the coldest nights, I used to steal
a bag which was used for carrying corn to the mill. I would crawl into
this bag, and there sleep on the cold, damp, clay floor, with my head
in and feet out. My feet have been so cracked with the frost, that the
pen with which I am writing might be laid in the gashes.

We were not regularly allowanced. Our food was coarse corn meal boiled.
This was called _mush_. It was put into a large wooden tray or trough,
and set down upon the ground. The children were then called, like so
many pigs, and like so many pigs they would come and devour the mush;
some with oyster-shells, others with pieces of shingle, some with naked
hands, and none with spoons. He that ate fastest got most; he that was
strongest secured the best place; and few left the trough satisfied.

I was probably between seven and eight years old when I left Colonel
Lloyd’s plantation. I left it with joy. I shall never forget the
ecstasy with which I received the intelligence that my old master
(Anthony) had determined to let me go to Baltimore, to live with Mr.
Hugh Auld, brother to my old master’s son-in-law, Captain Thomas Auld.
I received this information about three days before my departure. They
were three of the happiest days I ever enjoyed. I spent the most part
of all these three days in the creek, washing off the plantation scurf,
and preparing myself for my departure.

The pride of appearance which this would indicate was not my own. I
spent the time in washing, not so much because I wished to, but because
Mrs. Lucretia had told me I must get all the dead skin off my feet and
knees before I could go to Baltimore; for the people in Baltimore were
very cleanly, and would laugh at me if I looked dirty. Besides, she was
going to give me a pair of trousers, which I should not put on unless I
got all the dirt off me. The thought of owning a pair of trousers was
great indeed! It was almost a sufficient motive, not only to make me
take off what would be called by pig-drovers the mange, but the skin
itself. I went at it in good earnest, working for the first time with
the hope of reward.

The ties that ordinarily bind children to their homes were all
suspended in my case. I found no severe trial in my departure. My home
was charmless; it was not home to me; on parting from it, I could not
feel that I was leaving any thing which I could have enjoyed by
staying. My mother was dead, my grandmother lived far off, so that I
seldom saw her. I had two sisters and one brother, that lived in the
same house with me; but the early separation of us from our mother had
well nigh blotted the fact of our relationship from our memories. I
looked for home elsewhere, and was confident of finding none which I
should relish less than the one which I was leaving. If, however, I
found in my new home hardship, hunger, whipping, and nakedness, I had
the consolation that I should not have escaped any one of them by
staying. Having already had more than a taste of them in the house of
my old master, and having endured them there, I very naturally inferred
my ability to endure them elsewhere, and especially at Baltimore; for I
had something of the feeling about Baltimore that is expressed in the
proverb, that “being hanged in England is preferable to dying a natural
death in Ireland.” I had the strongest desire to see Baltimore. Cousin
Tom, though not fluent in speech, had inspired me with that desire by
his eloquent description of the place. I could never point out any
thing at the Great House, no matter how beautiful or powerful, but that
he had seen something at Baltimore far exceeding, both in beauty and
strength, the object which I pointed out to him. Even the Great House
itself, with all its pictures, was far inferior to many buildings in
Baltimore. So strong was my desire, that I thought a gratification of
it would fully compensate for whatever loss of comforts I should
sustain by the exchange. I left without a regret, and with the highest
hopes of future happiness.

We sailed out of Miles River for Baltimore 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 the months of the year. On setting sail,
I walked aft, and gave to Colonel Lloyd’s plantation what I hoped would
be the last look. I then placed myself in the bows of the sloop, and
there spent the remainder of the day in looking ahead, interesting
myself in what was in the distance rather than in things near by or
behind.

In the afternoon of that day, we reached Annapolis, the capital of the
State. We stopped but a few moments, so that I had no time to go on
shore. It was the first large town that I had ever seen, and though it
would look small compared with some of our New England factory
villages, I thought it a wonderful place for its size—more imposing
even than the Great House Farm!

We arrived at Baltimore early on Sunday morning, landing at Smith’s
Wharf, not far from Bowley’s Wharf. We had on board the sloop a large
flock of sheep; and after aiding in driving them to the slaughterhouse
of Mr. Curtis on Louden Slater’s Hill, I was conducted by Rich, one of
the hands belonging on board of the sloop, to my new home in Alliciana
Street, near Mr. Gardner’s ship-yard, on Fells Point.

Mr. and Mrs. Auld were both at home, and met me at the door with their
little son Thomas, to take care of whom I had been given. And here I
saw what I had never seen before; it was a white face beaming with the
most kindly emotions; it was the face of my new mistress, Sophia Auld.
I wish I could describe the rapture that flashed through my soul as I
beheld it. It was a new and strange sight to me, brightening up my
pathway with the light of happiness. Little Thomas was told, there was
his Freddy,—and I was told to take care of little Thomas; and thus I
entered upon the duties of my new home with the most cheering prospect
ahead.

I look upon my departure from Colonel Lloyd’s plantation as one of the
most interesting events of my life. It is possible, and even quite
probable, that but for the mere circumstance of being removed from that
plantation to Baltimore, I should have to-day, instead of being here
seated by my own table, in the enjoyment of freedom and the happiness
of home, writing this Narrative, been confined in the galling chains of
slavery. Going to live at Baltimore laid the foundation, and opened the
gateway, to all my subsequent prosperity. I have ever regarded it as
the first plain manifestation of that kind providence which has ever
since attended me, and marked my life with so many favors. I regarded
the selection of myself as being somewhat remarkable. There were a
number of slave children that might have been sent from the plantation
to Baltimore. There were those younger, those older, and those of the
same age. I was chosen from among them all, and was the first, last,
and only choice.

I may be deemed superstitious, and even egotistical, in regarding this
event as a special interposition of divine Providence in my favor. But
I should be false to the earliest sentiments of my soul, if I
suppressed the opinion. I prefer to be true to myself, even at the
hazard of incurring the ridicule of others, rather than to be false,
and incur my own abhorrence. From my earliest recollection, I date the
entertainment of a deep conviction that slavery would not always be
able to hold me within its foul embrace; and in the darkest hours of my
career in slavery, this living word of faith and spirit of hope
departed not from me, but remained like ministering angels to cheer me
through the gloom. This good spirit was from God, and to him I offer
thanksgiving and praise.




 CHAPTER VI


My new mistress proved to be all she appeared when I first met her at
the door,—a woman of the kindest heart and finest feelings. She had
never had a slave under her control previously to myself, and prior to
her marriage she had been dependent upon her own industry for a living.
She was by trade a weaver; and by constant application to her business,
she had been in a good degree preserved from the blighting and
dehumanizing effects of slavery. I was utterly astonished at her
goodness. I scarcely knew how to behave towards her. She was entirely
unlike any other white woman I had ever seen. I could not approach her
as I was accustomed to approach other white ladies. My early
instruction was all out of place. The crouching servility, usually so
acceptable a quality in a slave, did not answer when manifested toward
her. Her favor was not gained by it; she seemed to be disturbed by it.
She did not deem it impudent or unmannerly for a slave to look her in
the face. The meanest slave was put fully at ease in her presence, and
none left without feeling better for having seen her. Her face was made
of heavenly smiles, and her voice of tranquil music.

But, alas! this kind heart had but a short time to remain such. The
fatal poison of irresponsible power was already in her hands, and soon
commenced its infernal work. That cheerful eye, under the influence of
slavery, soon became red with rage; that voice, made all of sweet
accord, changed to one of harsh and horrid discord; and that angelic
face gave place to that of a demon.

Very soon after I went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Auld, she very kindly
commenced to teach me the A, B, C. After I had learned this, she
assisted me in learning to spell words of three or four letters. Just
at this point of my progress, Mr. Auld found out what was going on, and
at once forbade Mrs. Auld to instruct me further, telling her, among
other things, that it was unlawful, as well as unsafe, to teach a slave
to read. To use his own words, further, he said, “If you give a nigger
an inch, he will take an ell. A nigger should know nothing but to obey
his master—to do as he is told to do. Learning would _spoil_ the best
nigger in the world. Now,” said he, “if you teach that nigger (speaking
of myself) how to read, there would be no keeping him. It would forever
unfit him to be a slave. He would at once become unmanageable, and of
no value to his master. As to himself, it could do him no good, but a
great deal of harm. It would make him discontented and unhappy.” These
words sank deep into my heart, stirred up sentiments within that lay
slumbering, and called into existence an entirely new train of thought.
It was a new and special revelation, explaining dark and mysterious
things, with which my youthful understanding had struggled, but
struggled in vain. I now understood what had been to me a most
perplexing difficulty—to wit, the white man’s power to enslave the
black man. It was a grand achievement, and I prized it highly. From
that moment, I understood the pathway from slavery to freedom. It was
just what I wanted, and I got it at a time when I the least expected
it. Whilst I was saddened by the thought of losing the aid of my kind
mistress, I was gladdened by the invaluable instruction which, by the
merest accident, I had gained from my master. Though conscious of the
difficulty of learning without a teacher, I set out with high hope, and
a fixed purpose, at whatever cost of trouble, to learn how to read. The
very decided manner with which he spoke, and strove to impress his wife
with the evil consequences of giving me instruction, served to convince
me that he was deeply sensible of the truths he was uttering. It gave
me the best assurance that I might rely with the utmost confidence on
the results which, he said, would flow from teaching me to read. What
he most dreaded, that I most desired. What he most loved, that I most
hated. That which to him was a great evil, to be carefully shunned, was
to me a great good, to be diligently sought; and the argument which he
so warmly urged, against my learning to read, only served to inspire me
with a desire and determination to learn. In learning to read, I owe
almost as much to the bitter opposition of my master, as to the kindly
aid of my mistress. I acknowledge the benefit of both.

I had resided but a short time in Baltimore before I observed a marked
difference, in the treatment of slaves, from that which I had witnessed
in the country. A city slave is almost a freeman, compared with a slave
on the plantation. He is much better fed and clothed, and enjoys
privileges altogether unknown to the slave on the plantation. There is
a vestige of decency, a sense of shame, that does much to curb and
check those outbreaks of atrocious cruelty so commonly enacted upon the
plantation. He is a desperate slaveholder, who will shock the humanity
of his non-slaveholding neighbors with the cries of his lacerated
slave. Few are willing to incur the odium attaching to the reputation
of being a cruel master; and above all things, they would not be known
as not giving a slave enough to eat. Every city slaveholder is anxious
to have it known of him, that he feeds his slaves well; and it is due
to them to say, that most of them do give their slaves enough to eat.
There are, however, some painful exceptions to this rule. Directly
opposite to us, on Philpot Street, lived Mr. Thomas Hamilton. He owned
two slaves. Their names were Henrietta and Mary. Henrietta was about
twenty-two years of age, Mary was about fourteen; and of all the
mangled and emaciated creatures I ever looked upon, these two were the
most so. His heart must be harder than stone, that could look upon
these unmoved. The head, neck, and shoulders of Mary were literally cut
to pieces. I have frequently felt her head, and found it nearly covered
with festering sores, caused by the lash of her cruel mistress. I do
not know that her master ever whipped her, but I have been an
eye-witness to the cruelty of Mrs. Hamilton. I used to be in Mr.
Hamilton’s house nearly every day. Mrs. Hamilton used to sit in a large
chair in the middle of the room, with a heavy cowskin always by her
side, and scarce an hour passed during the day but was marked by the
blood of one of these slaves. The girls seldom passed her without her
saying, “Move faster, you _black gip!_” at the same time giving them a
blow with the cowskin over the head or shoulders, often drawing the
blood. She would then say, “Take that, you _black gip!_” continuing,
“If you don’t move faster, I’ll move you!” Added to the cruel lashings
to which these slaves were subjected, they were kept nearly
half-starved. They seldom knew what it was to eat a full meal. I have
seen Mary contending with the pigs for the offal thrown into the
street. So much was Mary kicked and cut to pieces, that she was oftener
called “_pecked_” than by her name.




 CHAPTER VII


I lived in Master Hugh’s family about seven years. During this time, I
succeeded in learning to read and write. In accomplishing this, I was
compelled to resort to various stratagems. I had no regular teacher. My
mistress, who had kindly commenced to instruct me, had, in compliance
with the advice and direction of her husband, not only ceased to
instruct, but had set her face against my being instructed by any one
else. It is due, however, to my mistress to say of her, that she did
not adopt this course of treatment immediately. She at first lacked the
depravity indispensable to shutting me up in mental darkness. It was at
least necessary for her to have some training in the exercise of
irresponsible power, to make her equal to the task of treating me as
though I were a brute.

My mistress was, as I have said, a kind and tender-hearted woman; and
in the simplicity of her soul she commenced, when I first went to live
with her, to treat me as she supposed one human being ought to treat
another. In entering upon the duties of a slaveholder, she did not seem
to perceive that I sustained to her the relation of a mere chattel, and
that for her to treat me as a human being was not only wrong, but
dangerously so. Slavery proved as injurious to her as it did to me.
When I went there, she was a pious, warm, and tender-hearted woman.
There was no sorrow or suffering for which she had not a tear. 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 heavenly qualities. Under its influence, the tender
heart became stone, and the lamblike disposition gave way to one of
tiger-like fierceness. The first step in her downward course was in her
ceasing to instruct me. She now commenced to practise her husband’s
precepts. She finally became even more violent in her opposition than
her husband himself. She was not satisfied with simply doing as well as
he had commanded; she seemed anxious to do better. Nothing seemed to
make her more angry than to see me with a newspaper. She seemed to
think that here lay the danger. I have had her rush at me with a face
made all up of fury, and snatch from me a newspaper, in a manner that
fully revealed her apprehension. She was an apt woman; and a little
experience soon demonstrated, to her satisfaction, that education and
slavery were incompatible with each other.

From this time I was most narrowly watched. If I was in a separate room
any considerable length of time, I was sure to be suspected of having a
book, and was at once called to give an account of myself. All this,
however, was too late. The first step had been taken. Mistress, in
teaching me the alphabet, had given me the _inch,_ and no precaution
could prevent me from taking the _ell._

The plan which I adopted, and the one by which I was most successful,
was that of making friends of all the little white boys whom I met in
the street. As many of these as I could, I converted into teachers.
With their kindly aid, obtained at different times and in different
places, I finally succeeded in learning to read. When I was sent of
errands, I always took my book with me, and by going one part of my
errand quickly, I found time to get a lesson before my return. I used
also to carry bread with me, enough of which was always in the house,
and to which I was always welcome; for I was much better off in this
regard than many of the poor white children in our neighborhood. This
bread I used to bestow upon the hungry little urchins, who, in return,
would give me that more valuable bread of knowledge. I am strongly
tempted to give the names of two or three of those little boys, as a
testimonial of the gratitude and affection I bear them; but prudence
forbids;—not that it would injure me, but it might embarrass them; for
it is almost an unpardonable offence to teach slaves to read in this
Christian country. It is enough to say of the dear little fellows, that
they lived on Philpot Street, very near Durgin and Bailey’s ship-yard.
I used to talk this matter of slavery over with them. I would sometimes
say to them, I wished I could be as free as they would be when they got
to be men. “You will be free as soon as you are twenty-one, _but I am a
slave for life!_ Have not I as good a right to be free as you have?”
These words used to trouble them; they would express for me the
liveliest sympathy, and console me with the hope that something would
occur by which I might be free.

I was now about twelve years old, and the thought of being _a slave for
life_ began to bear heavily upon my heart. Just about this time, I got
hold of a book entitled “The Columbian Orator.” Every opportunity I
got, I used to read this book. Among much of other interesting matter,
I found in it a dialogue between a master and his slave. The slave was
represented as having run away from his master three times. The
dialogue represented the conversation which took place between them,
when the slave was retaken the third time. In this dialogue, the whole
argument in behalf of slavery was brought forward by the master, all of
which was disposed of by the slave. The slave was made to say some very
smart as well as impressive things in reply to his master—things which
had the desired though unexpected effect; for the conversation resulted
in the voluntary emancipation of the slave on the part of the master.

In the same book, I met with one of Sheridan’s mighty speeches on and
in behalf of Catholic emancipation. These were choice documents to me.
I read them over and over again with unabated interest. They gave
tongue to interesting thoughts of my own soul, which had frequently
flashed through my mind, and died away for want of utterance. The moral
which I gained from the dialogue was the power of truth over the
conscience of even a slaveholder. What I got from Sheridan was a bold
denunciation of slavery, and a powerful vindication of human rights.
The reading of these documents enabled me to utter my thoughts, and to
meet the arguments brought forward to sustain slavery; but while they
relieved me of one difficulty, they brought on another even more
painful than the one of which I was relieved. The more I read, the more
I was led to abhor and detest my enslavers. I could regard them in no
other light than a band of successful robbers, who had left their
homes, and gone to Africa, and stolen us from our homes, and in a
strange land reduced us to slavery. I loathed them as being the meanest
as well as the most wicked of men. As I read and contemplated the
subject, behold! that very discontentment which Master Hugh had
predicted would follow my learning to read had already come, to torment
and sting my soul to unutterable anguish. As I writhed under it, I
would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than
a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without
the remedy. It opened my eyes to the horrible pit, but to no ladder
upon which to get out. In moments of agony, I envied my fellow-slaves
for their stupidity. I have often wished myself a beast. I preferred
the condition of the meanest reptile to my own. Any thing, no matter
what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my
condition that tormented me. There was no getting rid of it. It was
pressed upon me by every object within sight or hearing, animate or
inanimate. The silver trump of freedom had roused my soul to eternal
wakefulness. Freedom now appeared, to disappear no more forever. It was
heard in every sound, and seen in every thing. It was ever present to
torment me with a sense of my wretched condition. I saw nothing without
seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt nothing without
feeling it. It looked from every star, it smiled in every calm,
breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.

I often found myself regretting my own existence, and wishing myself
dead; and but for the hope of being free, I have no doubt but that I
should have killed myself, or done something for which I should have
been killed. While in this state of mind, I was eager to hear any one
speak of slavery. I was a ready listener. Every little while, I could
hear something about the abolitionists. It was some time before I found
what the word meant. It was always used in such connections as to make
it an interesting word to me. If a slave ran away and succeeded in
getting clear, or if a slave killed his master, set fire to a barn, or
did any thing very wrong in the mind of a slaveholder, it was spoken of
as the fruit of _abolition._ Hearing the word in this connection very
often, I set about learning what it meant. The dictionary afforded me
little or no help. I found it was “the act of abolishing;” but then I
did not know what was to be abolished. Here I was perplexed. I did not
dare to ask any one about its meaning, for I was satisfied that it was
something they wanted me to know very little about. After a patient
waiting, I got one of our city papers, containing an account of the
number of petitions from the north, praying for the abolition of
slavery in the District of Columbia, and of the slave trade between the
States. From this time I understood the words _abolition_ and
_abolitionist,_ and always drew near when that word was spoken,
expecting to hear something of importance to myself and fellow-slaves.
The light broke in upon me by degrees. I went one day down on the wharf
of Mr. Waters; and seeing two Irishmen unloading a scow of stone, I
went, unasked, and helped them. When we had finished, one of them came
to me and asked me if I were a slave. I told him I was. He asked, “Are
ye a slave for life?” I told him that I was. The good Irishman seemed
to be deeply affected by the statement. He said to the other that it
was a pity so fine a little fellow as myself should be a slave for
life. He said it was a shame to hold me. They both advised me to run
away to the north; that I should find friends there, and that I should
be free. I pretended not to be interested in what they said, and
treated them as if I did not understand them; for I feared they might
be treacherous. White men have been known to encourage slaves to
escape, and then, to get the reward, catch them and return them to
their masters. I was afraid that these seemingly good men might use me
so; but I nevertheless remembered their advice, and from that time I
resolved to run away. I looked forward to a time at which it would be
safe for me to escape. I was too young to think of doing so
immediately; besides, I wished to learn how to write, as I might have
occasion to write my own pass. I consoled myself with the hope that I
should one day find a good chance. Meanwhile, I would learn to write.

The idea as to how I might learn to write was suggested to me by being
in Durgin and Bailey’s ship-yard, and frequently seeing the ship
carpenters, after hewing, and getting a piece of timber ready for use,
write on the timber the name of that part of the ship for which it was
intended. When a piece of timber was intended for the larboard side, it
would be marked thus—“L.” When a piece was for the starboard side, it
would be marked thus—“S.” A piece for the larboard side forward, would
be marked thus—“L. F.” When a piece was for starboard side forward, it
would be marked thus—“S. F.” For larboard aft, it would be marked
thus—“L. A.” For starboard aft, it would be marked thus—“S. A.” I soon
learned the names of these letters, and for what they were intended
when placed upon a piece of timber in the ship-yard. I immediately
commenced copying them, and in a short time was able to make the four
letters named. After that, when I met with any boy who I knew could
write, I would tell him I could write as well as he. The next word
would be, “I don’t believe you. Let me see you try it.” I would then
make the letters which I had been so fortunate as to learn, and ask him
to beat that. In this way I got a good many lessons in writing, which
it is quite possible I should never have gotten in any other way.
During this time, my copy-book was the board fence, brick wall, and
pavement; my pen and ink was a lump of chalk. With these, I learned
mainly how to write. I then commenced and continued 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 Thomas had gone to school,
and learned how to write, and had written over a number of copy-books.
These had been brought home, and shown to some of our near neighbors,
and then laid aside. My mistress used to go to class meeting at the
Wilk Street meetinghouse every Monday afternoon, and leave me to take
care of the house. When left thus, I used to spend the time in writing
in the spaces left in Master Thomas’s copy-book, copying what he had
written. I continued to do this until I could write a hand very similar
to that of Master Thomas. Thus, after a long, tedious effort for years,
I finally succeeded in learning how to write.




 CHAPTER VIII


In a very short time after I went to live at Baltimore, my old master’s
youngest son Richard died; and in about three years and six months
after his death, my old master, Captain Anthony, died, leaving only his
son, Andrew, and daughter, Lucretia, to share his estate. He died while
on a visit to see his daughter at Hillsborough. Cut off thus
unexpectedly, he left no will as to the disposal of his property. It
was therefore necessary to have a valuation of the property, that it
might be equally divided between Mrs. Lucretia and Master Andrew. I was
immediately sent for, to be valued with the other property. Here again
my feelings rose up in detestation of slavery. I had now a new
conception of my degraded condition. Prior to this, I had become, if
not insensible to my lot, at least partly so. I left Baltimore with a
young heart overborne with sadness, and a soul full of apprehension. I
took passage with Captain Rowe, in the schooner Wild Cat, and, after a
sail of about twenty-four hours, I found myself near the place of my
birth. I had now been absent from it almost, if not quite, five years.
I, however, remembered the place very well. I was only about five years
old when I left it, to go and live with my old master on Colonel
Lloyd’s plantation; so that I was now between ten and eleven years old.

We were all ranked together at the valuation. Men and women, old and
young, married and single, were ranked with horses, sheep, and swine.
There were horses and men, cattle and women, pigs and children, all
holding the same rank in the scale of being, and were all subjected to
the same narrow examination. Silvery-headed age and sprightly youth,
maids and matrons, had to undergo the same indelicate inspection. At
this moment, I saw more clearly than ever the brutalizing effects of
slavery upon both slave and slaveholder.

After the valuation, then came the division. I have no language to
express the high excitement and deep anxiety which were felt among us
poor slaves during this time. Our fate for life was now to be decided.
We had no more voice in that decision than the brutes among whom we
were ranked. A single word from the white men was enough—against all
our wishes, prayers, and entreaties—to sunder forever the dearest
friends, dearest kindred, and strongest ties known to human beings. In
addition to the pain of separation, there was the horrid dread of
falling into the hands of Master Andrew. He was known to us all as
being a most cruel wretch,—a common drunkard, who had, by his reckless
mismanagement and profligate dissipation, already wasted a large
portion of his father’s property. We all felt that we might as well be
sold at once to the Georgia traders, as to pass into his hands; for we
knew that that would be our inevitable condition,—a condition held by
us all in the utmost horror and dread.

I suffered more anxiety than most of my fellow-slaves. I had known what
it was to be kindly treated; they had known nothing of the kind. They
had seen little or nothing of the world. They were in very deed men and
women of sorrow, and acquainted with grief. Their backs had been made
familiar with the bloody lash, so that they had become callous; mine
was yet tender; for while at Baltimore I got few whippings, and few
slaves could boast of a kinder master and mistress than myself; and the
thought of passing out of their hands into those of Master Andrew—a man
who, but a few days before, to give me a sample of his bloody
disposition, took my little brother by the throat, threw him on the
ground, and with the heel of his boot stamped upon his head till the
blood gushed from his nose and ears—was well calculated to make me
anxious as to my fate. After he had committed this savage outrage upon
my brother, he turned to me, and said that was the way he meant to
serve me one of these days,—meaning, I suppose, when I came into his
possession.

Thanks to a kind Providence, I fell to the portion of Mrs. Lucretia,
and was sent immediately back to Baltimore, to live again in the family
of Master Hugh. Their joy at my return equalled their sorrow at my
departure. It was a glad day to me. I had escaped a worse than lion’s
jaws. I was absent from Baltimore, for the purpose of valuation and
division, just about one month, and it seemed to have been six.

Very soon after my return to Baltimore, my mistress, Lucretia, died,
leaving her husband and one child, Amanda; and in a very short time
after her death, Master Andrew died. Now all the property of my old
master, slaves included, was in the hands of strangers,—strangers who
had had nothing to do with accumulating it. Not a slave was left free.
All remained slaves, from the youngest to the 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 towards 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. She stands—she sits—she staggers—she falls—she groans—she
dies—and there are none of her children or grandchildren present, to
wipe from her wrinkled brow the cold sweat of death, or to place
beneath the sod her fallen remains. Will not a righteous God visit for
these things?

In about two years after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, Master Thomas
married his second wife. Her name was Rowena Hamilton. She was the
eldest daughter of Mr. William Hamilton. Master now lived in St.
Michael’s. Not long after his marriage, a misunderstanding took place
between himself and Master Hugh; and as a means of punishing his
brother, he took me from him to live with himself at St. Michael’s.
Here I underwent another most painful separation. It, however, was not
so severe as the one I dreaded at the division of property; for, during
this interval, a great change had taken place in Master Hugh and his
once kind and affectionate wife. The influence of brandy upon him, and
of slavery upon her, had effected a disastrous change in the characters
of both; so that, as far as they were concerned, I thought I had little
to lose by the change. But it was not to them that I was attached. It
was to those little Baltimore boys that I felt the strongest
attachment. I had received many good lessons from them, and was still
receiving them, and the thought of leaving them was painful indeed. I
was leaving, too, without the hope of ever being allowed to return.
Master Thomas had said he would never let me return again. The barrier
betwixt himself and brother he considered impassable.

I then had to regret that I did not at least make the attempt to carry
out my resolution to run away; for the chances of success are tenfold
greater from the city than from the country.

I sailed from Baltimore for St. Michael’s in the sloop Amanda, Captain
Edward Dodson. On my passage, I paid particular attention to the
direction which the steamboats took to go to Philadelphia. I found,
instead of going down, on reaching North Point they went up the bay, in
a north-easterly direction. I deemed this knowledge of the utmost
importance. My determination to run away was again revived. I resolved
to wait only so long as the offering of a favorable opportunity. When
that came, I was determined to be off.




 CHAPTER IX


I have now reached a period of my life when I can give dates. I left
Baltimore, and went to live with Master Thomas Auld, at St. Michael’s,
in March, 1832. It was now more than seven years since I lived with him
in the family of my old master, on Colonel Lloyd’s plantation. We of
course were now almost entire strangers to each other. He was to me a
new master, and I to him a new slave. I was ignorant of his temper and
disposition; he was equally so of mine. A very short time, however,
brought us into full acquaintance with each other. I was made
acquainted with his wife not less than with himself. They were well
matched, being equally mean and cruel. I was now, for the first time
during a space of more than seven years, made to feel the painful
gnawings of hunger—a something which I had not experienced before since
I left Colonel Lloyd’s plantation. It went hard enough with me then,
when I could look back to no period at which I had enjoyed a
sufficiency. It was tenfold harder after living in Master Hugh’s
family, where I had always had enough to eat, and of that which was
good. I have said Master Thomas was a mean man. He was so. Not to give
a slave enough to eat, is regarded as the most aggravated development
of meanness even among slaveholders. 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 from which I came, it is the general
practice,—though there are many exceptions. Master Thomas gave us
enough of neither coarse nor fine food. There were four slaves of us in
the kitchen—my sister Eliza, my aunt Priscilla, Henny, and myself; and
we were allowed less than a half of a bushel of corn-meal per week, and
very little else, either in the shape of meat or vegetables. It was not
enough for us to subsist upon. We were therefore reduced to the
wretched necessity of living at the expense of our neighbors. This we
did by begging and stealing, whichever came handy in the time of need,
the one being considered as legitimate as the other. A great many times
have we poor creatures been nearly perishing with hunger, when food in
abundance lay mouldering in the safe and smoke-house, and our pious
mistress was aware of the fact; and yet that mistress and her husband
would kneel every morning, and pray that God would bless them in basket
and store!

Bad as all slaveholders are, we seldom meet one destitute of every
element of character commanding respect. My master was one of this rare
sort. I do not know of one single noble act ever performed by him. The
leading trait in his character was meanness; and if there were any
other element in his nature, it was made subject to this. He was mean;
and, like most other mean men, he lacked the ability to conceal his
meanness. Captain Auld was not born a slaveholder. He had been a poor
man, master only of a Bay craft. He came into possession of all his
slaves by marriage; and of all men, adopted slaveholders are the worst.
He was cruel, but cowardly. He commanded without firmness. In the
enforcement of his rules, he was at times rigid, and at times lax. At
times, he spoke to his slaves with the firmness of Napoleon and the
fury of a demon; at other times, he might well be mistaken for an
inquirer who had lost his way. He did nothing of himself. He might have
passed for a lion, but for his ears. In all things noble which he
attempted, his own meanness shone most conspicuous. His airs, words,
and actions, were the airs, words, and actions of born slaveholders,
and, being assumed, were awkward enough. He was not even a good
imitator. He possessed all the disposition to deceive, but wanted the
power. Having no resources within himself, he was compelled to be the
copyist of many, and being such, he was forever the victim of
inconsistency; and of consequence he was an object of contempt, and was
held as such even by his slaves. The luxury of having slaves of his own
to wait upon him was something new and unprepared for. He was a
slaveholder without the ability to hold slaves. He found himself
incapable of managing his slaves either by force, fear, or fraud. We
seldom called him “master;” we generally called him “Captain Auld,” and
were hardly disposed to title him at all. I doubt not that our conduct
had much to do with making him appear awkward, and of consequence
fretful. Our want of reverence for him must have perplexed him greatly.
He wished to have us call him master, but lacked the firmness necessary
to command us to do so. His wife used to insist upon our calling him
so, but to no purpose. In August, 1832, my master attended a Methodist
camp-meeting held in the Bay-side, Talbot county, and there experienced
religion. I indulged a faint hope that his conversion would lead him to
emancipate his slaves, and that, if he did not do this, it would, at
any rate, make him more kind and humane. I was disappointed in both
these respects. It neither made him to be humane to his slaves, nor to
emancipate them. If it had any effect on his character, it made him
more cruel and hateful in all his ways; for I believe him to have been
a much worse man after his conversion than before. Prior to his
conversion, he relied upon his own depravity to shield and sustain him
in his savage barbarity; but after his conversion, he found religious
sanction and support for his slaveholding cruelty. He made the greatest
pretensions to piety. His house was the house of prayer. He prayed
morning, noon, and night. He very soon distinguished himself among his
brethren, and was soon made a class-leader and exhorter. His activity
in revivals was great, and he proved himself an instrument in the hands
of the church in converting many souls. His house was the preachers’
home. They used to take great pleasure in coming there to put up; for
while he starved us, he stuffed them. We have had three or four
preachers there at a time. The names of those who used to come most
frequently while I lived there, were Mr. Storks, Mr. Ewery, Mr.
Humphry, and Mr. Hickey. I have also seen Mr. George Cookman at our
house. We slaves loved Mr. Cookman. We believed him to be a good man.
We thought him instrumental in getting Mr. Samuel Harrison, a very rich
slaveholder, to emancipate his slaves; and by some means got the
impression that he was laboring to effect the emancipation of all the
slaves. When he was at our house, we were sure to be called in to
prayers. When the others were there, we were sometimes called in and
sometimes not. Mr. Cookman took more notice of us than either of the
other ministers. He could not come among us without betraying his
sympathy for us, and, stupid as we were, we had the sagacity to see it.

While I lived with my master in St. Michael’s, there was a white young
man, a Mr. Wilson, who proposed to keep a Sabbath school for the
instruction of such slaves as might be disposed to learn to read the
New Testament. We met but three times, when Mr. West and Mr. Fairbanks,
both class-leaders, with many others, came upon us with sticks and
other missiles, drove us off, and forbade us to meet again. Thus ended
our little Sabbath school in the pious town of St. Michael’s.

I have said my master found religious sanction for his cruelty. As an
example, I will state one of many facts going to prove the charge. I
have seen him tie up a lame young woman, and whip her with a heavy
cowskin upon her naked shoulders, causing the warm red blood to drip;
and, in justification of the bloody deed, he would quote this passage
of Scripture—“He that knoweth his master’s will, and doeth it not,
shall be beaten with many stripes.”

Master would keep this lacerated young woman tied up in this horrid
situation four or five hours at a time. I have known him to tie her up
early in the morning, and whip her before breakfast; leave her, go to
his store, return at dinner, and whip her again, cutting her in the
places already made raw with his cruel lash. The secret of master’s
cruelty toward “Henny” is found in the fact of her being almost
helpless. When quite a child, she fell into the fire, and burned
herself horribly. Her hands were so burnt that she never got the use of
them. She could do very little but bear heavy burdens. She was to
master a bill of expense; and as he was a mean man, she was a constant
offence to him. He seemed desirous of getting the poor girl out of
existence. He gave her away once to his sister; but, being a poor gift,
she was not disposed to keep her. Finally, my benevolent master, to use
his own words, “set her adrift to take care of herself.” Here was a
recently-converted man, holding on upon the mother, and at the same
time turning out her helpless child, to starve and die! Master Thomas
was one of the many pious slaveholders who hold slaves for the very
charitable purpose of taking care of them.

My master and myself had quite a number of differences. He found me
unsuitable to his purpose. My city life, he said, had had a very
pernicious effect upon me. It had almost ruined me for every good
purpose, and fitted me for every thing which was bad. One of my
greatest faults was that of letting his horse run away, and go down to
his father-in-law’s farm, which was about five miles from St.
Michael’s. I would then have to go after it. My reason for this kind of
carelessness, or carefulness, was, that I could always get something to
eat when I went there. Master William Hamilton, my master’s
father-in-law, always gave his slaves enough to eat. I never left there
hungry, no matter how great the need of my speedy return. Master Thomas
at length said he would stand it no longer. I had lived with him nine
months, during which time he had given me a number of severe whippings,
all to no good purpose. He resolved to put me out, as he said, to be
broken; and, for this purpose, he let me for one year to a man named
Edward Covey. Mr. Covey was a poor man, a farm-renter. He rented the
place upon which he lived, as also the hands with which he tilled it.
Mr. Covey had acquired a very high reputation for breaking young
slaves, and this reputation was of immense value to him. It enabled him
to get his farm tilled with much less expense to himself than he could
have had it done without such a reputation. Some slaveholders thought
it not much loss to allow Mr. Covey to have their slaves one year, for
the sake of the training to which they were subjected, without any
other compensation. He could hire young help with great ease, in
consequence of this reputation. Added to the natural good qualities of
Mr. Covey, he was a professor of religion—a pious soul—a member and a
class-leader in the Methodist church. All of this added weight to his
reputation as a “nigger-breaker.” I was aware of all the facts, having
been made acquainted with them by a young man who had lived there. I
nevertheless made the change gladly; for I was sure of getting enough
to eat, which is not the smallest consideration to a hungry man.




 CHAPTER X


I had left Master Thomas’s house, and went to live with Mr. Covey, on
the 1st of January, 1833. I was now, for the first time in my life, a
field hand. In my new employment, I found myself even more awkward than
a country boy appeared to be in a large city. I had been at my new home
but one week before Mr. Covey gave me a very severe whipping, cutting
my back, causing the blood to run, and raising ridges on my flesh as
large as my little finger. The details of this affair are as follows:
Mr. Covey sent me, very early in the morning of one of our coldest days
in the month of January, to the woods, to get a load of wood. He gave
me a team of unbroken oxen. He told me which was the in-hand ox, and
which the off-hand one. He then tied the end of a large rope around the
horns of the in-hand ox, and gave me the other end of it, and told me,
if the oxen started to run, that I must hold on upon the rope. I had
never driven oxen before, and of course I was very awkward. I, however,
succeeded in getting to the edge of the woods with little difficulty;
but I had got a very few rods into the woods, when the oxen took
fright, and started full tilt, carrying the cart against trees, and
over stumps, in the most frightful manner. I expected every moment that
my brains would be dashed out against the trees. After running thus for
a considerable distance, they finally upset the cart, dashing it with
great force against a tree, and threw themselves into a dense thicket.
How I escaped death, I do not know. There I was, entirely alone, in a
thick wood, in a place new to me. My cart was upset and shattered, my
oxen were entangled among the young trees, and there was none to help
me. After a long spell of effort, I succeeded in getting my cart
righted, my oxen disentangled, and again yoked to the cart. I now
proceeded with my team to the place where I had, the day before, been
chopping wood, and loaded my cart pretty heavily, thinking in this way
to tame my oxen. I then proceeded on my way home. I had now consumed
one half of the day. I got out of the woods safely, and now felt out of
danger. I stopped my oxen to open the woods gate; and just as I did so,
before I could get hold of my ox-rope, the oxen again started, rushed
through the gate, catching it between the wheel and the body of the
cart, tearing it to pieces, and coming within a few inches of crushing
me against the gate-post. Thus twice, in one short day, I escaped death
by the merest chance. On my return, I told Mr. Covey what had happened,
and how it happened. He ordered me to return to the woods again
immediately. I did so, and he followed on after me. Just as I got into
the woods, he came up and told me to stop my cart, and that he would
teach me how to trifle away my time, and break gates. He then went to a
large gum-tree, and with his axe cut three large switches, and, after
trimming them up neatly with his pocketknife, he ordered me to take off
my clothes. I made him no answer, but stood with my clothes on. He
repeated his order. I still made him no answer, nor did I move to strip
myself. Upon this he rushed at me with the fierceness of a tiger, tore
off my clothes, and lashed me till he had worn out his switches,
cutting me so savagely as to leave the marks visible for a long time
after. This whipping was the first of a number just like it, and for
similar offences.

I lived with Mr. Covey one year. During the first six months, of that
year, scarce a week passed without his whipping me. I was seldom free
from a sore back. My awkwardness was almost always his excuse for
whipping me. We were worked fully up to the point of endurance. Long
before day we were up, our horses fed, and by the first approach of day
we were off to the field with our hoes and ploughing teams. Mr. Covey
gave us enough to eat, but scarce time to eat it. We were often less
than five minutes taking our meals. We were often in the field from the
first approach of day till its last lingering ray had left us; and at
saving-fodder time, midnight often caught us in the field binding
blades.

Covey would be out with us. The way he used to stand it, was this. He
would spend the most of his afternoons in bed. He would then come out
fresh in the evening, ready to urge us on with his words, example, and
frequently with the whip. Mr. Covey was one of the few slaveholders who
could and did work with his hands. He was a hard-working man. He knew
by himself just what a man or a boy could do. There was no deceiving
him. His work went on in his absence almost as well as in his presence;
and he had the faculty of making us feel that he was ever present with
us. This he did by surprising us. He seldom approached the spot where
we were at work openly, if he could do it secretly. He always aimed at
taking us by surprise. Such was his cunning, that we used to call him,
among ourselves, “the snake.” When we were at work in the cornfield, he
would sometimes crawl on his hands and knees to avoid detection, and
all at once he would rise nearly in our midst, and scream out, “Ha, ha!
Come, come! Dash on, dash on!” This being his mode of attack, it was
never safe to stop a single minute. His comings were like a thief in
the night. He appeared to us as being ever at hand. He was under every
tree, behind every stump, in every bush, and at every window, on the
plantation. He would sometimes mount his horse, as if bound to St.
Michael’s, a distance of seven miles, and in half an hour afterwards
you would see him coiled up in the corner of the wood-fence, watching
every motion of the slaves. He would, for this purpose, leave his horse
tied up in the woods. Again, he would sometimes walk up to us, and give
us orders as though he was upon the point of starting on a long
journey, turn his back upon us, and make as though he was going to the
house to get ready; and, before he would get half way thither, he would
turn short and crawl into a fence-corner, or behind some tree, and
there watch us till the going down of the sun.

Mr. Covey’s _forte_ consisted in his power to deceive. His life was
devoted to planning and perpetrating the grossest deceptions. Every
thing he possessed in the shape of learning or religion, he made
conform to his disposition to deceive. He seemed to think himself equal
to deceiving the Almighty. He would make a short prayer in the morning,
and a long prayer at night; and, strange as it may seem, few men would
at times appear more devotional than he. The exercises of his family
devotions were always commenced with singing; and, as he was a very
poor singer himself, the duty of raising the hymn generally came upon
me. He would read his hymn, and nod at me to commence. I would at times
do so; at others, I would not. My non-compliance would almost always
produce much confusion. To show himself independent of me, he would
start and stagger through with his hymn in the most discordant manner.
In this state of mind, he prayed with more than ordinary spirit. Poor
man! such was his disposition, and success at deceiving, I do verily
believe that he sometimes deceived himself into the solemn belief, that
he was a sincere worshipper of the most high God; and this, too, at a
time when he may be said to have been guilty of compelling his woman
slave to commit the sin of adultery. The facts in the case are these:
Mr. Covey was a poor man; he was just commencing in life; he was only
able to buy one slave; and, shocking as is the fact, he bought her, as
he said, for _a breeder_. This woman was named Caroline. Mr. Covey
bought her from Mr. Thomas Lowe, about six miles from St. Michael’s.
She was a large, able-bodied woman, about twenty years old. She had
already given birth to one child, which proved her to be just what he
wanted. After buying her, he hired a married man of Mr. Samuel
Harrison, to live with him one year; and him he used to fasten up with
her every night! The result was, that, at the end of the year, the
miserable woman gave birth to twins. At this result Mr. Covey seemed to
be highly pleased, both with the man and the wretched woman. Such was
his joy, and that of his wife, that nothing they could do for Caroline
during her confinement was too good, or too hard, to be done. The
children were regarded as being quite an addition to his wealth.

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 in all weathers. It
was never too hot or too cold; it could never rain, blow, hail, or
snow, too hard for us to work in the field. Work, work, work, was
scarcely more the order of the day than of the night. The longest days
were too short for him, and the shortest nights too long for him. I was
somewhat unmanageable when I first went there, but a few months of this
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, that 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 lofty
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 are 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 round 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
the 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 course 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 can 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.”

Thus I used to think, and thus I used to speak to myself; goaded almost
to madness at one moment, and at the next reconciling myself to my
wretched lot.

I have already intimated that my condition was much worse, during the
first six months of my stay at Mr. Covey’s, than in the last six. The
circumstances leading to the change in Mr. Covey’s course toward me
form an epoch in my humble history. You have seen how a man was made a
slave; you shall see how a slave was made a man. On one of the hottest
days of the month of August, 1833, Bill Smith, William Hughes, a slave
named Eli, and myself, were engaged in fanning wheat. Hughes was
clearing the fanned wheat from before the fan. Eli was turning, Smith
was feeding, and I was carrying wheat to the fan. The work was simple,
requiring strength rather than intellect; yet, to one entirely unused
to such work, it came very hard. About three o’clock of that day, I
broke down; my strength failed me; I was seized with a violent aching
of the head, attended with extreme dizziness; I trembled in every limb.
Finding what was coming, I nerved myself up, feeling it would never do
to stop work. I stood as long as I could stagger to the hopper with
grain. When I could stand no longer, I fell, and felt as if held down
by an immense weight. The fan of course stopped; every one had his own
work to do; and no one could do the work of the other, and have his own
go on at the same time.

Mr. Covey was at the house, about one hundred yards from the
treading-yard where we were fanning. On hearing the fan stop, he left
immediately, and came to the spot where we were. He hastily inquired
what the matter was. Bill answered that I was sick, and there was no
one to bring wheat to the fan. I had by this time crawled away under
the side of the post and rail-fence by which the yard was enclosed,
hoping to find relief by getting out of the sun. He then asked where I
was. He was told by one of the hands. He came to the spot, and, after
looking at me awhile, asked me what was the matter. I told him as well
as I could, for I scarce had strength to speak. He then gave me a
savage kick in the side, and told me to get up. I tried to do so, but
fell back in the attempt. He gave me another kick, and again told me to
rise. I again tried, and succeeded in gaining my feet; but, stooping to
get the tub with which I was feeding the fan, I again staggered and
fell. While down in this situation, Mr. Covey took up the hickory slat
with which Hughes had been striking off the half-bushel measure, and
with it gave me a heavy blow upon the head, making a large wound, and
the blood ran freely; and with this again told me to get up. I made no
effort to comply, having now made up my mind to let him do his worst.
In a short time after receiving this blow, my head grew better. Mr.
Covey had now left me to my fate. At this moment I resolved, for the
first time, to go to my master, enter a complaint, and ask his
protection. In order to do this, I must that afternoon walk seven
miles; and this, under the circumstances, was truly a severe
undertaking. I was exceedingly feeble; made so as much by the kicks and
blows which I received, as by the severe fit of sickness to which I had
been subjected. I, however, watched my chance, while Covey was looking
in an opposite direction, and started for St. Michael’s. I succeeded in
getting a considerable distance on my way to the woods, when Covey
discovered me, and called after me to come back, threatening what he
would do if I did not come. I disregarded both his calls and his
threats, and made my way to the woods as fast as my feeble state would
allow; and thinking I might be overhauled by him if I kept the road, I
walked through the woods, keeping far enough from the road to avoid
detection, and near enough to prevent losing my way. I had not gone far
before my little strength again failed me. I could go no farther. I
fell down, and lay for a considerable time. The blood was yet oozing
from the wound on my head. For a time I thought I should bleed to
death; and think now that I should have done so, but that the blood so
matted my hair as to stop the wound. After lying there about three
quarters of an hour, I nerved myself up again, and started on my way,
through bogs and briers, barefooted and bareheaded, tearing my feet
sometimes at nearly every step; and after a journey of about seven
miles, occupying some five hours to perform it, I arrived at master’s
store. I then presented an appearance enough to affect any but a heart
of iron. From the crown of my head to my feet, I was covered with
blood. My hair was all clotted with dust and blood; my shirt was stiff
with blood. I suppose I looked like a man who had escaped a den of wild
beasts, and barely escaped them. In this state I appeared before my
master, humbly entreating him to interpose his authority for my
protection. I told him all the circumstances as well as I could, and it
seemed, as I spoke, at times to affect him. He would then walk the
floor, and seek to justify Covey by saying he expected I deserved it.
He asked me what I wanted. I told him, to let me get a new home; that
as sure as I lived with Mr. Covey again, I should live with but to die
with him; that Covey would surely kill me; he was in a fair way for it.
Master Thomas ridiculed the idea that there was any danger of Mr.
Covey’s killing me, and said that he knew Mr. Covey; that he was a good
man, and that he could not think of taking me from him; that, should he
do so, he would lose the whole year’s wages; that I belonged to Mr.
Covey for one year, and that I must go back to him, come what might;
and that I must not trouble him with any more stories, or that he would
himself _get hold of me_. After threatening me thus, he gave me a very
large dose of salts, telling me that I might remain in St. Michael’s
that night, (it being quite late,) but that I must be off back to Mr.
Covey’s early in the morning; and that if I did not, he would _get hold
of me,_ which meant that he would whip me. I remained all night, and,
according to his orders, I started off to Covey’s in the morning,
(Saturday morning,) wearied in body and broken in spirit. I got no
supper that night, or breakfast that morning. I reached Covey’s about
nine o’clock; and just as I was getting over the fence that divided
Mrs. Kemp’s fields from ours, out ran Covey with his cowskin, to give
me another whipping. Before he could reach me, I succeeded in getting
to the cornfield; and as the corn was very high, it afforded me the
means of hiding. He seemed very angry, and searched for me a long time.
My behavior was altogether unaccountable. He finally gave up the chase,
thinking, I suppose, that I must come home for something to eat; he
would give himself no further trouble in looking for me. I spent that
day mostly in the woods, having the alternative before me,—to go home
and be whipped to death, or stay in the woods and be starved to death.
That night, I fell in with Sandy Jenkins, a slave with whom I was
somewhat acquainted. Sandy had a free wife who lived about four miles
from Mr. Covey’s; and it being Saturday, he was on his way to see her.
I told him my circumstances, and he very kindly invited me to go home
with him. I went home with him, and talked this whole matter over, and
got his advice as to what course it was best for me to pursue. I found
Sandy an old adviser. He told me, with great solemnity, I must go back
to Covey; but that before I went, I must go with him into another part
of the woods, where there was a certain _root,_ which, if I would take
some of it with me, carrying it _always on my right side,_ would render
it impossible for Mr. Covey, or any other white man, to whip me. He
said he had carried it for years; and since he had done so, he had
never received a blow, and never expected to while he carried it. I at
first rejected the idea, that the simple carrying of a root in my
pocket would have any such effect as he had said, and was not disposed
to take it; but Sandy impressed the necessity with much earnestness,
telling me it could do no harm, if it did no good. To please him, I at
length took the root, and, according to his direction, carried it upon
my right side. This was Sunday morning. I immediately started for home;
and upon entering the yard gate, out came Mr. Covey on his way to
meeting. He spoke to me very kindly, bade me drive the pigs from a lot
near by, and passed on towards the church. Now, this singular conduct
of Mr. Covey really made me begin to think that there was something in
the _root_ which Sandy had given me; and had it been on any other day
than Sunday, I could have attributed the conduct to no other cause than
the influence of that root; and as it was, I was half inclined to think
the _root_ to be something more than I at first had taken it to be. All
went well till Monday morning. On this morning, the virtue of the
_root_ was fully tested. Long before daylight, I was called to go and
rub, curry, and feed, the horses. I obeyed, and was glad to obey. But
whilst thus engaged, whilst in the act of throwing down some blades
from the loft, Mr. Covey entered the stable with a long rope; and just
as I was half out of the loft, he caught hold of my legs, and was about
tying me. As soon as I found what he was up to, I gave a sudden spring,
and as I did so, he holding to my legs, I was brought sprawling on the
stable floor. Mr. Covey seemed now to think he had me, and could do
what he pleased; but at this moment—from whence came the spirit I don’t
know—I resolved to fight; and, suiting my action to the resolution, I
seized Covey hard by the throat; and as I did so, I rose. He held on to
me, and I to him. My resistance was so entirely unexpected that Covey
seemed taken all aback. He trembled like a leaf. This gave me
assurance, and I held him uneasy, causing the blood to run where I
touched him with the ends of my fingers. Mr. Covey soon called out to
Hughes for help. Hughes came, and, while Covey held me, attempted to
tie my right hand. While he was in the act of doing so, I watched my
chance, and gave him a heavy kick close under the ribs. This kick
fairly sickened Hughes, so that he left me in the hands of Mr. Covey.
This kick had the effect of not only weakening Hughes, but Covey also.
When he saw Hughes bending over with pain, his courage quailed. He
asked me if I meant to persist in my resistance. I told him I did, come
what might; that he had used me like a brute for six months, and that I
was determined to be used so no longer. With that, he strove to drag me
to a stick that was lying just out of the stable door. He meant to
knock me down. But just as he was leaning over to get the stick, I
seized him with both hands by his collar, and brought him by a sudden
snatch to the ground. By this time, Bill came. Covey called upon him
for assistance. Bill wanted to know what he could do. Covey said, “Take
hold of him, take hold of him!” Bill said his master hired him out to
work, and not to help to whip me; so he left Covey and myself to fight
our own battle out. We were at it for nearly two hours. Covey at length
let me go, puffing and blowing at a great rate, saying that if I had
not resisted, he would not have whipped me half so much. The truth was,
that he had not whipped me at all. I considered him as getting entirely
the worst end of the bargain; for he had drawn no blood from me, but I
had from him. The whole six months afterwards, that I spent with Mr.
Covey, he never laid the weight of his finger upon me in anger. He
would occasionally say, he didn’t want to get hold of me again. “No,”
thought I, “you need not; for you will come off worse than you did
before.”

This battle with Mr. Covey was the turning-point in my career as a
slave. It rekindled the few expiring embers of freedom, and revived
within me a sense of my own manhood. It recalled the departed
self-confidence, and inspired me again with a determination to be free.
The gratification afforded by the triumph was a full compensation for
whatever else might follow, even death itself. He only can understand
the deep satisfaction which I experienced, who has himself repelled by
force the bloody arm of slavery. I felt as I never felt before. It was
a glorious resurrection, from the tomb of slavery, to the heaven of
freedom. My long-crushed spirit rose, cowardice departed, bold defiance
took its place; and I now resolved that, however long I might remain a
slave in form, the day had passed forever when I could be a slave in
fact. I did not hesitate to let it be known of me, that the white man
who expected to succeed in whipping, must also succeed in killing me.

From this time I was never again what might be called fairly whipped,
though I remained a slave four years afterwards. I had several fights,
but was never whipped.

It was for a long time a matter of surprise to me why Mr. Covey did not
immediately have me taken by the constable to the whipping-post, and
there regularly whipped for the crime of raising my hand against a
white man in defence of myself. And the only explanation I can now
think of does not entirely satisfy me; but such as it is, I will give
it. Mr. Covey enjoyed the most unbounded reputation for being a
first-rate overseer and negro-breaker. It was of considerable
importance to him. That reputation was at stake; and had he sent me—a
boy about sixteen years old—to the public whipping-post, his reputation
would have been lost; so, to save his reputation, he suffered me to go
unpunished.

My term of actual service to Mr. Edward Covey ended on Christmas day,
1833. The days between Christmas and New Year’s day are allowed as
holidays; and, accordingly, we were not required to perform any labor,
more than to feed and take care of the stock. This time we regarded as
our own, by the grace of our masters; and we therefore used or abused
it nearly as we pleased. Those of us who had families at a distance,
were generally allowed to spend the whole six days in their society.
This time, however, was spent in various ways. The staid, sober,
thinking and industrious ones of our number would employ themselves in
making corn-brooms, mats, horse-collars, and baskets; and another class
of us would spend the time in hunting opossums, hares, and coons. But
by far the larger part engaged in such sports and merriments as playing
ball, wrestling, running foot-races, fiddling, dancing, and drinking
whisky; and this latter mode of spending the time was by far the most
agreeable to the feelings of our masters. A slave who would work during
the holidays was considered by our masters as scarcely deserving them.
He was regarded as one who rejected the favor of his master. It was
deemed a disgrace not to get drunk at Christmas; and he was regarded as
lazy indeed, who had not provided himself with the necessary means,
during the year, to get whisky enough to last him through Christmas.

From what I know of the effect of these holidays upon the slave, I
believe them to be among the most effective means in the hands of the
slaveholder in keeping down the spirit of insurrection. Were the
slaveholders at once to abandon this practice, I have not the slightest
doubt it would lead to an immediate insurrection among the slaves.
These holidays serve as conductors, or safety-valves, to carry off the
rebellious spirit of enslaved humanity. But for these, the slave would
be forced up to the wildest desperation; and woe betide the
slaveholder, the day he ventures to remove or hinder the operation of
those conductors! I warn him that, in such an event, a spirit will go
forth in their midst, more to be dreaded than the most appalling
earthquake.

The holidays are part and parcel of the gross fraud, wrong, and
inhumanity of slavery. They are professedly a custom established by the
benevolence of the slaveholders; but I undertake to say, it is the
result of selfishness, and one of the grossest frauds committed upon
the down-trodden slave. They do not give the slaves this time because
they would not like to have their work during its continuance, but
because they know it would be unsafe to deprive them of it. This will
be seen by the fact, that the slaveholders like to have their slaves
spend those days just in such a manner as to make them as glad of their
ending as of their beginning. Their object seems to be, to disgust
their slaves with freedom, by plunging them into the lowest depths of
dissipation. For instance, the slaveholders not only like to see the
slave drink of his own accord, but will adopt various plans to make him
drunk. One plan is, to make bets on their slaves, as to who can drink
the most whisky without getting drunk; and in this way they succeed in
getting whole multitudes to drink to excess. Thus, when the slave asks
for virtuous freedom, the cunning slaveholder, knowing his ignorance,
cheats him with a dose of vicious dissipation, artfully labelled with
the name of liberty. The most of us used to drink it down, and the
result was just what might be supposed; many of us were led to think
that there was little to choose between liberty and slavery. We felt,
and very properly too, that we had almost as well be slaves to man as
to rum. So, when the holidays ended, we staggered up from the filth of
our wallowing, took a long breath, and marched to the field,—feeling,
upon the whole, rather glad to go, from what our master had deceived us
into a belief was freedom, back to the arms of slavery.

I have said that this mode of treatment is a part of the whole system
of fraud and inhumanity of slavery. It is so. The mode here adopted to
disgust the slave with freedom, by allowing him to see only the abuse
of it, is carried out in other things. For instance, a slave loves
molasses; he steals some. His master, in many cases, goes off to town,
and buys a large quantity; he returns, takes his whip, and commands the
slave to eat the molasses, until the poor fellow is made sick at the
very mention of it. The same mode is sometimes adopted to make the
slaves refrain from asking for more food than their regular allowance.
A slave runs through his allowance, and applies for more. His master is
enraged at him; but, not willing to send him off without food, gives
him more than is necessary, and compels him to eat it within a given
time. Then, if he complains that he cannot eat it, he is said to be
satisfied neither full nor fasting, and is whipped for being hard to
please! I have an abundance of such illustrations of the same
principle, drawn from my own observation, but think the cases I have
cited sufficient. The practice is a very common one.

On the first of January, 1834, I left Mr. Covey, and went to live with
Mr. William Freeland, who lived about three miles from St. Michael’s. I
soon found Mr. Freeland a very different man from Mr. Covey. Though not
rich, he was what would be called an educated southern gentleman. Mr.
Covey, as I have shown, was a well-trained negro-breaker and
slave-driver. The former (slaveholder though he was) seemed to possess
some regard for honor, some reverence for justice, and some respect for
humanity. The latter seemed totally insensible to all such sentiments.
Mr. Freeland had many of the faults peculiar to slaveholders, such as
being very passionate and fretful; but I must do him the justice to
say, that he was exceedingly free from those degrading vices to which
Mr. Covey was constantly addicted. The one was open and frank, and we
always knew where to find him. The other was a most artful deceiver,
and could be understood only by such as were skilful enough to detect
his cunningly-devised frauds. Another advantage I gained in my new
master was, he made no pretensions to, or profession of, religion; and
this, in my opinion, was truly a great advantage. I assert most
unhesitatingly, that the religion of the south is a mere covering for
the most horrid crimes,—a justifier of the most appalling barbarity,—a
sanctifier of the most hateful frauds,—and a dark shelter under, which
the darkest, foulest, grossest, and most infernal deeds of slaveholders
find the strongest protection. Were I to be again reduced to the chains
of slavery, next to that enslavement, I should regard being the slave
of a religious master the greatest calamity that could befall me. For
of all slaveholders with whom I have ever met, religious slaveholders
are the worst. I have ever found them the meanest and basest, the most
cruel and cowardly, of all others. It was my unhappy lot not only to
belong to a religious slaveholder, but to live in a community of such
religionists. Very near Mr. Freeland lived the Rev. Daniel Weeden, and
in the same neighborhood lived the Rev. Rigby Hopkins. These were
members and ministers in the Reformed Methodist Church. Mr. Weeden
owned, among others, a woman slave, whose name I have forgotten. This
woman’s back, for weeks, was kept literally raw, made so by the lash of
this merciless, _religious_ wretch. He used to hire hands. His maxim
was, Behave well or behave ill, it is the duty of a master occasionally
to whip a slave, to remind him of his master’s authority. Such was his
theory, and such his practice.

Mr. Hopkins was even worse than Mr. Weeden. His chief boast was his
ability to manage slaves. The peculiar feature of his government was
that of whipping slaves in advance of deserving it. He always managed
to have one or more of his slaves to whip every Monday morning. He did
this to alarm their fears, and strike terror into those who escaped.
His plan was to whip for the smallest offences, to prevent the
commission of large ones. Mr. Hopkins could always find some excuse for
whipping a slave. It would astonish one, unaccustomed to a slaveholding
life, to see with what wonderful ease a slaveholder can find things, of
which to make occasion to whip a slave. 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? It is said,
he has the devil in him, and it must be whipped out. Does he speak
loudly when spoken to by his master? Then he is getting high-minded,
and should be taken down a button-hole lower. Does he forget to pull
off his hat at the approach of a white person? Then he is wanting in
reverence, and should be whipped for it. Does he ever venture to
vindicate his conduct, when censured for it? Then he is guilty of
impudence,—one of the greatest crimes of which a slave can be guilty.
Does he ever venture to suggest a different mode of doing things from
that pointed out by his master? He is indeed presumptuous, and getting
above himself; and nothing less than a flogging will do for him. Does
he, while ploughing, break a plough,—or, while hoeing, break a hoe? It
is owing to his carelessness, and for it a slave must always be
whipped. Mr. Hopkins could always find something of this sort to
justify the use of the lash, and he seldom failed to embrace such
opportunities. There was not a man in the whole county, with whom the
slaves who had the getting their own home, would not prefer to live,
rather than with this Rev. Mr. Hopkins. And yet there was not a man any
where round, who made higher professions of religion, or was more
active in revivals,—more attentive to the class, love-feast, prayer and
preaching meetings, or more devotional in his family,—that prayed
earlier, later, louder, and longer,—than this same reverend
slave-driver, Rigby Hopkins.

But to return to Mr. Freeland, and to my experience while in his
employment. He, like Mr. Covey, gave us enough to eat; but, unlike Mr.
Covey, he also gave us sufficient time to take our meals. He worked us
hard, but always between sunrise and sunset. He required a good deal of
work to be done, but gave us good tools with which to work. His farm
was large, but he employed hands enough to work it, and with ease,
compared with many of his neighbors. My treatment, while in his
employment, was heavenly, compared with what I experienced at the hands
of Mr. Edward Covey.

Mr. Freeland was himself the owner of but two slaves. Their names were
Henry Harris and John Harris. The rest of his hands he hired. These
consisted of myself, Sandy Jenkins,[1] and Handy Caldwell.

 [1] 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.


Henry and John were quite intelligent, and in a very little while after
I went there, I succeeded in creating in them a strong desire to learn
how to read. This desire soon sprang up in the others also. They very
soon mustered up some old spelling-books, and nothing would do but that
I must keep a Sabbath school. I agreed to do so, and accordingly
devoted my Sundays to teaching these my loved fellow-slaves how to
read. Neither of them knew his letters when I went there. Some of the
slaves of the neighboring farms found what was going on, and also
availed themselves of this little opportunity to learn to read. It was
understood, among all who came, that there must be as little display
about it as possible. It was necessary to keep our religious masters at
St. Michael’s unacquainted with the fact, that, instead of spending the
Sabbath in wrestling, boxing, and drinking whisky, we were trying to
learn how to read the will of God; for they had much rather see us
engaged in those degrading sports, than to see us behaving like
intellectual, moral, and accountable beings. My blood boils as I think
of the bloody manner in which Messrs. Wright Fairbanks and Garrison
West, both class-leaders, in connection with many others, rushed in
upon us with sticks and stones, and broke up our virtuous little
Sabbath school, at St. Michael’s—all calling themselves Christians!
humble followers of the Lord Jesus Christ! But I am again digressing.

I held my Sabbath school at the house of a free colored man, whose name
I deem it imprudent to mention; for should it be known, it might
embarrass him greatly, though the crime of holding the school was
committed ten years ago. I had at one time over forty scholars, and
those of the right sort, ardently desiring to learn. They were of all
ages, though mostly men and women. I look back to those Sundays with an
amount of pleasure not to be expressed. They were great days to my
soul. The work of instructing my dear fellow-slaves was the sweetest
engagement with which I was ever blessed. We loved each other, and to
leave them at the close of the Sabbath was a severe cross indeed. When
I think that these precious souls are to-day shut up in the
prison-house of slavery, my feelings overcome me, and I am almost ready
to ask, “Does a righteous God govern the universe? and for what does he
hold the thunders in his right hand, if not to smite the oppressor, and
deliver the spoiled out of the hand of the spoiler?” These dear souls
came not to Sabbath school because it was popular to do so, nor did I
teach them because it was reputable to be thus engaged. Every moment
they spent in that school, they were liable to be taken up, and given
thirty-nine lashes. They came because they wished to learn. Their minds
had been starved by their cruel masters. They had been shut up in
mental darkness. I taught them, because it was the delight of my soul
to be doing something that looked like bettering the condition of my
race. I kept up my school nearly the whole year I lived with Mr.
Freeland; and, beside my Sabbath school, I devoted three evenings in
the week, during the winter, to teaching the slaves at home. And I have
the happiness to know, that several of those who came to Sabbath school
learned how to read; and that one, at least, is now free through my
agency.

The year passed off smoothly. It seemed only about half as long as the
year which preceded it. I went through it without receiving a single
blow. I will give Mr. Freeland the credit of being the best master I
ever had, _till I became my own master._ For the ease with which I
passed the year, I was, however, somewhat indebted to the society of my
fellow-slaves. They were noble souls; they not only possessed loving
hearts, but brave ones. We were linked and interlinked with each other.
I loved them with a love stronger than any thing I have experienced
since. It is sometimes said that we slaves do not love and confide in
each other. In answer to this assertion, I can say, I never loved any
or confided in any people more than my fellow-slaves, and especially
those with whom I lived at Mr. Freeland’s. I believe we would have died
for each other. We never undertook to do any thing, of any importance,
without a mutual consultation. We never moved separately. We were one;
and as much so by our tempers and dispositions, as by the mutual
hardships to which we were necessarily subjected by our condition as
slaves.

At the close of the year 1834, Mr. Freeland again hired me of my
master, for the year 1835. But, by this time, I began to want to live
_upon free land_ as well as _with Freeland;_ and I was no longer
content, therefore, to live with him or any other slaveholder. I began,
with the commencement of the year, to prepare myself for a final
struggle, which should decide my fate one way or the other. My tendency
was upward. I was fast approaching manhood, and year after year had
passed, and I was still a slave. These thoughts roused me—I must do
something. I therefore resolved that 1835 should not pass without
witnessing an attempt, on my part, to secure my liberty. But I was not
willing to cherish this determination alone. My fellow-slaves were dear
to me. I was anxious to have them participate with me in this, my
life-giving determination. I therefore, though with great prudence,
commenced early to ascertain their views and feelings in regard to
their condition, and to imbue their minds with thoughts of freedom. I
bent myself to devising ways and means for our escape, and meanwhile
strove, on all fitting occasions, to impress them with the gross fraud
and inhumanity of slavery. I went first to Henry, next to John, then to
the others. I found, in them all, warm hearts and noble spirits. They
were ready to hear, and ready to act when a feasible plan should be
proposed. This was what I wanted. I talked to them of our want of
manhood, if we submitted to our enslavement without at least one noble
effort to be free. We met often, and consulted frequently, and told our
hopes and fears, recounted the difficulties, real and imagined, which
we should be called on to meet. At times we were almost disposed to
give up, and try to content ourselves with our wretched lot; at others,
we were firm and unbending in our determination to go. Whenever we
suggested any plan, there was shrinking—the odds were fearful. Our path
was beset with the greatest obstacles; and if we succeeded in gaining
the end of it, our right to be free was yet questionable—we were yet
liable to be returned to bondage. We could see no spot, this side of
the ocean, where we could be free. We knew nothing about Canada. Our
knowledge of the north did not extend farther than New York; and to go
there, and be forever harassed with the frightful liability of being
returned to slavery—with the certainty of being treated tenfold worse
than before—the thought was truly a horrible one, and one which it was
not easy to overcome. The case sometimes stood thus: At every gate
through which we were to pass, we saw a watchman—at every ferry a
guard—on every bridge a sentinel—and in every wood a patrol. We were
hemmed in upon every side. Here were the difficulties, real or
imagined—the good to be sought, and the evil to be shunned. On the one
hand, there stood slavery, a stern reality, glaring frightfully upon
us,—its robes already crimsoned with the blood of millions, and even
now feasting itself greedily upon our own flesh. On the other hand,
away back in the dim distance, 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 come and share its
hospitality. This in itself was sometimes enough to stagger us; but
when we permitted ourselves to survey the road, we were frequently
appalled. Upon either side we saw grim death, assuming the most horrid
shapes. Now it was starvation, causing us to eat our own flesh;—now we
were contending with the waves, and were drowned;—now we were
overtaken, and torn to pieces by the fangs of the terrible bloodhound.
We were stung by scorpions, chased by wild beasts, bitten by snakes,
and finally, after having nearly reached the desired spot,—after
swimming rivers, encountering wild beasts, sleeping in the woods,
suffering hunger and nakedness,—we were overtaken by our pursuers, and,
in our resistance, we were shot dead upon the spot! I say, this picture
sometimes appalled us, and made us

“rather bear those ills we had,
Than fly to others, that we knew not of.”


In coming to a fixed determination to run away, we did more than
Patrick Henry, when he resolved upon liberty or death. With us it was a
doubtful liberty at most, and almost certain death if we failed. For my
part, I should prefer death to hopeless bondage.

Sandy, one of our number, gave up the notion, but still encouraged us.
Our company then consisted of Henry Harris, John Harris, Henry Bailey,
Charles Roberts, and myself. Henry Bailey was my uncle, and belonged to
my master. Charles married my aunt: he belonged to my master’s
father-in-law, Mr. William Hamilton.

The plan we finally concluded upon was, to get a large canoe belonging
to Mr. Hamilton, and upon the Saturday night previous to Easter
holidays, paddle directly up the Chesapeake Bay. On our arrival at the
head of the bay, a distance of seventy or eighty miles from where we
lived, it was our purpose to turn our canoe adrift, and follow the
guidance of the north star till we got beyond the limits of Maryland.
Our reason for taking the water route was, that we were less liable to
be suspected as runaways; we hoped to be regarded as fishermen;
whereas, if we should take the land route, we should be subjected to
interruptions of almost every kind. Any one having a white face, and
being so disposed, could stop us, and subject us to examination.

The week before our intended start, I wrote several protections, one
for each of us. As well as I can remember, they were in the following
words, to wit:—

“This is to certify that I, the undersigned, have given the bearer, my
servant, full liberty to go to Baltimore, and spend the Easter
holidays. Written with mine own hand, &c., 1835.


“WILLIAM HAMILTON,
“Near St. Michael’s, in Talbot county, Maryland.”


We were not going to Baltimore; but, in going up the bay, we went
toward Baltimore, and these protections were only intended to protect
us while on the bay.

As the time drew near for our departure, our anxiety became more and
more intense. It was truly a matter of life and death with us. The
strength of our determination was about to be fully tested. At this
time, I was very active in explaining every difficulty, removing every
doubt, dispelling every fear, and inspiring all with the firmness
indispensable to success in our undertaking; assuring them that half
was gained the instant we made the move; we had talked long enough; we
were now ready to move; if not now, we never should be; and if we did
not intend to move now, we had as well fold our arms, sit down, and
acknowledge ourselves fit only to be slaves. This, none of us were
prepared to acknowledge. Every man stood firm; and at our last meeting,
we pledged ourselves afresh, in the most solemn manner, that, at the
time appointed, we would certainly start in pursuit of freedom. This
was in the middle of the week, at the end of which we were to be off.
We went, as usual, to our several fields of labor, but with bosoms
highly agitated with thoughts of our truly hazardous undertaking. We
tried to conceal our feelings as much as possible; and I think we
succeeded very well.

After a painful waiting, the Saturday morning, whose night was to
witness our departure, came. I hailed it with joy, bring what of
sadness it might. Friday night was a sleepless one for me. I probably
felt more anxious than the rest, because I was, by common consent, at
the head of the whole affair. The responsibility of success or failure
lay heavily upon me. The glory of the one, and the confusion of the
other, were alike mine. The first two hours of that morning were such
as I never experienced before, and hope never to again. Early in the
morning, we went, as usual, to the field. We were spreading manure; and
all at once, while thus engaged, I was overwhelmed with an
indescribable feeling, in the fulness of which I turned to Sandy, who
was near by, and said, “We are betrayed!” “Well,” said he, “that
thought has this moment struck me.” We said no more. I was never more
certain of any thing.

The horn was blown as usual, and we went up from the field to the house
for breakfast. I went for the form, more than for want of any thing to
eat that morning. Just as I got to the house, in looking out at the
lane gate, I saw four white men, with two colored men. The white men
were on horseback, and the colored ones were walking behind, as if
tied. I watched them a few moments till they got up to our lane gate.
Here they halted, and tied the colored men to the gate-post. I was not
yet certain as to what the matter was. In a few moments, in rode Mr.
Hamilton, with a speed betokening great excitement. He came to the
door, and inquired if Master William was in. He was told he was at the
barn. Mr. Hamilton, without dismounting, rode up to the barn with
extraordinary speed. In a few moments, he and Mr. Freeland returned to
the house. By this time, the three constables rode up, and in great
haste dismounted, tied their horses, and met Master William and Mr.
Hamilton returning from the barn; and after talking awhile, they all
walked up to the kitchen door. There was no one in the kitchen but
myself and John. Henry and Sandy were up at the barn. Mr. Freeland put
his head in at the door, and called me by name, saying, there were some
gentlemen at the door who wished to see me. I stepped to the door, and
inquired what they wanted. They at once seized me, and, without giving
me any satisfaction, tied me—lashing my hands closely together. I
insisted upon knowing what the matter was. They at length said, that
they had learned I had been in a “scrape,” and that I was to be
examined before my master; and if their information proved false, I
should not be hurt.

In a few moments, they succeeded in tying John. They then turned to
Henry, who had by this time returned, and commanded him to cross his
hands. “I won’t!” said Henry, in a firm tone, indicating his readiness
to meet the consequences of his refusal. “Won’t you?” said Tom Graham,
the constable. “No, I won’t!” said Henry, in a still stronger tone.
With this, two of the constables pulled out their shining pistols, and
swore, by their Creator, that they would make him cross his hands or
kill him. Each cocked his pistol, and, with fingers on the trigger,
walked up to Henry, saying, at the same time, if he did not cross his
hands, they would blow his damned heart out. “Shoot me, shoot me!” said
Henry; “you can’t kill me but once. Shoot, shoot,—and be damned! _I
won’t be tied!_” This he said in a tone of loud defiance; and at the
same time, with a motion as quick as lightning, he with one single
stroke dashed the pistols from the hand of each constable. As he did
this, all hands fell upon him, and, after beating him some time, they
finally overpowered him, and got him tied.

During the scuffle, I managed, I know not how, to get my pass out, and,
without being discovered, put it into the fire. We were all now tied;
and just as we were to leave for Easton jail, Betsy Freeland, mother of
William Freeland, came to the door with her hands full of biscuits, and
divided them between Henry and John. She then delivered herself of a
speech, to the following effect:—addressing herself to me, she said,
“_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 mulatto
devil! Henry nor John would never have thought of such a thing.” I made
no reply, and was immediately hurried off towards St. Michael’s. Just a
moment previous to the scuffle with Henry, Mr. Hamilton suggested the
propriety of making a search for the protections which he had
understood Frederick had written for himself and the rest. But, just at
the moment he was about carrying his proposal into effect, his aid was
needed in helping to tie Henry; and the excitement attending the
scuffle caused them either to forget, or to deem it unsafe, under the
circumstances, to search. So we were not yet convicted of the intention
to run away.

When we got about half way to St. Michael’s, while the constables
having us in charge were looking ahead, Henry inquired of me what he
should do with his pass. I told him to eat it with his biscuit, and own
nothing; and we passed the word around, “_Own nothing;_” and “_Own
nothing!_” said we all. Our confidence in each other was unshaken. We
were resolved to succeed or fail together, after the calamity had
befallen us as much as before. We were now prepared for any thing. We
were to be dragged that morning fifteen miles behind horses, and then
to be placed in the Easton jail. When we reached St. Michael’s, we
underwent a sort of examination. We all denied that we ever intended to
run away. We did this more to bring out the evidence against us, than
from any hope of getting clear of being sold; for, as I have said, we
were ready for that. The fact was, we cared but little where we went,
so we went together. Our greatest concern was about separation. We
dreaded that more than any thing this side of death. We found the
evidence against us to be the testimony of one person; our master would
not tell who it was; but we came to a unanimous decision among
ourselves as to who their informant was. We were sent off to the jail
at Easton. When we got there, we were delivered up to the sheriff, Mr.
Joseph Graham, and by him placed in jail. Henry, John, and myself, were
placed in one room together—Charles, and Henry Bailey, in another.
Their object in separating us was to hinder concert.

We had been in jail scarcely twenty minutes, when a swarm of slave
traders, and agents for slave traders, flocked into jail to look at us,
and to ascertain if we were for sale. Such a set of beings I never saw
before! I felt myself surrounded by so many fiends from perdition. A
band of pirates never looked more like their father, the devil. They
laughed and grinned over us, saying, “Ah, my boys! we have got you,
haven’t we?” And after taunting us in various ways, they one by one
went into an examination of us, with intent to ascertain our value.
They would impudently ask us if we would not like to have them for our
masters. We would make them no answer, and leave them to find out as
best they could. Then they would curse and swear at us, telling us that
they could take the devil out of us in a very little while, if we were
only in their hands.

While in jail, we found ourselves in much more comfortable quarters
than we expected when we went there. We did not get much to eat, nor
that which was very good; but we had a good clean room, from the
windows of which we could see what was going on in the street, which
was very much better than though we had been placed in one of the dark,
damp cells. Upon the whole, we got along very well, so far as the jail
and its keeper were concerned. Immediately after the holidays were
over, contrary to all our expectations, Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Freeland
came up to Easton, and took Charles, the two Henrys, and John, out of
jail, and carried them home, leaving me alone. I regarded this
separation as a final one. It caused me more pain than any thing else
in the whole transaction. I was ready for any thing rather than
separation. I supposed that they had consulted together, and had
decided that, as I was the whole cause of the intention of the others
to run away, it was hard to make the innocent suffer with the guilty;
and that they had, therefore, concluded to take the others home, and
sell me, as a warning to the others that remained. It is due to the
noble Henry to say, he seemed almost as reluctant at leaving the prison
as at leaving home to come to the prison. But we knew we should, in all
probability, be separated, if we were sold; and since he was in their
hands, he concluded to go peaceably home.

I was now left to my fate. I was all alone, and within the walls of a
stone prison. But a few days before, and I was full of hope. I expected
to have been safe in a land of freedom; but now I was covered with
gloom, sunk down to the utmost despair. I thought the possibility of
freedom was gone. I was kept in this way about one week, at the end of
which, Captain Auld, my master, to my surprise and utter astonishment,
came up, and took me out, with the intention of sending me, with a
gentleman of his acquaintance, into Alabama. But, from some cause or
other, he did not send me to Alabama, but concluded to send me back to
Baltimore, to live again with his brother Hugh, and to learn a trade.

Thus, after an absence of three years and one month, I was once more
permitted to return to my old home at Baltimore. My master sent me
away, because there existed against me a very great prejudice in the
community, and he feared I might be killed.

In a few weeks after I went to Baltimore, Master Hugh hired me to Mr.
William Gardner, an extensive ship-builder, on Fell’s Point. I was put
there to learn how to calk. It, however, proved a very unfavorable
place for the accomplishment of this object. Mr. Gardner was engaged
that spring in building two large man-of-war brigs, professedly for the
Mexican government. The vessels were to be launched in the July of that
year, and in failure thereof, Mr. Gardner was to lose a considerable
sum; so that when I entered, all was hurry. There was no time to learn
any thing. Every man had to do that which he knew how to do. In
entering the shipyard, my orders from Mr. Gardner 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
crowbar.”—“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, darky, 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! Damn you, if you move,
I’ll knock your brains out!”

This was my school for eight months; and I might have remained there
longer, but for a most horrid fight I had with four of the white
apprentices, in which my left eye was nearly knocked out, and I was
horribly mangled in other respects. The facts in the case were these:
Until a very little while after I went there, white and black
ship-carpenters worked side by side, and no one seemed to see any
impropriety in it. All hands seemed to be very well satisfied. Many of
the black carpenters were freemen. Things seemed to be going on very
well. All at once, the white carpenters knocked off, and said they
would not work with free colored workmen. Their reason for this, as
alleged, was, that if free colored carpenters were encouraged, they
would soon take the trade into their own hands, and poor white men
would be thrown out of employment. They therefore felt called upon at
once to put a stop to it. And, taking advantage of Mr. Gardner’s
necessities, they broke off, swearing they would work no longer, unless
he would discharge his black carpenters. Now, though this did not
extend to me in form, it did reach me in fact. My fellow-apprentices
very soon began to feel it degrading to them to work with me. They
began to put on airs, and talk about the “niggers” taking the country,
saying we all ought to be killed; and, being encouraged by the
journeymen, they commenced making my condition as hard as they could,
by hectoring me around, and sometimes striking me. I, of course, kept
the vow I made after the fight with Mr. Covey, and struck back again,
regardless of consequences; and while I kept them from combining, I
succeeded very well; for I could whip the whole of them, taking them
separately. They, however, at length combined, and came upon me, armed
with sticks, stones, and heavy handspikes. One came in front with a
half brick. There was one at each side of me, and one behind me. While
I was attending to those in front, and on either side, the one behind
ran up with the handspike, and struck me a heavy blow upon the head. It
stunned me. I fell, and with this they all ran upon me, and fell to
beating me with their fists. I let them lay on for a while, gathering
strength. In an instant, I gave a sudden surge, and rose to my hands
and knees. Just as I did that, one of their number gave me, with his
heavy boot, a powerful kick in the left eye. My eyeball seemed to have
burst. When they saw my eye closed, and badly swollen, they left me.
With this I seized the handspike, and for a time pursued them. But here
the carpenters interfered, and I thought I might as well give it up. It
was impossible to stand my hand against so many. All this took place in
sight of not less than fifty white ship-carpenters, and not one
interposed a friendly word; but some cried, “Kill the damned nigger!
Kill him! kill him! He struck a white person.” I found my only chance
for life was in flight. I succeeded in getting away without an
additional blow, and barely so; for to strike a white man is death by
Lynch law,—and that was the law in Mr. Gardner’s ship-yard; nor is
there much of any other out of Mr. Gardner’s ship-yard.

I went directly home, and told the story of my wrongs to Master Hugh;
and I am happy to say of him, irreligious as he was, his conduct was
heavenly, compared with that of his brother Thomas under similar
circumstances. He listened attentively to my narration of the
circumstances leading to the savage outrage, and gave many proofs of
his strong indignation at it. The heart of my once overkind mistress
was again melted into pity. My puffed-out eye and blood-covered face
moved her to tears. She took a chair by me, washed the blood from my
face, and, with a mother’s tenderness, bound up my head, covering the
wounded eye with a lean piece of fresh beef. It was almost compensation
for my suffering to witness, once more, a manifestation of kindness
from this, my once affectionate old mistress. Master Hugh was very much
enraged. He gave expression to his feelings by pouring out curses upon
the heads of those who did the deed. As soon as I got a little the
better of my bruises, he took me with him to Esquire Watson’s, on Bond
Street, to see what could be done about the matter. Mr. Watson inquired
who saw the assault committed. Master Hugh told him it was done in Mr.
Gardner’s ship-yard at midday, where there were a large company of men
at work. “As to that,” he said, “the deed was done, and there was no
question as to who did it.” His answer was, he could do nothing in the
case, unless some white man would come forward and testify. He could
issue no warrant on my word. If I had been killed in the presence of a
thousand colored people, their testimony combined would have been
insufficient to have arrested one of the murderers. Master Hugh, for
once, was compelled to say this state of things was too bad. Of course,
it was impossible to get any white man to volunteer his testimony in my
behalf, and against the white young men. Even those who may have
sympathized with me were not prepared to do this. It required a degree
of courage unknown to them to do so; for just at that time, the
slightest manifestation of humanity toward a colored person was
denounced as abolitionism, and that name subjected its bearer to
frightful liabilities. The watchwords of the bloody-minded in that
region, and in those days, were, “Damn the abolitionists!” and “Damn
the niggers!” There was nothing done, and probably nothing would have
been done if I had been killed. Such was, and such remains, the state
of things in the Christian city of Baltimore.

Master Hugh, finding he could get no redress, refused to let me go back
again to Mr. Gardner. He kept me himself, and his wife dressed my wound
till I was again restored to health. He then took me into the ship-yard
of which he was foreman, in the employment of Mr. Walter Price. There I
was immediately set to calking, and very soon learned the art of using
my mallet and irons. In the course of one year from the time I left Mr.
Gardner’s, I was able to command the highest wages given to the most
experienced calkers. I was now of some importance to my master. I was
bringing him from six to seven dollars per week. I sometimes brought
him nine dollars per week: my wages were a dollar and a half a day.
After learning how to calk, I sought my own employment, made my own
contracts, and collected the money which I earned. My pathway became
much more smooth than before; my condition was now much more
comfortable. When I could get no calking to do, I did nothing. During
these leisure times, those old notions about freedom would steal over
me again. When in Mr. Gardner’s employment, I was kept in such a
perpetual whirl of excitement, I could think of nothing, scarcely, but
my life; and in thinking of my life, I almost forgot my liberty. I have
observed this in my experience of slavery,—that whenever my condition
was improved, instead of its increasing my contentment, it only
increased my desire to be free, and set me to thinking of plans to gain
my freedom. I have found that, to make a contented slave, it is
necessary to make a thoughtless one. It is necessary to darken his
moral and mental vision, and, as far as possible, to annihilate the
power of reason. He must be able to detect no inconsistencies in
slavery; he must be made to feel that slavery is right; and he can be
brought to that only when he ceases to be a man.

I was now getting, as I have said, one dollar and fifty cents per day.
I contracted for it; I earned it; it was paid to me; it was rightfully
my own; yet, upon each returning Saturday night, I was compelled to
deliver every cent of that money to Master Hugh. And why? Not because
he earned it,—not because he had any hand in earning it,—not because I
owed it to him,—nor because he possessed the slightest shadow of a
right to it; but solely because he had the power to compel me to give
it up. The right of the grim-visaged pirate upon the high seas is
exactly the same.




 CHAPTER XI


I now come to that part of my life during which I planned, and finally
succeeded in making, my escape from slavery. But before narrating any
of the peculiar circumstances, I deem it proper to make known my
intention not to state all the facts connected with the transaction. My
reasons for pursuing this course may be understood from the following:
First, were I to give a minute statement of all the facts, it is not
only possible, but quite probable, that others would thereby be
involved in the most embarrassing difficulties. Secondly, such a
statement would most undoubtedly induce greater vigilance on the part
of slaveholders than has existed heretofore among them; which would, of
course, be the means of guarding a door whereby some dear brother
bondman might escape his galling chains. I deeply regret the necessity
that impels me to suppress any thing of importance connected with my
experience in slavery. It would afford me great pleasure indeed, as
well as materially add to the interest of my narrative, were I at
liberty to gratify a curiosity, which I know exists in the minds of
many, by an accurate statement of all the facts pertaining to my most
fortunate escape. But I must deprive myself of this pleasure, and the
curious of the gratification which such a statement would afford. I
would allow myself to suffer under the greatest imputations which
evil-minded men might suggest, rather than exculpate myself, and
thereby run the hazard of closing the slightest avenue by which a
brother slave might clear himself of the chains and fetters of slavery.

I have never approved of the very public manner in which some of our
western friends have conducted what they call the _underground
railroad,_ but which I think, by their open declarations, has been made
most emphatically the _upperground railroad._ I honor those good men
and women for their noble daring, and applaud them for willingly
subjecting themselves to bloody persecution, by openly avowing their
participation in the escape of slaves. I, however, can see very little
good resulting from such a course, either to themselves or the slaves
escaping; while, upon the other hand, I see and feel assured that those
open declarations are a positive evil to the slaves remaining, who are
seeking to escape. They do nothing towards enlightening the slave,
whilst they do much towards enlightening the master. They stimulate him
to greater watchfulness, and enhance his power to capture his slave. We
owe something to the slave south of the line as well as to those north
of it; and in aiding the latter on their way to freedom, we should be
careful to do nothing which would be likely to hinder the former from
escaping from slavery. I would keep the merciless slaveholder
profoundly ignorant of the means of flight adopted by the slave. I
would leave him to imagine himself surrounded by myriads of invisible
tormentors, ever ready to snatch from his infernal grasp his trembling
prey. Let him be left to feel his way in the dark; let darkness
commensurate with his crime hover over him; and let him feel that at
every step he takes, in pursuit of the flying bondman, he is running
the frightful risk of having his hot brains dashed out by an invisible
agency. Let us render the tyrant no aid; let us not hold the light by
which he can trace the footprints of our flying brother. 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.

In the early part of the year 1838, I became quite restless. I could
see no reason why I should, at the end of each week, pour the reward of
my toil into the purse of my master. When I carried to him my weekly
wages, he would, after counting the money, look me in the face with a
robber-like fierceness, and ask, “Is this all?” He was satisfied with
nothing less than the last cent. He would, however, when I made him six
dollars, sometimes give me six cents, to encourage me. It had the
opposite effect. I regarded it as a sort of admission of my right to
the whole. The fact that he gave me any part of my wages was proof, to
my mind, that he believed me entitled to the whole of them. I always
felt worse for having received any thing; for I feared that the giving
me a few cents would ease his conscience, and make him feel himself to
be a pretty honorable sort of robber. My discontent grew upon me. I was
ever on the look-out for means of escape; and, finding no direct means,
I determined to try to hire my time, with a view of getting money with
which to make my escape. In the spring of 1838, when Master Thomas came
to Baltimore to purchase his spring goods, I got an opportunity, and
applied to him to allow me to hire my time. He unhesitatingly refused
my request, and told me this was another stratagem by which to escape.
He told me I could go nowhere but that he could get me; and that, in
the event of my running away, he should spare no pains in his efforts
to catch me. He exhorted me to content myself, and be obedient. He told
me, if I would be happy, I must lay out no plans for the future. He
said, if I behaved myself properly, he would take care of me. Indeed,
he advised me to complete thoughtlessness of the future, and taught me
to depend solely upon him for happiness. He seemed to see fully the
pressing necessity of setting aside my intellectual nature, in order to
contentment in slavery. But in spite of him, and even in spite of
myself, I continued to think, and to think about the injustice of my
enslavement, and the means of escape.

About two months after this, I applied to Master Hugh for the privilege
of hiring my time. He was not acquainted with the fact that I had
applied to Master Thomas, and had been refused. He too, at first,
seemed disposed to refuse; but, after some reflection, he granted me
the privilege, and proposed the following terms: I was to be allowed
all my time, make all contracts with those for whom I worked, and find
my own employment; and, in return for this liberty, I was to pay him
three dollars at the end of each week; find myself in calking tools,
and in board and clothing. My board was two dollars and a half per
week. This, with the wear and tear of clothing and calking tools, made
my regular expenses about six dollars per week. This amount I was
compelled to make up, or relinquish the privilege of hiring my time.
Rain or shine, work or no work, at the end of each week the money must
be forthcoming, or I must give up my privilege. This arrangement, it
will be perceived, was decidedly in my master’s favor. It relieved him
of all need of looking after me. His money was sure. He received all
the benefits of slaveholding without its evils; while I endured all the
evils of a slave, and suffered all the care and anxiety of a freeman. I
found it a hard bargain. But, hard as it was, I thought it better than
the old mode of getting along. It was a step towards freedom to be
allowed to bear the responsibilities of a freeman, and I was determined
to hold on upon it. I bent myself to the work of making money. I was
ready to work at night as well as day, and by the most untiring
perseverance and industry, I made enough to meet my expenses, and lay
up a little money every week. I went on thus from May till August.
Master Hugh then refused to allow me to hire my time longer. The ground
for his refusal was a failure on my part, one Saturday night, to pay
him for my week’s time. This failure was occasioned by my attending a
camp meeting about ten miles from Baltimore. During the week, I had
entered into an engagement with a number of young friends to start from
Baltimore to the camp ground early Saturday evening; and being detained
by my employer, I was unable to get down to Master Hugh’s without
disappointing the company. I knew that Master Hugh was in no special
need of the money that night. I therefore decided to go to camp
meeting, and upon my return pay him the three dollars. I staid at the
camp meeting one day longer than I intended when I left. But as soon as
I returned, I called upon him to pay him what he considered his due. I
found him very angry; he could scarce restrain his wrath. He said he
had a great mind to give me a severe whipping. He wished to know how I
dared go out of the city without asking his permission. I told him I
hired my time and while I paid him the price which he asked for it, I
did not know that I was bound to ask him when and where I should go.
This reply troubled him; and, after reflecting a few moments, he turned
to me, and said I should hire my time no longer; that the next thing he
should know of, I would be running away. Upon the same plea, he told me
to bring my tools and clothing home forthwith. I did so; but instead of
seeking work, as I had been accustomed to do previously to hiring my
time, I spent the whole week without the performance of a single stroke
of work. I did this in retaliation. Saturday night, he called upon me
as usual for my week’s wages. I told him I had no wages; I had done no
work that week. Here we were upon the point of coming to blows. He
raved, and swore his determination to get hold of me. I did not allow
myself a single word; but was resolved, if he laid the weight of his
hand upon me, it should be blow for blow. He did not strike me, but
told me that he would find me in constant employment in future. I
thought the matter over during the next day, Sunday, and finally
resolved upon the third day of September, as the day upon which I would
make a second attempt to secure my freedom. I now had three weeks
during which to prepare for my journey. Early on Monday morning, before
Master Hugh had time to make any engagement for me, I went out and got
employment of Mr. Butler, at his ship-yard near the drawbridge, upon
what is called the City Block, thus making it unnecessary for him to
seek employment for me. At the end of the week, I brought him between
eight and nine dollars. He seemed very well pleased, and asked why I
did not do the same the week before. He little knew what my plans were.
My object in working steadily was to remove any suspicion he might
entertain of my intent to run away; and in this I succeeded admirably.
I suppose he thought I was never better satisfied with my condition
than at the very time during which I was planning my escape. The second
week passed, and again I carried him my full wages; and so well pleased
was he, that he gave me twenty-five cents, (quite a large sum for a
slaveholder to give a slave,) and bade me to make a good use of it. I
told him I would.

Things went on without very smoothly indeed, but within there was
trouble. It is impossible for me to describe my feelings as the time of
my contemplated start drew near. I had a number of warmhearted friends
in Baltimore,—friends that I loved almost as I did my life,—and the
thought of being separated from them forever was painful beyond
expression. It is my opinion that thousands would escape from slavery,
who now remain, but for the strong cords of affection that bind them to
their friends. The thought of leaving my friends was decidedly the most
painful thought with which I had to contend. The love of them was my
tender point, and shook my decision more than all things else. Besides
the pain of separation, the dread and apprehension of a failure
exceeded what I had experienced at my first attempt. The appalling
defeat I then sustained returned to torment me. I felt assured that, if
I failed in this attempt, my case would be a hopeless one—it would seal
my fate as a slave forever. I could not hope to get off with any thing
less than the severest punishment, and being placed beyond the means of
escape. It required no very vivid imagination to depict the most
frightful scenes through which I should have to pass, in case I failed.
The wretchedness of slavery, and the blessedness of freedom, were
perpetually before me. It was life and death with me. But I remained
firm, and, according to my resolution, on the third day of September,
1838, I left my chains, and succeeded in reaching New York without the
slightest interruption of any kind. How I did so,—what means I
adopted,—what direction I travelled, and by what mode of conveyance,—I
must leave unexplained, for the reasons before mentioned.

I have been frequently asked how I felt when I found myself in a free
State. I have never been able to answer the question with any
satisfaction to myself. It was a moment of the highest excitement I
ever experienced. I suppose I felt as one may imagine the unarmed
mariner to feel when he is rescued by a friendly man-of-war from the
pursuit of a pirate. In writing to a dear friend, immediately after my
arrival at New York, I said I felt like one who had escaped a den of
hungry lions. This state of mind, however, very soon subsided; and I
was again seized with a feeling of great insecurity and loneliness. I
was yet liable to be taken back, and subjected to all the tortures of
slavery. This in itself was enough to damp the ardor of my enthusiasm.
But the loneliness overcame me. There I was in the midst of thousands,
and yet a perfect stranger; without home and without friends, in the
midst of thousands of my own brethren—children of a common Father, and
yet I dared not to unfold to any one of them my sad condition. I was
afraid to speak to any one for fear of speaking to the wrong one, and
thereby falling into the hands of money-loving kidnappers, whose
business it was to lie in wait for the panting fugitive, as the
ferocious beasts of the forest lie in wait for their prey. The motto
which I adopted when I started from slavery was this—“Trust no man!” I
saw in every white man an enemy, and in almost every colored man cause
for distrust. It was a most painful situation; and, to understand it,
one must needs experience it, or imagine himself in similar
circumstances. Let him be a fugitive slave in a strange land—a land
given up to be the hunting-ground for slaveholders—whose inhabitants
are legalized kidnappers—where he is every moment subjected to the
terrible liability of being seized upon by his fellowmen, as the
hideous crocodile seizes upon his prey!—I say, let him place himself in
my situation—without home or friends—without money or credit—wanting
shelter, and no one to give it—wanting bread, and no money to buy
it,—and at the same time let him feel that he is pursued by merciless
men-hunters, and in total darkness as to what to do, where to go, or
where to stay,—perfectly helpless both as to the means of defence and
means of escape,—in the midst of plenty, yet suffering the terrible
gnawings of hunger,—in the midst of houses, yet having no home,—among
fellow-men, yet feeling as if in the midst of wild beasts, whose
greediness to swallow up the trembling and half-famished fugitive is
only equalled by that with which the monsters of the deep swallow up
the helpless fish upon which they subsist,—I say, let him be placed in
this most trying situation,—the situation in which I was placed,—then,
and not till then, will he fully appreciate the hardships of, and know
how to sympathize with, the toil-worn and whip-scarred fugitive slave.

Thank Heaven, I remained but a short time in this distressed situation.
I was relieved from it by the humane hand of _Mr. David Ruggles_, whose
vigilance, kindness, and perseverance, I shall never forget. I am glad
of an opportunity to express, as far as words can, the love and
gratitude I bear him. Mr. Ruggles is now afflicted with blindness, and
is himself in need of the same kind offices which he was once so
forward in the performance of toward others. I had been in New York but
a few days, when Mr. Ruggles sought me out, and very kindly took me to
his boarding-house at the corner of Church and Lespenard Streets. Mr.
Ruggles was then very deeply engaged in the memorable _Darg_ case, as
well as attending to a number of other fugitive slaves, devising ways
and means for their successful escape; and, though watched and hemmed
in on almost every side, he seemed to be more than a match for his
enemies.

Very soon after I went to Mr. Ruggles, he wished to know of me where I
wanted to go; as he deemed it unsafe for me to remain in New York. I
told him I was a calker, and should like to go where I could get work.
I thought of going to Canada; but he decided against it, and in favor
of my going to New Bedford, thinking I should be able to get work there
at my trade. At this time, Anna,[2] my intended wife, came on; for I
wrote to her immediately after my arrival at New York, (notwithstanding
my homeless, houseless, and helpless condition,) informing her of my
successful flight, and wishing her to come on forthwith. In a few days
after her arrival, Mr. Ruggles called in the Rev. J. W. C. Pennington,
who, in the presence of Mr. Ruggles, Mrs. Michaels, and two or three
others, performed the marriage ceremony, and gave us a certificate, of
which the following is an exact copy:—

“This may certify, that I joined together in holy matrimony Frederick
Johnson[3] and Anna Murray, as man and wife, in the presence of Mr.
David Ruggles and Mrs. Michaels.


“JAMES W. C. PENNINGTON
“_New York, Sept_. 15, 1838”


 [2] She was free.


 [3] I had changed my name from Frederick _Bailey_ to that of
 _Johnson_.


Upon receiving this certificate, and a five-dollar bill from Mr.
Ruggles, I shouldered one part of our baggage, and Anna took up the
other, and we set out forthwith to take passage on board of the
steamboat John W. Richmond for Newport, on our way to New Bedford. Mr.
Ruggles gave me a letter to a Mr. Shaw in Newport, and told me, in case
my money did not serve me to New Bedford, to stop in Newport and obtain
further assistance; but upon our arrival at Newport, we were so anxious
to get to a place of safety, that, notwithstanding we lacked the
necessary money to pay our fare, we decided to take seats in the stage,
and promise to pay when we got to New Bedford. We were encouraged to do
this by two excellent gentlemen, residents of New Bedford, whose names
I afterward ascertained to be Joseph Ricketson and William C. Taber.
They seemed at once to understand our circumstances, and gave us such
assurance of their friendliness as put us fully at ease in their
presence.

It was good indeed to meet with such friends, at such a time. Upon
reaching New Bedford, we were directed to the house of Mr. Nathan
Johnson, by whom we were kindly received, and hospitably provided for.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Johnson took a deep and lively interest in our
welfare. They proved themselves quite worthy of the name of
abolitionists. When the stage-driver found us unable to pay our fare,
he held on upon our baggage as security for the debt. I had but to
mention the fact to Mr. Johnson, and he forthwith advanced the money.

We now began to feel a degree of safety, and to prepare ourselves for
the duties and responsibilities of a life of freedom. On the morning
after our arrival at New Bedford, while at the breakfast-table, the
question arose as to what name I should be called by. The name given me
by my mother was, “Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey.” I, however,
had dispensed with the two middle names long before I left Maryland so
that I was generally known by the name of “Frederick Bailey.” I started
from Baltimore bearing the name of “Stanley.” When I got to New York, I
again changed my name to “Frederick Johnson,” and thought that would be
the last change. But when I got to New Bedford, I found it necessary
again to change my name. The reason of this necessity was, that there
were so many Johnsons in New Bedford, it was already quite difficult to
distinguish between them. I gave Mr. Johnson the privilege of choosing
me a name, but told him he must not take from me the name of
“Frederick.” I must hold on to that, to preserve a sense of my
identity. Mr. Johnson had just been reading the “Lady of the Lake,” and
at once suggested that my name be “Douglass.” From that time until now
I have been called “Frederick Douglass;” and as I am more widely known
by that name than by either of the others, I shall continue to use it
as my own.

I was quite disappointed at the general appearance of things in New
Bedford. The impression which I had received respecting the character
and condition of the people of the north, I found to be singularly
erroneous. I had very strangely supposed, while in slavery, that few of
the comforts, and scarcely any of the luxuries, of life were enjoyed at
the north, compared with what were enjoyed by the slaveholders of the
south. I probably came to this conclusion from the fact that northern
people owned no slaves. I supposed that they were about upon a level
with the non-slaveholding population of the south. I knew _they_ were
exceedingly poor, and I had been accustomed to regard their poverty as
the necessary consequence of their being non-slaveholders. I had
somehow imbibed the opinion that, in the absence of slaves, there could
be no wealth, and very little refinement. And upon coming to the north,
I expected to meet with a rough, hard-handed, and uncultivated
population, living in the most Spartan-like simplicity, knowing nothing
of the ease, luxury, pomp, and grandeur of southern slaveholders. Such
being my conjectures, any one acquainted with the appearance of New
Bedford may very readily infer how palpably I must have seen my
mistake.

In the afternoon of the day when I reached New Bedford, I visited the
wharves, to take a view of the shipping. Here I found myself surrounded
with the strongest proofs of wealth. Lying at the wharves, and riding
in the stream, I saw many ships of the finest model, in the best order,
and of the largest size. Upon the right and left, I was walled in by
granite warehouses of the widest dimensions, stowed to their utmost
capacity with the necessaries and comforts of life. Added to this,
almost every body seemed to be at work, but noiselessly so, compared
with what I had been accustomed to in Baltimore. There were no loud
songs heard from those engaged in loading and unloading ships. I heard
no deep oaths or horrid curses on the laborer. I saw no whipping of
men; but all seemed to go smoothly on. Every man appeared to understand
his work, and went at it with a sober, yet cheerful earnestness, which
betokened the deep interest which he felt in what he was doing, as well
as a sense of his own dignity as a man. To me this looked exceedingly
strange. From the wharves I strolled around and over the town, gazing
with wonder and admiration at the splendid churches, beautiful
dwellings, and finely-cultivated gardens; evincing an amount of wealth,
comfort, taste, and refinement, such as I had never seen in any part of
slaveholding Maryland.

Every thing looked clean, new, and beautiful. I saw few or no
dilapidated houses, with poverty-stricken inmates; no half-naked
children and barefooted women, such as I had been accustomed to see in
Hillsborough, Easton, St. Michael’s, and Baltimore. The people looked
more able, stronger, healthier, and happier, than those of Maryland. I
was for once made glad by a view of extreme wealth, without being
saddened by seeing extreme poverty. But the most astonishing as well as
the most interesting thing to me was the condition of the colored
people, a great many of whom, like myself, had escaped thither as a
refuge from the hunters of men. I found many, who had not been seven
years out of their chains, living in finer houses, and evidently
enjoying more of the comforts of life, than the average of slaveholders
in Maryland. I will venture to assert, that my friend Mr. Nathan
Johnson (of whom I can say with a grateful heart, “I was hungry, and he
gave me meat; I was thirsty, and he gave me drink; I was a stranger,
and he took me in”) lived in a neater house; dined at a better table;
took, paid for, and read, more newspapers; better understood the moral,
religious, and political character of the nation,—than nine tenths of
the slaveholders in Talbot county Maryland. Yet Mr. Johnson was a
working man. His hands were hardened by toil, and not his alone, but
those also of Mrs. Johnson. I found the colored people much more
spirited than I had supposed they would be. I found among them a
determination to protect each other from the blood-thirsty kidnapper,
at all hazards. Soon after my arrival, I was told of a circumstance
which illustrated their spirit. A colored man and a fugitive slave were
on unfriendly terms. The former was heard to threaten the latter with
informing his master of his whereabouts. Straightway a meeting was
called among the colored people, under the stereotyped notice,
“Business of importance!” The betrayer was invited to attend. The
people came at the appointed hour, and organized the meeting by
appointing a very religious old gentleman as president, who, I believe,
made a prayer, after which he addressed the meeting as follows:
“_Friends, we have got him here, and I would recommend that you young
men just take him outside the door, and kill him!_” With this, a number
of them bolted at him; but they were intercepted by some more timid
than themselves, and the betrayer escaped their vengeance, and has not
been seen in New Bedford since. I believe there have been no more such
threats, and should there be hereafter, I doubt not that death would be
the consequence.

I found employment, the third day after my arrival, in stowing a sloop
with a load of oil. It was new, dirty, and hard work for me; but I went
at it with a glad heart and a willing hand. I was now my own master. It
was a happy moment, the rapture of which can be understood only by
those who have been slaves. It was the first work, the reward of which
was to be entirely my own. There was no Master Hugh standing ready, the
moment I earned the money, to rob me of it. I worked that day with a
pleasure I had never before experienced. I was at work for myself and
newly-married wife. It was to me the starting-point of a new existence.
When I got through with that job, I went in pursuit of a job of
calking; but such was the strength of prejudice against color, among
the white calkers, that they refused to work with me, and of course I
could get no employment.[4] Finding my trade of no immediate benefit, I
threw off my calking habiliments, and prepared myself to do any kind of
work I could get to do. Mr. Johnson kindly let me have his wood-horse
and saw, and I very soon found myself a plenty of work. There was no
work too hard—none too dirty. I was ready to saw wood, shovel coal,
carry wood, sweep the chimney, or roll oil casks,—all of which I did
for nearly three years in New Bedford, before I became known to the
anti-slavery world.

 [4] I am told that colored persons can now get employment at calking
 in New Bedford—a result of anti-slavery effort.


In about four months after I went to New Bedford, there came a young
man to me, and inquired if I did not wish to take the “Liberator.” I
told him I did; but, just having made my escape from slavery, I
remarked that I was unable to pay for it then. I, however, finally
became a subscriber to it. The paper came, and I read it from week to
week with such feelings as it would be quite idle for me to attempt to
describe. The paper became my meat and my drink. My soul was set all on
fire. Its sympathy for my brethren in bonds—its scathing denunciations
of slaveholders—its faithful exposures of slavery—and its powerful
attacks upon the upholders of the institution—sent a thrill of joy
through my soul, such as I had never felt before!

I had not long been a reader of the “Liberator,” before I got a pretty
correct idea of the principles, measures and spirit of the anti-slavery
reform. I took right hold of the cause. I could do but little; but what
I could, I did with a joyful heart, and never felt happier than when in
an anti-slavery meeting. I seldom had much to say at the meetings,
because what I wanted to say was said so much better by others. But,
while attending an anti-slavery convention at Nantucket, on the 11th of
August, 1841, I felt strongly moved to speak, and was at the same time
much urged to do so by Mr. William C. Coffin, a gentleman who had heard
me speak in the colored people’s meeting at New Bedford. It was a
severe cross, and I took it up reluctantly. The truth was, I felt
myself a slave, and the idea of speaking to white people weighed me
down. I spoke but a few moments, when I felt a degree of freedom, and
said what I desired with considerable ease. From that time until now, I
have been engaged in pleading the cause of my brethren—with what
success, and with what devotion, I leave those acquainted with my
labors to decide.



 APPENDIX


I find, since reading over the foregoing Narrative, that I have, in
several instances, spoken in such a tone and manner, respecting
religion, as may possibly lead those unacquainted with my religious
views to suppose me an opponent of all religion. To remove the
liability of such misapprehension, I deem it proper to append the
following brief explanation. What I have said respecting and against
religion, I mean strictly to apply to the _slaveholding religion_ of
this land, and with no possible reference to Christianity proper; for,
between the Christianity of this land, and the Christianity of Christ,
I recognize the widest possible difference—so wide, that to receive the
one as good, pure, and holy, is of necessity to reject the other as
bad, corrupt, and wicked. To be the friend of the one, is of necessity
to be the enemy of the other. I love the pure, peaceable, and impartial
Christianity of Christ: I therefore hate the corrupt, slaveholding,
women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical
Christianity of this land. Indeed, I can see no reason, but the most
deceitful one, for calling the religion of this land Christianity. I
look upon it as the climax of all misnomers, the boldest of all frauds,
and the grossest of all libels. Never was there a clearer case of
“stealing the livery of the court of heaven to serve the devil in.” I
am filled with unutterable loathing when I contemplate the religious
pomp and show, together with the horrible inconsistencies, which every
where surround me. We have men-stealers for ministers, women-whippers
for missionaries, and cradle-plunderers for church members. The man who
wields the blood-clotted cowskin during the week fills the pulpit on
Sunday, and claims to be a minister of the meek and lowly Jesus. The
man who robs me of my earnings at the end of each week meets me as a
class-leader on Sunday morning, to show me the way of life, and the
path of salvation. He who sells my sister, for purposes of
prostitution, stands forth as the pious advocate of purity. He who
proclaims it a religious duty to read the Bible denies me the right of
learning to read the name of the God who made me. He who is the
religious advocate of marriage robs whole millions of its sacred
influence, and leaves them to the ravages of wholesale pollution. The
warm defender of the sacredness of the family relation is the same that
scatters whole families,—sundering husbands and wives, parents and
children, sisters and brothers,—leaving the hut vacant, and the hearth
desolate. We see the thief preaching against theft, and the adulterer
against adultery. We have men sold to build churches, women sold to
support the gospel, and babes sold to purchase Bibles for the _Poor
Heathen! All For The Glory Of God And The Good Of Souls!_ The slave
auctioneer’s bell and the church-going bell chime in with each other,
and the bitter cries of the heart-broken slave are drowned in the
religious shouts of his pious master. Revivals of religion and revivals
in the slave-trade go hand in hand together. The slave prison and the
church stand near each other. The clanking of fetters and the rattling
of chains in the prison, and the pious psalm and solemn prayer in the
church, may be heard at the same time. The dealers in the bodies and
souls of men erect their stand in the presence of the pulpit, and they
mutually help each other. The dealer gives his blood-stained gold to
support the pulpit, and the pulpit, in return, covers his infernal
business with the garb of Christianity. Here we have religion and
robbery the allies of each other—devils dressed in angels’ robes, and
hell presenting the semblance of paradise.

“Just God! and these are they,v Who minister at thine altar, God of
right!
Men who their hands, with prayer and blessing, lay
On Israel’s ark of light.

“What! preach, and kidnap men?
Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor?
Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then
Bolt hard the captive’s door?

“What! servants of thy own
Merciful Son, who came to seek and save
The homeless and the outcast, fettering down
The tasked and plundered slave!

“Pilate and Herod friends!
Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!
Just God and holy! is that church which lends
Strength to the spoiler thine?”


The Christianity of America is a Christianity, of whose votaries it may
be as truly said, as it was of the ancient scribes and Pharisees, “They
bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men’s
shoulders, but they themselves will not move them with one of their
fingers. All their works they do for to be seen of men.—They love the
uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in the synagogues, . . .
. . . and to be called of men, Rabbi, Rabbi.—But woe unto you, scribes
and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against
men; for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are
entering to go in. Ye devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make
long prayers; therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation. Ye
compass sea and land to make one proselyte, and when he is made, ye
make him twofold more the child of hell than yourselves.—Woe unto you,
scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint, and anise,
and cumin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment,
mercy, and faith; these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the
other undone. Ye blind guides! which strain at a gnat, and swallow a
camel. Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make
clean the outside of the cup and of the platter; but within, they are
full of extortion and excess.—Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees,
hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear
beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all
uncleanness. Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but
within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.”

Dark and terrible as is this picture, I hold it to be strictly true of
the overwhelming mass of professed Christians in America. They strain
at a gnat, and swallow a camel. Could any thing be more true of our
churches? They would be shocked at the proposition of fellowshipping a
_sheep_-stealer; and at the same time they hug to their communion a
_man_-stealer, and brand me with being an infidel, if I find fault with
them for it. They attend with Pharisaical strictness to the outward
forms of religion, and at the same time neglect the weightier matters
of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith. They are always ready to
sacrifice, but seldom to show mercy. They are they who are represented
as professing to love God whom they have not seen, whilst they hate
their brother whom they have seen. They love the heathen on the other
side of the globe. They can pray for him, pay money to have the Bible
put into his hand, and missionaries to instruct him; while they despise
and totally neglect the heathen at their own doors.

Such is, very briefly, my view of the religion of this land; and to
avoid any misunderstanding, growing out of the use of general terms, I
mean by the religion of this land, that which is revealed in the words,
deeds, and actions, of those bodies, north and south, calling
themselves Christian churches, and yet in union with slaveholders. It
is against religion, as presented by these bodies, that I have felt it
my duty to testify.

I conclude these remarks by copying the following portrait of the
religion of the south, (which is, by communion and fellowship, the
religion of the north,) which I soberly affirm is “true to the life,”
and without caricature or the slightest exaggeration. It is said to
have been drawn, several years before the present anti-slavery
agitation began, by a northern Methodist preacher, who, while residing
at the south, had an opportunity to see slaveholding morals, manners,
and piety, with his own eyes. “Shall I not visit for these things?
saith the Lord. Shall not my soul be avenged on such a nation as this?”


A PARODY


“Come, saints and sinners, hear me tell
How pious priests whip Jack and Nell,
And women buy and children sell,
And preach all sinners down to hell,
And sing of heavenly union.

“They’ll bleat and baa, dona like goats,
Gorge down black sheep, and strain at motes,
Array their backs in fine black coats,
Then seize their negroes by their throats,
And choke, for heavenly union.

“They’ll church you if you sip a dram,
And damn you if you steal a lamb;
Yet rob old Tony, Doll, and Sam,
Of human rights, and bread and ham;
Kidnapper’s heavenly union.

“They’ll loudly talk of Christ’s reward,
And bind his image with a cord,
And scold, and swing the lash abhorred,
And sell their brother in the Lord
To handcuffed heavenly union.

“They’ll read and sing a sacred song,
And make a prayer both loud and long,
And teach the right and do the wrong,
Hailing the brother, sister throng,
With words of heavenly union.

“We wonder how such saints can sing,
Or praise the Lord upon the wing,
Who roar, and scold, and whip, and sting,
And to their slaves and mammon cling,
In guilty conscience union.

“They’ll raise tobacco, corn, and rye,
And drive, and thieve, and cheat, and lie,
And lay up treasures in the sky,
By making switch and cowskin fly,
In hope of heavenly union.

“They’ll crack old Tony on the skull,
And preach and roar like Bashan bull,
Or braying ass, of mischief full,
Then seize old Jacob by the wool,
And pull for heavenly union.

“A roaring, ranting, sleek man-thief,
Who lived on mutton, veal, and beef,
Yet never would afford relief
To needy, sable sons of grief,
Was big with heavenly union.

“‘Love not the world,’ the preacher said,
And winked his eye, and shook his head;
He seized on Tom, and Dick, and Ned,
Cut short their meat, and clothes, and bread,
Yet still loved heavenly union.

“Another preacher whining spoke
Of One whose heart for sinners broke:
He tied old Nanny to an oak,
And drew the blood at every stroke,
And prayed for heavenly union.

“Two others oped their iron jaws,
And waved their children-stealing paws;
There sat their children in gewgaws;
By stinting negroes’ backs and maws,
They kept up heavenly union.

“All good from Jack another takes,
And entertains their flirts and rakes,
Who dress as sleek as glossy snakes,
And cram their mouths with sweetened cakes;
And this goes down for union.”


Sincerely and earnestly hoping that this little book may do something
toward throwing light on the American slave system, and hastening the
glad day of deliverance to the millions of my brethren in
bonds—faithfully relying upon the power of truth, love, and justice,
for success in my humble efforts—and solemnly pledging my self anew to
the sacred cause,—I subscribe myself,

FREDERICK DOUGLASS.


LYNN, _Mass., April_ 28, 1845.


THE END