DALA
Digital American Literature
Anthology
Version 1.5
Edited by Dr. Michael O'Conner,
Millikin University
Unit Eleven: Writing Slavery Introduction
Background on Slavery and the Slave Narrative
Slavery is a social-economic system under which certain persons —
known as slaves — are deprived of personal freedom and compelled
by force and law to perform labor or services. The term also
refers to the status or condition of those persons who are treated
as the property of another person or household. This is referred
to as "chattel slavery." Slaves are held against their will from
the time of their capture, purchase, or birth, and are deprived of
the right to leave, to refuse to work, or to receive compensation
in return for their labor. Slavery has always been a human
institution, throughout history, from classical times to the
present, appearing in almost all cultures and countries..
Officially and legally slaves:
cannot own property
cannot marry
cannot testify in court
had no recourse against physical abuse (could not hit a white,
even in self-defense, or resist punishment in any manner)
legally and socially had no kin, or family
were deprived of personal liberty
were not to be educated, they were denied the ability to learn to
read or write
were deprived of the right to move about geographically without
permission
were very limited in capacity to make choices of any kind
Slaves were often denied choices about a sexual partner, they had
no right to control reproduction
It was against the law to rape a female slave, if "not" the owner
of that slave.
If rape committed by anyone other than the slave's owner, not
charged with the crime of rape, but rather trespassing on another
man's property.
Ways of generating more slaves:
1. captured in war
2. kidnapped
3. breeding, offspring automatically produces more slaves
Societal conditions necessary for American slavery to occur:
(slavery was practically non-existent among "primitive" societies,
only more "advanced" societies have slavery - this is a major
theme of Mel Gibson's 2006 film Apocalypto)
1- had to be the concept of an OUTSIDER (us versus them concept,
to justify "dehumanization")
2- social differentiation or stratification
3- visual racial difference often necessary (must be able to
distinguish "us" from "them," if possible)
4- economic surplus was necessary
slaves were consumption goods who had to be maintained
surplus was also essential, owners expected economic gain
5- for "an expanding slave base" there is need for land and open
resources, large tracts of land needed more inexpensive labor
(cheapest labor possible)
6- strong, centralized government needed, to enforce slave laws
In a slave-based economic society, slaves composed a significant
portion of the population (20-40%), and much of that society's
energies were mobilized toward obtaining, keeping, and controlling
the slaves.
Attitudes towards slavery in the Colonies/United States:
- few found the institution of slavery unnatural or immoral until
the second half of the 18th century
- until this time, if any concern was present it was not for the
slave's freedom, but for her or his "good care."
History:
- slaves first brought to Virginia in 1619
- US Constitution (1787) prevented Congress from banning the
importation of slaves until 1808
- in 1793, Eli Whitney's cotton gin produced "cotton culture" of
the south which created a huge demand for slave labor
- South was totally transformed by presence of slavery, white men
who owned large tracts or land, plantations, became very wealthy
and imitated the culture of European aristocracy in this country
(Twain and Faulkner will treat this southern aristocracy issue)
- great tensions grow between North and South
- Union or federal rights vs. states' rights (the right to keep
slaves)
- North and South grew further apart in 1845 with the formation of
the Southern Baptist Convention on the premise that the Bible
sanctions slavery and that it was acceptable for Christians to own
slaves.
- 1850, Compromise of 1850, "legal compromise" to preserve the
union
An equal number of slave versus free states, balance of power
California admitted to Union as non-slavery state,
slave trade but not slavery abolished in Washington DC,
Fugitive Slave Law: illegal to aid an escaping slave, hunters
legally can come into free states and recapture escaped slaves
- lawsuit begun in 1846, ends in the Supreme Court in 1857, Dred
Scott vs. Sandford, that people of African descent brought into
the United States and held as slaves (or their descendants,
whether or not they were slaves) were not protected by the
Constitution and were not U.S. citizens.
- 1861- 1865, Civil War or "The War Between the States" for
states' rights
- 1863, Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation (freed slaves in the
Confederate states)
- 1865, 13th Amendment, abolishes slavery in the U.S.
- 1870, 15th Amendment, right to vote cannot be denied on account
of race, color, or previous condition of servitude
- 1896, Plessy v. Ferguson, was a landmark United States Supreme
Court decision in the jurisprudence of the United States,
upholding the constitutionality of racial segregation even in
public accommodations (particularly railroads), under the doctrine
of "separate but equal".
U. S. Slave Narratives as a Genre:
- autobiographical accounts of slavery by escaped slaves
- between 1830 and 1860, there were over 50 book length narratives
of this type
- in 1837 alone, there were 70 lecturers on the lecture circuit
expounding on the sins of slavery
- slave narratives as a genre are a combination of earlier genres
popular in this country: the captivity narrative, the spiritual
diary, autobiographies, and self-improvement, rags-to-riches
stories
- these narratives fit into the romantic tradition through their
theme of the individual against society (and the evil institutions
of society)
- obviously, they emphasized abolitionist themes
see
Campbell's Definitions and Purposes of Slave Narratives
Slave narratives as a genre, grew out of other previous or
emerging genres:
- captivity narratives (usually of white women taken captive by
natives)
- 18th century autobiography narratives (like Franklin's),
depicting the rise of an individual from humble beginnings to
greater successes
- some elements of the Gothic, where ghosts are replaced by
horrific slave owners, as evil or antagonistic
Dates of Publication
- Equiano penned one of the earliest North American slave
narratives in 1789
- Douglass' narrative published in 1845
- Jacob's narrative published in 1861
Slave Narratives reappeared in popular culture in the 1970's and
1980's, inspired by the Civil Rights Movements:
1977, Alex Haley's Roots (novels made into TV mini-series)
1974, Gaine's The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman (novel made
into movie)
Other films dealing with the topic of slavery:
1989, Zwick's Glory
1997, Spielberg's Amistad
Common Repeating Motifs in Slave Narratives
1. Separation and break up of the family caused by institution of
slavery
2. Undulating sense of hope and hopelessness for slaves
3. Dehumanization of slaves and their owners, especially
illustrated through the use of animal imagery
4. A stated death wish rather than enduring slavery
5. Images of power and powerlessness, especially focusing on
images of food (consumption) and education (reading/writing)
6. Religious and Social Hypocrisy of Institutional Slavery,
Christian Rationalism/Justification and Foundational Theories of
Freedom of United States Government
Common Elements of Resisting the Institution of Slavery
as Depicted in Slave Narratives
1. incidences of the slave escaping or running away
". . . on the third day of September, 1838, I left my chains
and succeeded in reaching New York…" (Douglass).
2. incidences of graphic violence in stories that expose the
reader to the horrors of slavery
3. incidences of suicide or infanticide used to avoid slavery
4. incidences of the slave pretending to be ignorant, pliant or
agreeable when he/she actually is not
5. incidences of the slave making his or her own personal
decisions in controlling their own lives, as much as possible
"I knew nothing would enrage Dr. Flint so much as to know that
I favored another…" (Jacobs).
6. incidences of the slave learning to read and write
7. incidences of the slave seeking the aid of sympathetic whites,
whom they must trust to help them
8. incidences of singing certain songs that speak of liberty,
freedom or the sadness of the situation
9. incidences of sharing stories of the slave's humanity -
clearly demonstrating how he/she is just like everyone else (has a
family, has feelings, fully understands what's going on)
see: American
Passages: Acts of Defiance in Slave Culture
Six
Characteristics of the Slave Narrative in the U.S.
summarized from Olney, James. "'I was born': Slave Narratives,
Their Status as Autobiography and as Literature." The Slave's
Narrative, ed. Charles T. Davis and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. New
York: Oxford University Press, 1985. Print.
II. Harriet Jacobs (1815-1897)
born between 1813-15, North Carolina
Linda Brendt, a pseudonym
- learned to read with first mistress
- Dr. Flint, endless sexual harassment
- free black man, her lover
- sexual involvement with white man, Mr. Sands
two children, a boy and a girl
1835, Flint's ultimatum:
- small cottage, mistress or plantation work
- she ran away to protect her children
- stayed in a crawl space in her grandmother's house, about 3 foot
high at most
- stayed there for seven years
- crawled down to "stand up" every few years
1842, escaped to North, he's still searching for her
- when Flint dies, daughter wants to recapture Harriet
1850, passed the fugitive slave act
- illegal to aid a slave in the entire country
Harriet buys her freedom for $300
- writes her own story
- breaks literary conventions, violations of taste
- sexual history of women in book a no no in 19th century
- 1861, her book published
- after the Civil War, she went South to help freed slaves
- 1897, died in Washington D.C.
Literary Criticism:, controversy over authorship versus editing:
- Lydia Maria Child, famous writer/abolitionist, had re-written so
much of the original manuscript that she should, perhaps, be
considered a co-writer
III. Frederick Douglass (1818-1895)
- born Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey
- born Talbot County, Maryland, February 1818
- mother, Harriet Bailey, slave
- father, probably Aaron Anthony, general plantation
superintendent.
- eight years old, Auld family in Baltimore
- taught himself to read and write
- age sixteen, hired out to Edward Covey
- 1938, escaped to Massachusetts disguised as a sailor
- New York City, married Anna Murray, free black woman who had
helped him escape from Baltimore
- moved north to New Bedford, Mass., renamed himself
Douglass, named himself after a hero, "Douglas," of Sir Walter
Scott's Lady of the Lake
- became effective orator for numerous causes
- Lecturer from 1841 to 1845
- published book, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an
American Slave, 1845, revised and enlarged in 1855
- because of the explicit details in his book spent 1845-1847 in
England to avoid recapture
- English friends raised enough money to allow him to purchase
himself, he then came back to the U.S.
- influential newspaper editor and militant reformer
- 1848, speaker at the first women's rights convention
- Civil War broke out, he saw it as long awaited opportunity for
black emancipation, urged Lincoln to enlist blacks in Union army
(the movie GLORY, romanticized version of some of these events)
- 1892, final autobiography, The Life and Times of Frederick
Douglass
Other Resources
Slavery
and Freedom Timeline, from American Passages
Ending Slavery in the Western Hemisphere
1500, slavery had virtually died out in Western Europe, but was a
normal phenomenon practically everywhere else. The imperial
powers, France, Spain, Britain, Portugal, the Netherlands and a
few others, built worldwide empires based primarily on plantation
agriculture using slaves imported from Africa. However, the powers
took care to minimize the presence of slavery in their home
countries.
1739, any "registered" slaves in France limited to a three-year
stay
1772, the Somersett Case ruled that slavery was unlawful within
England itself
1794, France officially abolished slavery in all French
territories outside mainland France
1833, The Slavery Abolition Act,outlawed slavery in the British
colonies
1843, Britain abolished slavery in both Hindu and Muslim India
1865, slavery banned in the United States, 13th Amendment to the
Constitution
1926, Slavery Convention, an initiative of the League of Nations,
was a turning point in banning global slavery
Abolition
of Slavery Timeline
Unit Eleven: Writing Slavery Readings
Harriett Jacobs (1813-1897)
Resources for
Jacobs
[image]
Harriet Ann Jacobs was born in Edenton, North Carolina as a slave
although, as she tells readers in her autobiography, she did not
know she was one until later in her life. Using the psuedonym
Linda Brent in her book, she relates the harrowing tale of her
attempts to avoid the sexual pursuits of her owner's step-father,
"Dr. Flint," or Dr. James Norcom. Jacobs' escape from slavery,
including her seven long years of hiding in a tiny attic
crawlspace to remain close to her family, before eventually
fleeing to New York, makes her narrative unique. In 1853, Jacobs
obtained her freedom when her New York employer's wife, Cornelia
Willis, purchased her from the Norcom family and freed her
afterwards. Focusing on the unique experiences of female slaves,
on sexual exploitation by owners, and on appeals to maternal and
family values, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl was
published in 1861. It was edited and introduced by abolitionist
and writer, Lydia Maria Childs. Jacobs was active in promoting
anti-slavery causes through the end of the Civil War. After the
war, she provided relief to African-American refugees coming up
from the South. She died in 1897, in Washington, D.C. For a recent
biography, see Jean Fagan Yellin's Harriett Jacobs: A Life
(2004). One of the best critical collections remains Rafia Zafar
and Deborah M. Garfield's Harriett Jacobs and Incidents in the
Life of a Slave Girl: New Critical Essays (1996).
Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl Written by Herself
Jacobs, Harriett. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl
Written by Herself. Boston, 1861.
source of electronic text:
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11030
Preface By The Author
Reader be assured this narrative is no fiction. I am aware that
some of my adventures may seem incredible; but they are,
nevertheless, strictly true. I have not exaggerated the wrongs
inflicted by Slavery; on the contrary, my descriptions fall far
short of the facts. I have concealed the names of places, and
given persons fictitious names. I had no motive for secrecy on my
own account, but I deemed it kind and considerate towards others
to pursue this course.
I wish I were more competent to the task I have undertaken. But I
trust my readers will excuse deficiencies in consideration of
circumstances. I was born and reared in Slavery; and I remained in
a Slave State twenty-seven years. Since I have been at the North,
it has been necessary for me to work diligently for my own
support, and the education of my children. This has not left me
much leisure to make up for the loss of early opportunities to
improve myself; and it has compelled me to write these pages at
irregular intervals, whenever I could snatch an hour from
household duties.
When I first arrived in Philadelphia, Bishop Paine advised me to
publish a sketch of my life, but I told him I was altogether
incompetent to such an undertaking. Though I have improved my mind
somewhat since that time, I still remain of the same opinion; but
I trust my motives will excuse what might otherwise seem
presumptuous. I have not written my experiences in order to
attract attention to myself; on the contrary, it would have been
more pleasant to me to have been silent about my own history.
Neither do I care to excite sympathy for my own sufferings. But I
do earnestly desire to arouse the women of the North to a
realizing sense of the condition of two millions of women at the
South, still in bondage, suffering what I suffered, and most of
them far worse. I want to add my testimony to that of abler pens
to convince the people of the Free States what Slavery really is.
Only by experience can any one realize how deep, and dark, and
foul is that pit of abominations. May the blessing of God rest on
this imperfect effort in behalf of my persecuted people!
—Linda Brent
Introduction By The Editor
The author of the following autobiography is personally known to
me, and her conversation and manners inspire me with confidence.
During the last seventeen years, she has lived the greater part of
the time with a distinguished family in New York, and has so
deported herself as to be highly esteemed by them. This fact is
sufficient, without further credentials of her character. I
believe those who know her will not be disposed to doubt her
veracity, though some incidents in her story are more romantic
than fiction.
At her request, I have revised her manuscript; but such changes
as I have made have been mainly for purposes of condensation and
orderly arrangement. I have not added any thing to the incidents,
or changed the import of her very pertinent remarks. With trifling
exceptions, both the ideas and the language are her own. I pruned
excrescences a little, but otherwise I had no reason for changing
her lively and dramatic way of telling her own story. The names of
both persons and places are known to me; but for good reasons I
suppress them.
It will naturally excite surprise that a woman reared in Slavery
should be able to write so well. But circumstances will explain
this. In the first place, nature endowed her with quick
perceptions. Secondly, the mistress, with whom she lived till she
was twelve years old, was a kind, considerate friend, who taught
her to read and spell. Thirdly, she was placed in favorable
circumstances after she came to the North; having frequent
intercourse with intelligent persons, who felt a friendly interest
in her welfare, and were disposed to give her opportunities for
self-improvement.
I am well aware that many will accuse me of indecorum for
presenting these pages to the public; for the experiences of this
intelligent and much-injured woman belong to a class which some
call delicate subjects, and others indelicate. This peculiar phase
of Slavery has generally been kept veiled; but the public ought to
be made acquainted with its monstrous features, and I willingly
take the responsibility of presenting them with the veil
withdrawn. I do this for the sake of my sisters in bondage, who
are suffering wrongs so foul, that our ears are too delicate to
listen to them. I do it with the hope of arousing conscientious
and reflecting women at the North to a sense of their duty in the
exertion of moral influence on the question of Slavery, on all
possible occasions. I do it with the hope that every man who reads
this narrative will swear solemnly before God that, so far as he
has power to prevent it, no fugitive from Slavery shall ever be
sent back to suffer in that loathsome den of corruption and
cruelty.
— L. Maria Child
I. Childhood
I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy
childhood had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and
considered so intelligent and skillful in his trade, that, when
buildings out of the common line were to be erected, he was sent
for from long distances, to be head workman. On condition of
paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting
himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own
affairs. His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but,
though he several times offered his hard earnings for that
purpose, he never succeeded. In complexion my parents were a light
shade of brownish yellow, and were termed mulattoes. They lived
together in a comfortable home; and, though we were all slaves, I
was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a piece of
merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be
demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who
was two years younger than myself—a bright, affectionate child. I
had also a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a
remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a
planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her mother and
his three children free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where
they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War; and they
were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to
different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to
tell me; but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a
little girl when she was captured and sold to the keeper of a
large hotel. I have often heard her tell how hard she fared during
childhood. But as she grew older she evinced so much intelligence,
and was so faithful, that her master and mistress could not help
seeing it was for their interest to take care of such a valuable
piece of property. She became an indispensable personage in the
household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse
to seamstress. She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice
crackers became so famous in the neighborhood that many people
were desirous of obtaining them. In consequence of numerous
requests of this kind, she asked permission of her mistress to
bake crackers at night, after all the household work was done; and
she obtained leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and
her children from the profits. Upon these terms, after working
hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight bakings,
assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved
profitable; and each year she laid by a little, which was saved
for a fund to purchase her children. Her master died, and the
property was divided among his heirs. The widow had her dower in
the hotel which she continued to keep open. My grandmother
remained in her service as a slave; but her children were divided
among her master's children. As she had five, Benjamin, the
youngest one, was sold, in order that each heir might have an
equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little difference
in our ages that he seemed more like my brother than my uncle. He
was a bright, handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the
complexion my grandmother had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors.
Though only ten years old, seven hundred and twenty dollars were
paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow to my grandmother, but
she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with renewed
energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase some of her
children. She had laid up three hundred dollars, which her
mistress one day begged as a loan, promising to pay her soon. The
reader probably knows that no promise or writing given to a slave
is legally binding; for, according to Southern laws, a slave,
being property, can hold no property. When my grandmother lent her
hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely to her honor.
The honor of a slaveholder to a slave!
To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My
brother Willie and I often received portions of the crackers,
cakes, and preserves, she made to sell; and after we ceased to be
children we were indebted to her for many more important services.
Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early
childhood. When I was six years old, my mother died; and then, for
the first time, I learned, by the talk around me, that I was a
slave. My mother's mistress was the daughter of my grandmother's
mistress. She was the foster sister of my mother; they were both
nourished at my grandmother's breast. In fact, my mother had been
weaned at three months old, that the babe of the mistress might
obtain sufficient food. They played together as children; and,
when they became women, my mother was a most faithful servant to
her whiter foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised
that her children should never suffer for any thing; and during
her lifetime she kept her word. They all spoke kindly of my dead
mother, who had been a slave merely in name, but in nature was
noble and womanly. I grieved for her, and my young mind was
troubled with the thought who would now take care of me and my
little brother. I was told that my home was now to be with her
mistress; and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable
duties were imposed on me. My mistress was so kind to me that I
was always glad to do her bidding, and proud to labor for her as
much as my young years would permit. I would sit by her side for
hours, sewing diligently, with a heart as free from care as that
of any free-born white child. When she thought I was tired, she
would send me out to run and jump; and away I bounded, to gather
berries or flowers to decorate her room. Those were happy days—too
happy to last. The slave child had no thought for the morrow; but
there came that blight, which too surely waits on every human
being born to be a chattel.
When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and
died. As I saw the cheek grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how
earnestly I prayed in my heart that she might live! I loved her;
for she had been almost like a mother to me. My prayers were not
answered. She died, and they buried her in the little churchyard,
where, day after day, my tears fell upon her grave.
I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old
enough to begin to think of the future; and again and again I
asked myself what they would do with me. I felt sure I should
never find another mistress so kind as the one who was gone. She
had promised my dying mother that her children should never suffer
for any thing; and when I remembered that, and recalled her many
proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes
that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it would
be so. They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my
mother's love and faithful service. But, alas! we all know that
the memory of a faithful slave does not avail much to save her
children from the auction block.
After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was
read, and we learned that she had bequeathed me to her sister's
daughter, a child of five years old. So vanished our hopes. My
mistress had taught me the precepts of God's Word: "Thou shalt
love thy neighbor as thyself." "Whatsoever ye would that men
should do unto you, do ye even so unto them." But I was her slave,
and I suppose she did not recognize me as her neighbor. I would
give much to blot out from my memory that one great wrong. As a
child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the happy days I
spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of
injustice. While I was with her, she taught me to read and spell;
and for this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of a
slave, I bless her memory.
She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all
distributed among her relatives. Five of them were my
grandmother's children, and had shared the same milk that
nourished her mother's children. Notwithstanding my grandmother's
long and faithful service to her owners, not one of her children
escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no
more, in the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant,
or the horses they tend.
II. The New Master And Mistress
Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the
sister of my mistress, and I was now the property of their little
daughter. It was not without murmuring that I prepared for my new
home; and what added to my unhappiness, was the fact that my
brother William was purchased by the same family. My father, by
his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting business as a
skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than is
common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and being
brought up under such influences, he daily detested the name of
master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress
both happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated between
the two; being perplexed to know which had the strongest claim
upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress.
When my father reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me,
and I didn't know which I ought to go to first."
"You are my child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you
should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and
water."
Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to
a master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and
they found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth.
When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold
words, and cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my
narrow bed I moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and alone.
I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine
was buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the
coffin of her only child, and I turned away from the grave,
feeling thankful that I still had something left to love. I met my
grandmother, who said, "Come with me, Linda;" and from her tone I
knew that something sad had happened. She led me apart from the
people, and then said, "My child, your father is dead." Dead! How
could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not even heard
that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart
rebelled against God, who had taken from me mother, father,
mistress, and friend. The good grandmother tried to comfort me.
"Who knows the ways of God?" said she. "Perhaps they have been
kindly taken from the evil days to come." Years afterwards I often
thought of this. She promised to be a mother to her grandchildren,
so far as she might be permitted to do so; and strengthened by her
love, I returned to my master's. I thought I should be allowed to
go to my father's house the next morning; but I was ordered to go
for flowers, that my mistress's house might be decorated for an
evening party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them
into festoons, while the dead body of my father was lying within a
mile of me. What cared my owners for that? he was merely a piece
of property. Moreover, they thought he had spoiled his children,
by teaching them to feel that they were human beings. This was
blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach; presumptuous in him,
and dangerous to the masters.
The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that
of my dear mother. There were those who knew my father's worth,
and respected his memory.
My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little
slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so
about the joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave
face. I tried to comfort him, by saying, "Take courage, Willie;
brighter days will come by and by."
"You don't know any thing about it, Linda," he replied. "We shall
have to stay here all our days; we shall never be free."
I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that
perhaps we might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time,
and then we could earn money to buy our freedom. William declared
this was much easier to say than to do; moreover, he did not
intend to buy his freedom. We held daily controversies upon this
subject.
Little attention was paid to the slaves' meals in Dr. Flint's
house. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well
and good. I gave myself no trouble on that score, for on my
various errands I passed my grandmother's house, where there was
always something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened with
punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid
detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my
breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to her for all my comforts,
spiritual or temporal. It was her labor that supplied my scanty
wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress
given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of
the badges of slavery.
While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard
earnings, the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were
never repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint,
was appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for
payment, he said the estate was insolvent, and the law prohibited
payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from retaining the
silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money. I
presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to
generation.
My grandmother's mistress had always promised her that, at her
death, she should be free; and it was said that in her will she
made good the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint
told the faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances,
it was necessary she should be sold.
On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up,
proclaiming that there would be a "public sale of negroes, horses,
&c." Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was
unwilling to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and
that he would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. My
grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she understood very well
that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very spirited woman, and
if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress intended she
should be free, she was determined the public should know it. She
had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and
preserves; consequently, "Aunt Marthy," as she was called, was
generally known, and every body who knew her respected her
intelligence and good character. Her long and faithful service in
the family was also well known, and the intention of her mistress
to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she took her place
among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon the
auction-block. Many voices called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going
to sell you, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no place for
you." Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one
bid for her. At last, a feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It
came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my
grandmother's deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under
the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had
served her owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her
rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for
a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her.
She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was
made out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was
that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness?
She gave the old servant her freedom.
At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious
years had passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves
to the man who had defrauded her of her money, and tried to
defraud her of her freedom. One of my mother's sisters, called
Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She was a kind, good
aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and waiting
maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end
of every thing.
Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in
energy. She had not strength to superintend her household affairs;
but her nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy
chair and see a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every
stroke of the lash. She was a member of the church; but partaking
of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a Christian frame
of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that
particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and
wait till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans
that had been used for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook
and her children from eking out their meagre fare with the remains
of the gravy and other scrapings. The slaves could get nothing to
eat except what she chose to give them. Provisions were weighed
out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I can assure you
she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour barrel.
She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and
exactly what size they ought to be.
Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his
table without fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a
dish not to his liking, he would either order her to be whipped,
or compel her to eat every mouthful of it in his presence. The
poor, hungry creature might not have objected to eating it; but
she did not object to having her master cram it down her throat
till she choked.
They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook
was ordered to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat,
and when his head was held over it, the froth flowed from his
mouth into the basin. He died a few minutes after. When Dr. Flint
came in, he said the mush had not been well cooked, and that was
the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for the cook, and
compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman's stomach was
stronger than the dog's; but her sufferings afterwards proved that
he was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her
master and mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her
nursing baby, for a whole day and night.
When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation
slaves was brought to town, by order of his master. It was near
night when he arrived, and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to
the work house, and tied up to the joist, so that his feet would
just escape the ground. In that situation he was to wait till the
doctor had taken his tea. I shall never forget that night. Never
before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows fall; in
succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his "O, pray
don't, massa," rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were
many conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some
said master accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave
had quarrelled with his wife, in presence of the overseer, and had
accused his master of being the father of her child. They were
both black, and the child was very fair.
I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide
still wet with blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The
poor man lived, and continued to quarrel with his wife. A few
months afterwards Dr. Flint handed them both over to a
slave-trader. The guilty man put their value into his pocket, and
had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of sight and
hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader's hands,
she said. "You promised to treat me well." To which he replied,
"You have let your tongue run too far; damn you!" She had
forgotten that it was a crime for a slave to tell who was the
father of her child.
From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases.
I once saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a
child nearly white. In her agony she cried out, "O Lord, come and
take me!" Her mistress stood by, and mocked at her like an
incarnate fiend. "You suffer, do you?" she exclaimed. "I am glad
of it. You deserve it all, and more too."
The girl's mother said, "The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope
my poor child will soon be in heaven, too."
"Heaven!" retorted the mistress. "There is no such place for the
like of her and her bastard."
The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called
her, feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, "Don't
grieve so, mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy
upon me."
Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress
felt unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful
smile was still on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The
poor black woman had but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing
in death, while she thanked God for taking her away from the
greater bitterness of life.
III. The Slaves' New Year's Day
Dr. Flint owned a fine residence in town, several farms, and
about fifty slaves, besides hiring a number by the year.
Hiring-day at the south takes place on the 1st of January. On the
2d, the slaves are expected to go to their new masters. On a farm,
they work until the corn and cotton are laid. They then have two
holidays. Some masters give them a good dinner under the trees.
This over, they work until Christmas eve. If no heavy charges are
meantime brought against them, they are given four or five
holidays, whichever the master or overseer may think proper. Then
comes New Year's eve; and they gather together their little alls,
or more properly speaking, their little nothings, and wait
anxiously for the dawning of day. At the appointed hour the
grounds are thronged with men, women, and children, waiting, like
criminals, to hear their doom pronounced. The slave is sure to
know who is the most humane, or cruel master, within forty miles
of him.
It is easy to find out, on that day, who clothes and feeds his
slaves well; for he is surrounded by a crowd, begging, "Please,
massa, hire me this year. I will work very hard, massa."
If a slave is unwilling to go with his new master, he is whipped,
or locked up in jail, until he consents to go, and promises not to
run away during the year. Should he chance to change his mind,
thinking it justifiable to violate an extorted promise, woe unto
him if he is caught! The whip is used till the blood flows at his
feet; and his stiffened limbs are put in chains, to be dragged in
the field for days and days!
If he lives until the next year, perhaps the same man will hire
him again, without even giving him an opportunity of going to the
hiring-ground. After those for hire are disposed of, those for
sale are called up.
O, you happy free women, contrast your New Year's day with that
of the poor bond-woman! With you it is a pleasant season, and the
light of the day is blessed. Friendly wishes meet you every where,
and gifts are showered upon you. Even hearts that have been
estranged from you soften at this season, and lips that have been
silent echo back, "I wish you a happy New Year." Children bring
their little offerings, and raise their rosy lips for a caress.
They are your own, and no hand but that of death can take them
from you.
But to the slave mother New Year's day comes laden with peculiar
sorrows. She sits on her cold cabin floor, watching the children
who may all be torn from her the next morning; and often does she
wish that she and they might die before the day dawns. She may be
an ignorant creature, degraded by the system that has brutalized
her from childhood; but she has a mother's instincts, and is
capable of feeling a mother's agonies.
On one of these sale days, I saw a mother lead seven children to
the auction-block. She knew that some of them would be taken from
her; but they took all. The children were sold to a slave-trader,
and their mother was brought by a man in her own town. Before
night her children were all far away. She begged the trader to
tell her where he intended to take them; this he refused to do.
How could he, when he knew he would sell them, one by one,
wherever he could command the highest price? I met that mother in
the street, and her wild, haggard face lives to-day in my mind.
She wrung her hands in anguish, and exclaimed, "Gone! All gone!
Why don't God kill me?" I had no words wherewith to comfort her.
Instances of this kind are of daily, yea, of hourly occurrence.
Slaveholders have a method, peculiar to their institution, of
getting rid of old slaves, whose lives have been worn out in their
service. I knew an old woman, who for seventy years faithfully
served her master. She had become almost helpless, from hard labor
and disease. Her owners moved to Alabama, and the old black woman
was left to be sold to any body who would give twenty dollars for
her.
IV. The Slave Who Dared To Feel Like A Man
Two years had passed since I entered Dr. Flint's family, and
those years had brought much of the knowledge that comes from
experience, though they had afforded little opportunity for any
other kinds of knowledge.
My grandmother had, as much as possible, been a mother to her
orphan grandchildren. By perseverance and unwearied industry, she
was now mistress of a snug little home, surrounded with the
necessaries of life. She would have been happy could her children
have shared them with her. There remained but three children and
two grandchildren, all slaves. Most earnestly did she strive to
make us feel that it was the will of God: that He had seen fit to
place us under such circumstances; and though it seemed hard, we
ought to pray for contentment.
It was a beautiful faith, coming from a mother who could not call
her children her own. But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy,
condemned it. We reasoned that it was much more the will of God
that we should be situated as she was. We longed for a home like
hers. There we always found sweet balsam for our troubles. She was
so loving, so sympathizing! She always met us with a smile, and
listened with patience to all our sorrows. She spoke so hopefully,
that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine. There was a
grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things for
the town, and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for
us.
But, alas! Even the charms of the old oven failed to reconcile us
to our hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly
and gracefully made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a
slave. My brother William, now twelve years old, had the same
aversion to the word master that he had when he was an urchin of
seven years. I was his confidant. He came to me with all his
troubles. I remember one instance in particular. It was on a
lovely spring morning, and when I marked the sunlight dancing here
and there, its beauty seemed to mock my sadness. For my master,
whose restless, craving, vicious nature roved about day and night,
seeking whom to devour, had just left me, with stinging, scorching
words; words that scathed ear and brain like fire. O, how I
despised him! I thought how glad I should be, if some day when he
walked the earth, it would open and swallow him up, and
disencumber the world of a plague.
When he told me that I was made for his use, made to obey his
command in every thing; that I was nothing but a slave, whose will
must and should surrender to his, never before had my puny arm
felt half so strong.
So deeply was I absorbed in painful reflections afterwards, that
I neither saw nor heard the entrance of any one, till the voice of
William sounded close beside me. "Linda," said he, "what makes you
look so sad? I love you. O, Linda, isn't this a bad world? Every
body seems so cross and unhappy. I wish I had died when poor
father did."
I told him that every body was not cross, or unhappy; that those
who had pleasant homes, and kind friends, and who were not afraid
to love them, were happy. But we, who were slave-children, without
father or mother, could not expect to be happy. We must be good;
perhaps that would bring us contentment.
"Yes," he said, "I try to be good; but what's the use? They are
all the time troubling me." Then he proceeded to relate his
afternoon's difficulty with young master Nicholas. It seemed that
the brother of master Nicholas had pleased himself with making up
stories about William. Master Nicholas said he should be flogged,
and he would do it. Whereupon he went to work; but William fought
bravely, and the young master, finding he was getting the better
of him, undertook to tie his hands behind him. He failed in that
likewise. By dint of kicking and fisting, William came out of the
skirmish none the worse for a few scratches.
He continued to discourse, on his young master's meanness; how he
whipped the little boys, but was a perfect coward when a tussle
ensued between him and white boys of his own size. On such
occasions he always took to his legs. William had other charges to
make against him. One was his rubbing up pennies with quicksilver,
and passing them off for quarters of a dollar on an old man who
kept a fruit stall. William was often sent to buy fruit, and he
earnestly inquired of me what he ought to do under such
circumstances. I told him it was certainly wrong to deceive the
old man, and that it was his duty to tell him of the impositions
practised by his young master. I assured him the old man would not
be slow to comprehend the whole, and there the matter would end.
William thought it might with the old man, but not with him. He
said he did not mind the smart of the whip, but he did not like
the idea of being whipped.
While I advised him to be good and forgiving I was not
unconscious of the beam in my own eye. It was the very knowledge
of my own shortcomings that urged me to retain, if possible, some
sparks of my brother's God-given nature. I had not lived fourteen
years in slavery for nothing. I had felt, seen, and heard enough,
to read the characters, and question the motives, of those around
me. The war of my life had begun; and though one of God's most
powerless creatures, I resolved never to be conquered. Alas, for
me!
If there was one pure, sunny spot for me, I believed it to be in
Benjamin's heart, and in another's, whom I loved with all the
ardor of a girl's first love. My owner knew of it, and sought in
every way to render me miserable. He did not resort to corporal
punishment, but to all the petty, tyrannical ways that human
ingenuity could devise.
I remember the first time I was punished. It was in the month of
February. My grandmother had taken my old shoes, and replaced them
with a new pair. I needed them; for several inches of snow had
fallen, and it still continued to fall. When I walked through Mrs.
Flint's room, their creaking grated harshly on her refined nerves.
She called me to her, and asked what I had about me that made such
a horrid noise. I told her it was my new shoes. "Take them off,"
said she; "and if you put them on again, I'll throw them into the
fire."
I took them off, and my stockings also. She then sent me a long
distance, on an errand. As I went through the snow, my bare feet
tingled. That night I was very hoarse; and I went to bed thinking
the next day would find me sick, perhaps dead. What was my grief
on waking to find myself quite well!
I had imagined if I died, or was laid up for some time, that my
mistress would feel a twinge of remorse that she had so hated "the
little imp," as she styled me. It was my ignorance of that
mistress that gave rise to such extravagant imaginings.
Dr. Flint occasionally had high prices offered for me; but he
always said, "She don't belong to me. She is my daughter's
property, and I have no right to sell her." Good, honest man! My
young mistress was still a child, and I could look for no
protection from her. I loved her, and she returned my affection. I
once heard her father allude to her attachment to me, and his wife
promptly replied that it proceeded from fear. This put unpleasant
doubts into my mind. Did the child feign what she did not feel? or
was her mother jealous of the mite of love she bestowed on me? I
concluded it must be the latter. I said to myself, "Surely, little
children are true."
One afternoon I sat at my sewing, feeling unusual depression of
spirits. My mistress had been accusing me of an offence, of which
I assured her I was perfectly innocent; but I saw, by the
contemptuous curl of her lip, that she believed I was telling a
lie.
I wondered for what wise purpose God was leading me through such
thorny paths, and whether still darker days were in store for me.
As I sat musing thus, the door opened softly, and William came in.
"Well, brother," said I, "what is the matter this time?"
"O Linda, Ben and his master have had a dreadful time!" said he.
My first thought was that Benjamin was killed. "Don't be
frightened,
Linda," said William; "I will tell you all about it."
It appeared that Benjamin's master had sent for him, and he did
not immediately obey the summons. When he did, his master was
angry, and began to whip him. He resisted. Master and slave
fought, and finally the master was thrown. Benjamin had cause to
tremble; for he had thrown to the ground his master—one of the
richest men in town. I anxiously awaited the result.
That night I stole to my grandmother's house; and Benjamin also
stole thither from his master's. My grandmother had gone to spend
a day or two with an old friend living in the country.
"I have come," said Benjamin, "to tell you good by. I am going
away."
I inquired where.
"To the north," he replied.
I looked at him to see whether he was in earnest. I saw it all in
his firm, set mouth. I implored him not to go, but he paid no heed
to my words. He said he was no longer a boy, and every day made
his yoke more galling. He had raised his hand against his master,
and was to be publicly whipped for the offence. I reminded him of
the poverty and hardships he must encounter among strangers. I
told him he might be caught and brought back; and that was
terrible to think of.
He grew vexed, and asked if poverty and hardships with freedom,
were not preferable to our treatment in slavery. "Linda," he
continued, "we are dogs here; foot-balls, cattle, every thing
that's mean. No, I will not stay. Let them bring me back. We don't
die but once."
He was right; but it was hard to give him up. "Go," said I, "and
break your mother's heart."
I repented of my words ere they were out.
"Linda," said he, speaking as I had not heard him speak that
evening, "how could you say that? Poor mother! be kind to her,
Linda; and you, too, cousin Fanny."
Cousin Fanny was a friend who had lived some years with us.
Farewells were exchanged, and the bright, kind boy, endeared to
us by so many acts of love, vanished from our sight.
It is not necessary to state how he made his escape. Suffice it
to say, he was on his way to New York when a violent storm
overtook the vessel. The captain said he must put into the nearest
port. This alarmed Benjamin, who was aware that he would be
advertised in every port near his own town. His embarrassment was
noticed by the captain. To port they went. There the advertisement
met the captain's eye. Benjamin so exactly answered its
description, that the captain laid hold on him, and bound him in
chains. The storm passed, and they proceeded to New York. Before
reaching that port Benjamin managed to get off his chains and
throw them overboard. He escaped from the vessel, but was pursued,
captured, and carried back to his master.
When my grandmother returned home and found her youngest child
had fled, great was her sorrow; but, with characteristic piety,
she said, "God's will be done." Each morning, she inquired if any
news had been heard from her boy. Yes, news was heard. The master
was rejoicing over a letter, announcing the capture of his human
chattel.
That day seems but as yesterday, so well do I remember it. I saw
him led through the streets in chains, to jail. His face was
ghastly pale, yet full of determination. He had begged one of the
sailors to go to his mother's house and ask her not to meet him.
He said the sight of her distress would take from him all
self-control. She yearned to see him, and she went; but she
screened herself in the crowd, that it might be as her child had
said.
We were not allowed to visit him; but we had known the jailer for
years, and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the
jail door for my grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise.
When we entered the cell not a sound broke the stillness.
"Benjamin, Benjamin!" whispered my grandmother. No answer.
"Benjamin!" she again faltered. There was a jingle of chains. The
moon had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through the bars
of the window. We knelt down and took Benjamin's cold hands in
ours. We did not speak. Sobs were heard, and Benjamin's lips were
unsealed; for his mother was weeping on his neck. How vividly does
memory bring back that sad night! Mother and son talked together.
He asked her pardon for the suffering he had caused her. She said
she had nothing to forgive; she could not blame his desire for
freedom. He told her that when he was captured, he broke away, and
was about casting himself into the river, when thoughts of her
came over him, and he desisted. She asked if he did not also think
of God. I fancied I saw his face grow fierce in the moonlight. He
answered, "No, I did not think of him. When a man is hunted like a
wild beast he forgets there is a God, a heaven. He forgets every
thing in his struggle to get beyond the reach of the bloodhounds."
"Don't talk so, Benjamin," said she. "Put your trust in God. Be
humble, my child, and your master will forgive you."
"Forgive me for what, mother? For not letting him treat me like a
dog? No! I will never humble myself to him. I have worked for him
for nothing all my life, and I am repaid with stripes and
imprisonment. Here I will stay till I die, or till he sells me."
The poor mother shuddered at his words. I think he felt it; for
when he next spoke, his voice was calmer. "Don't fret about me,
mother. I ain't worth it," said he. "I wish I had some of your
goodness. You bear every thing patiently, just as though you
thought it was all right. I wish I could."
She told him she had not always been so; once, she was like him;
but when sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm to lean
upon, she learned to call on God, and he lightened her burdens.
She besought him to do likewise.
We overstaid our time, and were obliged to hurry from the jail.
Benjamin had been imprisoned three weeks, when my grandmother
went to intercede for him with his master. He was immovable. He
said Benjamin should serve as an example to the rest of his
slaves; he should be kept in jail till he was subdued, or be sold
if he got but one dollar for him. However, he afterwards relented
in some degree. The chains were taken off, and we were allowed to
visit him.
As his food was of the coarsest kind, we carried him as often as
possible a warm supper, accompanied with some little luxury for
the jailer.
Three months elapsed, and there was no prospect of release or of
a purchaser. One day he was heard to sing and laugh. This piece of
indecorum was told to his master, and the overseer was ordered to
re-chain him. He was now confined in an apartment with other
prisoners, who were covered with filthy rags. Benjamin was chained
near them, and was soon covered with vermin. He worked at his
chains till he succeeded in getting out of them. He passed them
through the bars of the window, with a request that they should be
taken to his master, and he should be informed that he was covered
with vermin.
This audacity was punished with heavier chains, and prohibition
of our visits.
My grandmother continued to send him fresh changes of clothes.
The old ones were burned up. The last night we saw him in jail his
mother still begged him to send for his master, and beg his
pardon. Neither persuasion nor argument could turn him from his
purpose. He calmly answered, "I am waiting his time."
Those chains were mournful to hear.
Another three months passed, and Benjamin left his prison walls.
We that loved him waited to bid him a long and last farewell. A
slave trader had bought him. You remember, I told you what price
he brought when ten years of age. Now he was more than twenty
years old, and sold for three hundred dollars. The master had been
blind to his own interest. Long confinement had made his face too
pale, his form too thin; moreover, the trader had heard something
of his character, and it did not strike him as suitable for a
slave. He said he would give any price if the handsome lad was a
girl. We thanked God that he was not.
Could you have seen that mother clinging to her child, when they
fastened the irons upon his wrists; could you have heard her
heart-rending groans, and seen her bloodshot eyes wander wildly
from face to face, vainly pleading for mercy; could you have
witnessed that scene as I saw it, you would exclaim, Slavery is
damnable! Benjamin, her youngest, her pet, was forever gone! She
could not realize it. She had had an interview with the trader for
the purpose of ascertaining if Benjamin could be purchased. She
was told it was impossible, as he had given bonds not to sell him
till he was out of the state. He promised that he would not sell
him till he reached New Orleans.
With a strong arm and unvaried trust, my grandmother began her
work of love. Benjamin must be free. If she succeeded, she knew
they would still be separated; but the sacrifice was not too
great. Day and night she labored. The trader's price would treble
that he gave; but she was not discouraged.
She employed a lawyer to write to a gentleman, whom she knew, in
New Orleans. She begged him to interest himself for Benjamin, and
he willingly favored her request. When he saw Benjamin, and stated
his business, he thanked him; but said he preferred to wait a
while before making the trader an offer. He knew he had tried to
obtain a high price for him, and had invariably failed. This
encouraged him to make another effort for freedom. So one morning,
long before day, Benjamin was missing. He was riding over the blue
billows, bound for Baltimore.
For once his white face did him a kindly service. They had no
suspicion that it belonged to a slave; otherwise, the law would
have been followed out to the letter, and the thing rendered back
to slavery. The brightest skies are often overshadowed by the
darkest clouds. Benjamin was taken sick, and compelled to remain
in Baltimore three weeks. His strength was slow in returning; and
his desire to continue his journey seemed to retard his recovery.
How could he get strength without air and exercise? He resolved to
venture on a short walk. A by-street was selected, where he
thought himself secure of not being met by any one that knew him;
but a voice called out, "Halloo, Ben, my boy! what are you doing
here!"
His first impulse was to run; but his legs trembled so that he
could not stir. He turned to confront his antagonist, and behold,
there stood his old master's next door neighbor! He thought it was
all over with him now; but it proved otherwise. That man was a
miracle. He possessed a goodly number of slaves, and yet was not
quite deaf to that mystic clock, whose ticking is rarely heard in
the slaveholder's breast.
"Ben, you are sick," said he. "Why, you look like a ghost. I
guess I gave you something of a start. Never mind, Ben, I am not
going to touch you. You had a pretty tough time of it, and you may
go on your way rejoicing for all me. But I would advise you to get
out of this place plaguy quick, for there are several gentlemen
here from our town." He described the nearest and safest route to
New York, and added, "I shall be glad to tell your mother I have
seen you. Good by, Ben."
Benjamin turned away, filled with gratitude, and surprised that
the town he hated contained such a gem—a gem worthy of a purer
setting.
This gentleman was a Northerner by birth, and had married a
southern lady. On his return, he told my grandmother that he had
seen her son, and of the service he had rendered him.
Benjamin reached New York safely, and concluded to stop there
until he had gained strength enough to proceed further. It
happened that my grandmother's only remaining son had sailed for
the same city on business for his mistress. Through God's
providence, the brothers met. You may be sure it was a happy
meeting. "O Phil," exclaimed Benjamin, "I am here at last." Then
he told him how near he came to dying, almost in sight of free
land, and how he prayed that he might live to get one breath of
free air. He said life was worth something now, and it would be
hard to die. In the old jail he had not valued it; once, he was
tempted to destroy it; but something, he did not know what, had
prevented him; perhaps it was fear. He had heard those who profess
to be religious declare there was no heaven for self-murderers;
and as his life had been pretty hot here, he did not desire a
continuation of the same in another world. "If I die now," he
exclaimed, "thank God, I shall die a freeman!"
He begged my uncle Phillip not to return south; but stay and work
with him, till they earned enough to buy those at home. His
brother told him it would kill their mother if he deserted her in
her trouble. She had pledged her house, and with difficulty had
raised money to buy him. Would he be bought?
"No, never!" he replied. "Do you suppose, Phil, when I have got
so far out of their clutches, I will give them one red cent? No!
And do you suppose I would turn mother out of her home in her old
age? That I would let her pay all those hard-earned dollars for
me, and never to see me? For you know she will stay south as long
as her other children are slaves. What a good mother! Tell her to
buy you, Phil. You have been a comfort to her, and I have been a
trouble. And Linda, poor Linda; what'll become of her? Phil, you
don't know what a life they lead her. She has told me something
about it, and I wish old Flint was dead, or a better man. When I
was in jail, he asked her if she didn't want him to ask my master
to forgive me, and take me home again. She told him, No; that I
didn't want to go back. He got mad, and said we were all alike. I
never despised my own master half as much as I do that man. There
is many a worse slaveholder than my master; but for all that I
would not be his slave."
While Benjamin was sick, he had parted with nearly all his
clothes to pay necessary expenses. But he did not part with a
little pin I fastened in his bosom when we parted. It was the most
valuable thing I owned, and I thought none more worthy to wear it.
He had it still.
His brother furnished him with clothes, and gave him what money
he had.
They parted with moistened eyes; and as Benjamin turned away, he
said, "Phil, I part with all my kindred." And so it proved. We
never heard from him again.
Uncle Phillip came home; and the first words he uttered when he
entered the house were, "Mother, Ben is free! I have seen him in
New York." She stood looking at him with a bewildered air.
"Mother, don't you believe it?" he said, laying his hand softly
upon her shoulder. She raised her hands, and exclaimed, "God be
praised! Let us thank him." She dropped on her knees, and poured
forth her heart in prayer. Then Phillip must sit down and repeat
to her every word Benjamin had said. He told her all; only he
forbore to mention how sick and pale her darling looked. Why
should he distress her when she could do him no good?
The brave old woman still toiled on, hoping to rescue some of her
other children. After a while she succeeded in buying Phillip. She
paid eight hundred dollars, and came home with the precious
document that secured his freedom. The happy mother and son sat
together by the old hearthstone that night, telling how proud they
were of each other, and how they would prove to the world that
they could take care of themselves, as they had long taken care of
others. We all concluded by saying, "He that is willing to be a
slave, let him be a slave."
V. The Trials Of Girlhood
During the first years of my service in Dr. Flint's family, I was
accustomed to share some indulgences with the children of my
mistress. Though this seemed to me no more than right, I was
grateful for it, and tried to merit the kindness by the faithful
discharge of my duties. But I now entered on my fifteenth year—a
sad epoch in the life of a slave girl. My master began to whisper
foul words in my ear. Young as I was, I could not remain ignorant
of their import. I tried to treat them with indifference or
contempt. The master's age, my extreme youth, and the fear that
his conduct would be reported to my grandmother, made him bear
this treatment for many months. He was a crafty man, and resorted
to many means to accomplish his purposes. Sometimes he had stormy,
terrific ways, that made his victims tremble; sometimes he assumed
a gentleness that he thought must surely subdue. Of the two, I
preferred his stormy moods, although they left me trembling. He
tried his utmost to corrupt the pure principles my grandmother had
instilled. He peopled my young mind with unclean images, such as
only a vile monster could think of. I turned from him with disgust
and hatred. But he was my master. I was compelled to live under
the same roof with him—where I saw a man forty years my senior
daily violating the most sacred commandments of nature. He told me
I was his property; that I must be subject to his will in all
things. My soul revolted against the mean tyranny. But where could
I turn for protection? No matter whether the slave girl be as
black as ebony or as fair as her mistress. In either case, there
is no shadow of law to protect her from insult, from violence, or
even from death; all these are inflicted by fiends who bear the
shape of men. The mistress, who ought to protect the helpless
victim, has no other feelings towards her but those of jealousy
and rage. The degradation, the wrongs, the vices, that grow out of
slavery, are more than I can describe. They are greater than you
would willingly believe. Surely, if you credited one half the
truths that are told you concerning the helpless millions
suffering in this cruel bondage, you at the north would not help
to tighten the yoke. You surely would refuse to do for the master,
on your own soil, the mean and cruel work which trained
bloodhounds and the lowest class of whites do for him at the
south.
Every where the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but
in slavery the very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows.
Even the little child, who is accustomed to wait on her mistress
and her children, will learn, before she is twelve years old, why
it is that her mistress hates such and such a one among the
slaves. Perhaps the child's own mother is among those hated ones.
She listens to violent outbreaks of jealous passion, and cannot
help understanding what is the cause. She will become prematurely
knowing in evil things. Soon she will learn to tremble when she
hears her master's footfall. She will be compelled to realize that
she is no longer a child. If God has bestowed beauty upon her, it
will prove her greatest curse. That which commands admiration in
the white woman only hastens the degradation of the female slave.
I know that some are too much brutalized by slavery to feel the
humiliation of their position; but many slaves feel it most
acutely, and shrink from the memory of it. I cannot tell how much
I suffered in the presence of these wrongs, nor how I am still
pained by the retrospect. My master met me at every turn,
reminding me that I belonged to him, and swearing by heaven and
earth that he would compel me to submit to him. If I went out for
a breath of fresh air, after a day of unwearied toil, his
footsteps dogged me. If I knelt by my mother's grave, his dark
shadow fell on me even there. The light heart which nature had
given me became heavy with sad forebodings. The other slaves in my
master's house noticed the change. Many of them pitied me; but
none dared to ask the cause. They had no need to inquire. They
knew too well the guilty practices under that roof; and they were
aware that to speak of them was an offence that never went
unpunished.
I longed for some one to confide in. I would have given the world
to have laid my head on my grandmother's faithful bosom, and told
her all my troubles. But Dr. Flint swore he would kill me, if I
was not as silent as the grave. Then, although my grandmother was
all in all to me, I feared her as well as loved her. I had been
accustomed to look up to her with a respect bordering upon awe. I
was very young, and felt shamefaced about telling her such impure
things, especially as I knew her to be very strict on such
subjects. Moreover, she was a woman of a high spirit. She was
usually very quiet in her demeanor; but if her indignation was
once roused, it was not very easily quelled. I had been told that
she once chased a white gentleman with a loaded pistol, because he
insulted one of her daughters. I dreaded the consequences of a
violent outbreak; and both pride and fear kept me silent. But
though I did not confide in my grandmother, and even evaded her
vigilant watchfulness and inquiry, her presence in the
neighborhood was some protection to me. Though she had been a
slave, Dr. Flint was afraid of her. He dreaded her scorching
rebukes. Moreover, she was known and patronized by many people;
and he did not wish to have his villany made public. It was lucky
for me that I did not live on a distant plantation, but in a town
not so large that the inhabitants were ignorant of each other's
affairs. Bad as are the laws and customs in a slaveholding
community, the doctor, as a professional man, deemed it prudent to
keep up some outward show of decency.
O, what days and nights of fear and sorrow that man caused me!
Reader, it is not to awaken sympathy for myself that I am telling
you truthfully what I suffered in slavery. I do it to kindle a
flame of compassion in your hearts for my sisters who are still in
bondage, suffering as I once suffered.
I once saw two beautiful children playing together. One was a
fair white child; the other was her slave, and also her sister.
When I saw them embracing each other, and heard their joyous
laughter, I turned sadly away from the lovely sight. I foresaw the
inevitable blight that would fall on the little slave's heart. I
knew how soon her laughter would be changed to sighs. The fair
child grew up to be a still fairer woman. From childhood to
womanhood her pathway was blooming with flowers, and overarched by
a sunny sky. Scarcely one day of her life had been clouded when
the sun rose on her happy bridal morning.
How had those years dealt with her slave sister, the little
playmate of her childhood? She, also, was very beautiful; but the
flowers and sunshine of love were not for her. She drank the cup
of sin, and shame, and misery, whereof her persecuted race are
compelled to drink.
In view of these things, why are ye silent, ye free men and women
of the north? Why do your tongues falter in maintenance of the
right? Would that I had more ability! But my heart is so full, and
my pen is so weak! There are noble men and women who plead for us,
striving to help those who cannot help themselves. God bless them!
God give them strength and courage to go on! God bless those,
every where, who are laboring to advance the cause of humanity!
VI. The Jealous Mistress
I would ten thousand times rather that my children should be the
half-starved paupers of Ireland than to be the most pampered among
the slaves of America. I would rather drudge out my life on a
cotton plantation, till the grave opened to give me rest, than to
live with an unprincipled master and a jealous mistress. The
felon's home in a penitentiary is preferable. He may repent, and
turn from the error of his ways, and so find peace; but it is not
so with a favorite slave. She is not allowed to have any pride of
character. It is deemed a crime in her to wish to be virtuous.
Mrs. Flint possessed the key to her husband's character before I
was born. She might have used this knowledge to counsel and to
screen the young and the innocent among her slaves; but for them
she had no sympathy. They were the objects of her constant
suspicion and malevolence. She watched her husband with unceasing
vigilance; but he was well practised in means to evade it. What he
could not find opportunity to say in words he manifested in signs.
He invented more than were ever thought of in a deaf and dumb
asylum. I let them pass, as if I did not understand what he meant;
and many were the curses and threats bestowed on me for my
stupidity. One day he caught me teaching myself to write. He
frowned, as if he was not well pleased; but I suppose he came to
the conclusion that such an accomplishment might help to advance
his favorite scheme. Before long, notes were often slipped into my
hand. I would return them, saying, "I can't read them, sir."
"Can't you?" he replied; "then I must read them to you." He always
finished the reading by asking, "Do you understand?" Sometimes he
would complain of the heat of the tea room, and order his supper
to be placed on a small table in the piazza. He would seat himself
there with a well-satisfied smile, and tell me to stand by and
brush away the flies. He would eat very slowly, pausing between
the mouthfuls. These intervals were employed in describing the
happiness I was so foolishly throwing away, and in threatening me
with the penalty that finally awaited my stubborn disobedience. He
boasted much of the forbearance he had exercised towards me, and
reminded me that there was a limit to his patience. When I
succeeded in avoiding opportunities for him to talk to me at home,
I was ordered to come to his office, to do some errand. When
there, I was obliged to stand and listen to such language as he
saw fit to address to me. Sometimes I so openly expressed my
contempt for him that he would become violently enraged, and I
wondered why he did not strike me. Circumstanced as he was, he
probably thought it was better policy to be forebearing. But the
state of things grew worse and worse daily. In desperation I told
him that I must and would apply to my grandmother for protection.
He threatened me with death, and worse than death, if I made any
complaint to her. Strange to say, I did not despair. I was
naturally of a buoyant disposition, and always I had a hope of
somehow getting out of his clutches. Like many a poor, simple
slave before me, I trusted that some threads of joy would yet be
woven into my dark destiny.
I had entered my sixteenth year, and every day it became more
apparent that my presence was intolerable to Mrs. Flint. Angry
words frequently passed between her and her husband. He had never
punished me himself, and he would not allow any body else to
punish me. In that respect, she was never satisfied; but, in her
angry moods, no terms were too vile for her to bestow upon me. Yet
I, whom she detested so bitterly, had far more pity for her than
he had, whose duty it was to make her life happy. I never wronged
her, or wished to wrong her, and one word of kindness from her
would have brought me to her feet.
After repeated quarrels between the doctor and his wife, he
announced his intention to take his youngest daughter, then four
years old, to sleep in his apartment. It was necessary that a
servant should sleep in the same room, to be on hand if the child
stirred. I was selected for that office, and informed for what
purpose that arrangement had been made. By managing to keep within
sight of people, as much as possible, during the day time, I had
hitherto succeeded in eluding my master, though a razor was often
held to my throat to force me to change this line of policy. At
night I slept by the side of my great aunt, where I felt safe. He
was too prudent to come into her room. She was an old woman, and
had been in the family many years. Moreover, as a married man, and
a professional man, he deemed it necessary to save appearances in
some degree. But he resolved to remove the obstacle in the way of
his scheme; and he thought he had planned it so that he should
evade suspicion. He was well aware how much I prized my refuge by
the side of my old aunt, and he determined to dispossess me of it.
The first night the doctor had the little child in his room alone.
The next morning, I was ordered to take my station as nurse the
following night. A kind Providence interposed in my favor. During
the day Mrs. Flint heard of this new arrangement, and a storm
followed. I rejoiced to hear it rage.
After a while my mistress sent for me to come to her room. Her
first question was, "Did you know you were to sleep in the
doctor's room?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Who told you?"
"My master."
"Will you answer truly all the questions I ask?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Tell me, then, as you hope to be forgiven, are you innocent of
what I have accused you?"
"I am."
She handed me a Bible, and said, "Lay your hand on your heart,
kiss this holy book, and swear before God that you tell me the
truth."
I took the oath she required, and I did it with a clear
conscience.
"You have taken God's holy word to testify your innocence," said
she. "If you have deceived me, beware! Now take this stool, sit
down, look me directly in the face, and tell me all that has
passed between your master and you."
I did as she ordered. As I went on with my account her color
changed frequently, she wept, and sometimes groaned. She spoke in
tones so sad, that I was touched by her grief. The tears came to
my eyes; but I was soon convinced that her emotions arose from
anger and wounded pride. She felt that her marriage vows were
desecrated, her dignity insulted; but she had no compassion for
the poor victim of her husband's perfidy. She pitied herself as a
martyr; but she was incapable of feeling for the condition of
shame and misery in which her unfortunate, helpless slave was
placed. Yet perhaps she had some touch of feeling for me; for when
the conference was ended, she spoke kindly, and promised to
protect me. I should have been much comforted by this assurance if
I could have had confidence in it; but my experiences in slavery
had filled me with distrust. She was not a very refined woman, and
had not much control over her passions. I was an object of her
jealousy, and, consequently, of her hatred; and I knew I could not
expect kindness or confidence from her under the circumstances in
which I was placed. I could not blame her. Slaveholders' wives
feel as other women would under similar circumstances. The fire of
her temper kindled from small-sparks, and now the flame became so
intense that the doctor was obliged to give up his intended
arrangement.
I knew I had ignited the torch, and I expected to suffer for it
afterwards; but I felt too thankful to my mistress for the timely
aid she rendered me to care much about that. She now took me to
sleep in a room adjoining her own. There I was an object of her
especial care, though not to her especial comfort, for she spent
many a sleepless night to watch over me. Sometimes I woke up, and
found her bending over me. At other times she whispered in my ear,
as though it was her husband who was speaking to me, and listened
to hear what I would answer. If she startled me, on such
occasions, she would glide stealthily away; and the next morning
she would tell me I had been talking in my sleep, and ask who I
was talking to. At last, I began to be fearful for my life. It had
been often threatened; and you can imagine, better than I can
describe, what an unpleasant sensation it must produce to wake up
in the dead of night and find a jealous woman bending over you.
Terrible as this experience was, I had fears that it would give
place to one more terrible.
My mistress grew weary of her vigils; they did not prove
satisfactory. She changed her tactics. She now tried the trick of
accusing my master of crime, in my presence, and gave my name as
the author of the accusation. To my utter astonishment, he
replied, "I don't believe it; but if she did acknowledge it, you
tortured her into exposing me." Tortured into exposing him! Truly,
Satan had no difficulty in distinguishing the color of his soul! I
understood his object in making this false representation. It was
to show me that I gained nothing by seeking the protection of my
mistress; that the power was still all in his own hands. I pitied
Mrs. Flint. She was a second wife, many years the junior of her
husband; and the hoary-headed miscreant was enough to try the
patience of a wiser and better woman. She was completely foiled,
and knew not how to proceed. She would gladly have had me flogged
for my supposed false oath; but, as I have already stated, the
doctor never allowed any one to whip me. The old sinner was
politic. The application of the lash might have led to remarks
that would have exposed him in the eyes of his children and
grandchildren. How often did I rejoice that I lived in a town
where all the inhabitants knew each other! If I had been on a
remote plantation, or lost among the multitude of a crowded city,
I should not be a living woman at this day.
The secrets of slavery are concealed like those of the
Inquisition. My master was, to my knowledge, the father of eleven
slaves. But did the mothers dare to tell who was the father of
their children? Did the other slaves dare to allude to it, except
in whispers among themselves? No, indeed! They knew too well the
terrible consequences.
My grandmother could not avoid seeing things which excited her
suspicions. She was uneasy about me, and tried various ways to buy
me; but the never-changing answer was always repeated: "Linda does
not belong to me. She is my daughter's property, and I have no
legal right to sell her." The conscientious man! He was too
scrupulous to sell me; but he had no scruples whatever about
committing a much greater wrong against the helpless young girl
placed under his guardianship, as his daughter's property.
Sometimes my persecutor would ask me whether I would like to be
sold. I told him I would rather be sold to any body than to lead
such a life as I did. On such occasions he would assume the air of
a very injured individual, and reproach me for my ingratitude.
"Did I not take you into the house, and make you the companion of
my own children?" he would say. "Have I ever treated you like a
negro? I have never allowed you to be punished, not even to please
your mistress. And this is the recompense I get, you ungrateful
girl!" I answered that he had reasons of his own for screening me
from punishment, and that the course he pursued made my mistress
hate me and persecute me. If I wept, he would say, "Poor child!
Don't cry! don't cry! I will make peace for you with your
mistress. Only let me arrange matters in my own way. Poor, foolish
girl! you don't know what is for your own good. I would cherish
you. I would make a lady of you. Now go, and think of all I have
promised you."
I did think of it.
Reader, I draw no imaginary pictures of southern homes. I am
telling you the plain truth. Yet when victims make their escape
from the wild beast of Slavery, northerners consent to act the
part of bloodhounds, and hunt the poor fugitive back into his den,
"full of dead men's bones, and all uncleanness." Nay, more, they
are not only willing, but proud, to give their daughters in
marriage to slaveholders. The poor girls have romantic notions of
a sunny clime, and of the flowering vines that all the year round
shade a happy home. To what disappointments are they destined! The
young wife soon learns that the husband in whose hands she has
placed her happiness pays no regard to his marriage vows. Children
of every shade of complexion play with her own fair babies, and
too well she knows that they are born unto him of his own
household. Jealousy and hatred enter the flowery home, and it is
ravaged of its loveliness.
Southern women often marry a man knowing that he is the father of
many little slaves. They do not trouble themselves about it. They
regard such children as property, as marketable as the pigs on the
plantation; and it is seldom that they do not make them aware of
this by passing them into the slave-trader's hands as soon as
possible, and thus getting them out of their sight. I am glad to
say there are some honorable exceptions.
I have myself known two southern wives who exhorted their
husbands to free those slaves towards whom they stood in a
"parental relation;" and their request was granted. These husbands
blushed before the superior nobleness of their wives' natures.
Though they had only counselled them to do that which it was their
duty to do, it commanded their respect, and rendered their conduct
more exemplary. Concealment was at an end, and confidence took the
place of distrust.
Though this bad institution deadens the moral sense, even in
white women, to a fearful extent, it is not altogether extinct. I
have heard southern ladies say of Mr. Such a one, "He not only
thinks it no disgrace to be the father of those little niggers,
but he is not ashamed to call himself their master. I declare,
such things ought not to be tolerated in any decent society!"
VII. The Lover
Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart
to twine around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away
by the hand of violence? When separations come by the hand of
death, the pious soul can bow in resignation, and say, "Not my
will, but thine be done, O Lord!" But when the ruthless hand of
man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he causes, it is
hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a young
girl. Youth will be youth. I loved and I indulged the hope that
the dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot
that in the land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light
to penetrate. A land
Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind;
Nor words a language; nor e'en men mankind.
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell.
There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free
born man. We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently
met together afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he
proposed to marry me. I loved him with all the ardor of a young
girl's first love. But when I reflected that I was a slave, and
that the laws gave no sanction to the marriage of such, my heart
sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I knew that Dr.
Flint was too willful and arbitrary a man to consent to that
arrangement. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sort of
opposition, and I had nothing to hope from my mistress. She would
have been delighted to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It
would have relieved her mind of a burden if she could have seen me
sold to some distant state, but if I was married near home I
should be just as much in her husband's power as I had previously
been,—for the husband of a slave has no power to protect her.
Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that
slaves had no right to any family ties of their own; that they
were created merely to wait upon the family of the mistress. I
once heard her abuse a young slave girl, who told her that a
colored man wanted to make her his wife. "I will have you peeled
and pickled, my lady," said she, "if I ever hear you mention that
subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending my
children with the children of that nigger?" The girl to whom she
said this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its
father. The poor black man who loved her would have been proud to
acknowledge his helpless offspring.
Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was
at a loss what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my
lover the insults that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I
talked with my grandmother about it, and partly told her my fears.
I did not dare to tell her the worst. She had long suspected all
was not right, and if I confirmed her suspicions I knew a storm
would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes.
This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I
could not bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated.
There was a lady in the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr.
Flint's, who often visited the house. I had a great respect for
her, and she had always manifested a friendly interest in me.
Grandmother thought she would have great influence with the
doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I
was aware that my lover's being a free-born man would prove a
great objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would
consent to that arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to
pay any reasonable price. She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me;
therefore, I ventured to suggest that perhaps my mistress would
approve of my being sold, as that would rid her of me. The lady
listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her utmost to
promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I
believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no
purpose.
How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be
summoned to his presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing
from him. The next morning, a message was brought to me: "Master
wants you in his study." I found the door ajar, and I stood a
moment gazing at the hateful man who claimed a right to rule me,
body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear calm. I did not want
him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked fixedly at me,
with an expression which seemed to say, "I have half a mind to
kill you on the spot." At last he broke the silence, and that was
a relief to both of us.
"So you want to be married, do you?" said he, "and to a free
nigger."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the
nigger fellow you honor so highly. If you must have a husband, you
may take up with one of my slaves."
What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of his
slaves, even if my heart had been interested!
I replied, "Don't you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some
preference about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike
to her?"
"Do you love this nigger?" said he, abruptly.
"Yes, sir."
"How dare you tell me so!" he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a
slight pause, he added, "I supposed you thought more of yourself;
that you felt above the insults of such puppies."
I replied, "If he is a puppy, I am a puppy, for we are both of
the negro race. It is right and honorable for us to love each
other. The man you call a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he
would not love me if he did not believe me to be a virtuous
woman."
He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It
was the first time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable
me to control my anger. When I had recovered a little from the
effects, I exclaimed, "You have struck me for answering you
honestly. How I despise you!"
There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what
should be my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to
reflect on what I had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he
asked, "Do you know what you have said?"
"Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it."
"Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,—that I
can kill you, if I please?"
"You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no
right to do as you like with me."
"Silence!" he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. "By heavens,
girl, you forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will
soon bring you to your senses. Do you think any other master would
bear what I have borne from you this morning? Many masters would
have killed you on the spot. How would you like to be sent to jail
for your insolence?"
"I know I have been disrespectful, sir," I replied; "but you
drove me to it; I couldn't help it. As for the jail, there would
be more peace for me there than there is here."
"You deserve to go there," said he, "and to be under such
treatment, that you would forget the meaning of the word peace. It
would do you good. It would take some of your high notions out of
you. But I am not ready to send you there yet, notwithstanding
your ingratitude for all my kindness and forbearance. You have
been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you happy, and I
have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you have
proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be
lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to
redeem your character. If you behave yourself and do as I require,
I will forgive you and treat you as I always have done; but if you
disobey me, I will punish you as I would the meanest slave on my
plantation. Never let me hear that fellow's name mentioned again.
If I ever know of your speaking to him, I will cowhide you both;
and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will shoot him as
soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I'll teach you a
lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be
the last time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject."
Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and
I trust I never shall again. Somebody has called it "the
atmosphere of hell;" and I believe it is so.
For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to
mortify me; to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by
receiving the honorable addresses of a respectable colored man, in
preference to the base proposals of a white man. But though his
lips disdained to address me, his eyes were very loquacious. No
animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he watched me. He
knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me read his
letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters
with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I
was sorry for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to
leave the house, he contrived to thrust a note into my hand. I
thought I had better read it, and spare myself the vexation of
having him read it to me. It expressed regret for the blow he had
given me, and reminded me that I myself was wholly to blame for
it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was doing
myself by incurring his displeasure. He wrote that he had made up
his mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves
with him, and intended I should be one of the number. My mistress
would remain where she was; therefore I should have nothing to
fear from that quarter. If I merited kindness from him, he assured
me that it would be lavishly bestowed. He begged me to think over
the matter, and answer the following day.
The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his
room. I laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He
thought it was my answer, and did not call me back. I went as
usual to attend my young mistress to and from school. He met me in
the street, and ordered me to stop at his office on my way back.
When I entered, he showed me his letter, and asked me why I had
not answered it. I replied, "I am your daughter's property, and it
is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you please." He
said he was very glad to find me so willing to go, and that we
should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the
town, and I rather thought he had made up the story merely to
frighten me. However that might be, I was determined that I would
never go to Louisiana with him.
Summer passed away, and early in the autumn Dr. Flint's eldest
son was sent to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to
emigrating. That news did not disturb me. I knew very well that I
should not be sent with him. That I had not been taken to the
plantation before this time, was owing to the fact that his son
was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of the overseer
had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the fields to
work. Is it strange, that I was not proud of these protectors? As
for the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I
had for a bloodhound.
Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of
Louisiana, and I heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my
lover met me at the corner of the street, and I stopped to speak
to him. Looking up, I saw my master watching us from his window. I
hurried home, trembling with fear. I was sent for, immediately, to
go to his room. He met me with a blow. "When is mistress to be
married?" said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths and
imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free
man! that my tyrant had no power to flog him for speaking to me in
the street!
Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end.
There was no hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any
terms. He had an iron will, and was determined to keep me, and to
conquer me. My lover was an intelligent and religious man. Even if
he could have obtained permission to marry me while I was a slave,
the marriage would give him no power to protect me from my master.
It would have made him miserable to witness the insults I should
have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I knew they
must "follow the condition of the mother." What a terrible blight
that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For his
sake, I felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy
destiny. He was going to Savannah to see about a little property
left him by an uncle; and hard as it was to bring my feelings to
it, I earnestly entreated him not to come back. I advised him to
go to the Free States, where his tongue would not be tied, and
where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He left me,
still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me
the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over.
I felt lonely and desolate.
Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother,
and my affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck,
and looked into my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared
not tell, I felt that I still had something to love. But even that
pleasant emotion was chilled by the reflection that he might be
torn from me at any moment, by some sudden freak of my master. If
he had known how we loved each other, I think he would have
exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could
get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier
said than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had
no means of getting any money to defray our expenses. As for
grandmother, she was strongly opposed to her children's
undertaking any such project. She had not forgotten poor
Benjamin's sufferings, and she was afraid that if another child
tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To me,
nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to
myself, "William must be free. He shall go to the north, and I
will follow him." Many a slave sister has formed the same plans.
[text omitted]
X. A Perilous Passage In The Slave Girl's Life
After my lover went away, Dr. Flint contrived a new plan. He
seemed to have an idea that my fear of my mistress was his
greatest obstacle. In the blandest tones, he told me that he was
going to build a small house for me, in a secluded place, four
miles away from the town. I shuddered; but I was constrained to
listen, while he talked of his intention to give me a home of my
own, and to make a lady of me. Hitherto, I had escaped my dreaded
fate, by being in the midst of people. My grandmother had already
had high words with my master about me. She had told him pretty
plainly what she thought of his character, and there was
considerable gossip in the neighborhood about our affairs, to
which the open-mouthed jealousy of Mrs. Flint contributed not a
little. When my master said he was going to build a house for me,
and that he could do it with little trouble and expense, I was in
hopes something would happen to frustrate his scheme; but I soon
heard that the house was actually begun. I vowed before my Maker
that I would never enter it: I had rather toil on the plantation
from dawn till dark; I had rather live and die in jail, than drag
on, from day to day, through such a living death. I was determined
that the master, whom I so hated and loathed, who had blighted the
prospects of my youth, and made my life a desert, should not,
after my long struggle with him, succeed at last in trampling his
victim under his feet. I would do any thing, every thing, for the
sake of defeating him. What could I do? I thought and thought,
till I became desperate, and made a plunge into the abyss.
And now, reader, I come to a period in my unhappy life, which I
would gladly forget if I could. The remembrance fills me with
sorrow and shame. It pains me to tell you of it; but I have
promised to tell you the truth, and I will do it honestly, let it
cost me what it may. I will not try to screen myself behind the
plea of compulsion from a master; for it was not so. Neither can I
plead ignorance or thoughtlessness. For years, my master had done
his utmost to pollute my mind with foul images, and to destroy the
pure principles inculcated by my grandmother, and the good
mistress of my childhood. The influences of slavery had had the
same effect on me that they had on other young girls; they had
made me prematurely knowing, concerning the evil ways of the
world. I knew what I did, and I did it with deliberate
calculation.
But, O, ye happy women, whose purity has been sheltered from
childhood, who have been free to choose the objects of your
affection, whose homes are protected by law, do not judge the poor
desolate slave girl too severely! If slavery had been abolished,
I, also, could have married the man of my choice; I could have had
a home shielded by the laws; and I should have been spared the
painful task of confessing what I am now about to relate; but all
my prospects had been blighted by slavery. I wanted to keep myself
pure; and, under the most adverse circumstances, I tried hard to
preserve my self-respect; but I was struggling alone in the
powerful grasp of the demon Slavery; and the monster proved too
strong for me. I felt as if I was forsaken by God and man; as if
all my efforts must be frustrated; and I became reckless in my
despair.
I have told you that Dr. Flint's persecutions and his wife's
jealousy had given rise to some gossip in the neighborhood. Among
others, it chanced that a white unmarried gentleman had obtained
some knowledge of the circumstances in which I was placed. He knew
my grandmother, and often spoke to me in the street. He became
interested for me, and asked questions about my master, which I
answered in part. He expressed a great deal of sympathy, and a
wish to aid me. He constantly sought opportunities to see me, and
wrote to me frequently. I was a poor slave girl, only fifteen
years old.
So much attention from a superior person was, of course,
flattering; for human nature is the same in all. I also felt
grateful for his sympathy, and encouraged by his kind words. It
seemed to me a great thing to have such a friend. By degrees, a
more tender feeling crept into my heart. He was an educated and
eloquent gentleman; too eloquent, alas, for the poor slave girl
who trusted in him. Of course I saw whither all this was tending.
I knew the impassable gulf between us; but to be an object of
interest to a man who is not married, and who is not her master,
is agreeable to the pride and feelings of a slave, if her
miserable situation has left her any pride or sentiment. It seems
less degrading to give one's self, than to submit to compulsion.
There is something akin to freedom in having a lover who has no
control over you, except that which he gains by kindness and
attachment. A master may treat you as rudely as he pleases, and
you dare not speak; moreover, the wrong does not seem so great
with an unmarried man, as with one who has a wife to be made
unhappy. There may be sophistry in all this; but the condition of
a slave confuses all principles of morality, and, in fact, renders
the practice of them impossible.
When I found that my master had actually begun to build the
lonely cottage, other feelings mixed with those I have described.
Revenge, and calculations of interest, were added to flattered
vanity and sincere gratitude for kindness. I knew nothing would
enrage Dr. Flint so much as to know that I favored another, and it
was something to triumph over my tyrant even in that small way. I
thought he would revenge himself by selling me, and I was sure my
friend, Mr. Sands, would buy me. He was a man of more generosity
and feeling than my master, and I thought my freedom could be
easily obtained from him. The crisis of my fate now came so near
that I was desperate. I shuddered to think of being the mother of
children that should be owned by my old tyrant. I knew that as
soon as a new fancy took him, his victims were sold far off to get
rid of them; especially if they had children. I had seen several
women sold, with babies at the breast. He never allowed his
offspring by slaves to remain long in sight of himself and his
wife. Of a man who was not my master I could ask to have my
children well supported; and in this case, I felt confident I
should obtain the boon. I also felt quite sure that they would be
made free. With all these thoughts revolving in my mind, and
seeing no other way of escaping the doom I so much dreaded, I made
a headlong plunge. Pity me, and pardon me, O virtuous reader! You
never knew what it is to be a slave; to be entirely unprotected by
law or custom; to have the laws reduce you to the condition of a
chattel, entirely subject to the will of another. You never
exhausted your ingenuity in avoiding the snares, and eluding the
power of a hated tyrant; you never shuddered at the sound of his
footsteps, and trembled within hearing of his voice. I know I did
wrong. No one can feel it more sensibly than I do. The painful and
humiliating memory will haunt me to my dying day. Still, in
looking back, calmly, on the events of my life, I feel that the
slave woman ought not to be judged by the same standard as others.
The months passed on. I had many unhappy hours. I secretly
mourned over the sorrow I was bringing on my grandmother, who had
so tried to shield me from harm. I knew that I was the greatest
comfort of her old age, and that it was a source of pride to her
that I had not degraded myself, like most of the slaves. I wanted
to confess to her that I was no longer worthy of her love; but I
could not utter the dreaded words.
As for Dr. Flint, I had a feeling of satisfaction and triumph in
the thought of telling him. From time to time he told me of his
intended arrangements, and I was silent. At last, he came and told
me the cottage was completed, and ordered me to go to it. I told
him I would never enter it. He said, "I have heard enough of such
talk as that. You shall go, if you are carried by force; and you
shall remain there."
I replied, "I will never go there. In a few months I shall be a
mother."
He stood and looked at me in dumb amazement, and left the house
without a word. I thought I should be happy in my triumph over
him. But now that the truth was out, and my relatives would hear
of it, I felt wretched. Humble as were their circumstances, they
had pride in my good character. Now, how could I look at them in
the face? My self-respect was gone! I had resolved that I would be
virtuous, though I was a slave. I had said, "Let the storm beat! I
will brave it till I die." And now, how humiliated I felt!
I went to my grandmother. My lips moved to make confession, but
the words stuck in my throat. I sat down in the shade of a tree at
her door and began to sew. I think she saw something unusual was
the matter with me. The mother of slaves is very watchful. She
knows there is no security for her children. After they have
entered their teens she lives in daily expectation of trouble.
This leads to many questions. If the girl is of a sensitive
nature, timidity keeps her from answering truthfully, and this
well-meant course has a tendency to drive her from maternal
counsels. Presently, in came my mistress, like a mad woman, and
accused me concerning her husband. My grandmother, whose
suspicions had been previously awakened, believed what she said.
She exclaimed, "O Linda! Has it come to this? I had rather see you
dead than to see you as you now are. You are a disgrace to your
dead mother." She tore from my fingers my mother's wedding ring
and her silver thimble. "Go away!" she exclaimed, "and never come
to my house, again." Her reproaches fell so hot and heavy, that
they left me no chance to answer. Bitter tears, such as the eyes
never shed but once, were my only answer. I rose from my seat, but
fell back again, sobbing. She did not speak to me; but the tears
were running down her furrowed cheeks, and they scorched me like
fire. She had always been so kind to me! So kind! How I longed to
throw myself at her feet, and tell her all the truth! But she had
ordered me to go, and never to come there again. After a few
minutes, I mustered strength, and started to obey her. With what
feelings did I now close that little gate, which I used to open
with such an eager hand in my childhood! It closed upon me with a
sound I never heard before.
Where could I go? I was afraid to return to my master's. I walked
on recklessly, not caring where I went, or what would become of
me. When I had gone four or five miles, fatigue compelled me to
stop. I sat down on the stump of an old tree. The stars were
shining through the boughs above me. How they mocked me, with
their bright, calm light! The hours passed by, and as I sat there
alone a chilliness and deadly sickness came over me. I sank on the
ground. My mind was full of horrid thoughts. I prayed to die; but
the prayer was not answered. At last, with great effort I roused
myself, and walked some distance further, to the house of a woman
who had been a friend of my mother. When I told her why I was
there, she spoke soothingly to me; but I could not be comforted. I
thought I could bear my shame if I could only be reconciled to my
grandmother. I longed to open my heart to her. I thought if she
could know the real state of the case, and all I had been bearing
for years, she would perhaps judge me less harshly. My friend
advised me to send for her. I did so; but days of agonizing
suspense passed before she came. Had she utterly forsaken me? No.
She came at last. I knelt before her, and told her the things that
had poisoned my life; how long I had been persecuted; that I saw
no way of escape; and in an hour of extremity I had become
desperate. She listened in silence. I told her I would bear any
thing and do any thing, if in time I had hopes of obtaining her
forgiveness. I begged of her to pity me, for my dead mother's
sake. And she did pity me. She did not say, "I forgive you;" but
she looked at me lovingly, with her eyes full of tears. She laid
her old hand gently on my head, and murmured, "Poor child! Poor
child!"
XI. The New Tie To Life
I returned to my good grandmother's house. She had an interview
with Mr. Sands. When she asked him why he could not have left her
one ewe lamb,—whether there were not plenty of slaves who did not
care about character,—he made no answer, but he spoke kind and
encouraging words. He promised to care for my child, and to buy
me, be the conditions what they might.
I had not seen Dr. Flint for five days. I had never seen him
since I made the avowal to him. He talked of the disgrace I had
brought on myself; how I had sinned against my master, and
mortified my old grandmother. He intimated that if I had accepted
his proposals, he, as a physician, could have saved me from
exposure. He even condescended to pity me. Could he have offered
wormwood more bitter? He, whose persecutions had been the cause of
my sin!
"Linda," said he, "though you have been criminal towards me, I
feel for you, and I can pardon you if you obey my wishes. Tell me
whether the fellow you wanted to marry is the father of your
child. If you deceive me, you shall feel the fires of hell."
I did not feel as proud as I had done. My strongest weapon with
him was gone. I was lowered in my own estimation, and had resolved
to bear his abuse in silence. But when he spoke contemptuously of
the lover who had always treated me honorably; when I remembered
that but for him I might have been a virtuous, free, and happy
wife, I lost my patience. "I have sinned against God and myself,"
I replied; "but not against you."
He clinched his teeth, and muttered, "Curse you!" He came towards
me, with ill-suppressed rage, and exclaimed, "You obstinate girl!
I could grind your bones to powder! You have thrown yourself away
on some worthless rascal. You are weak-minded, and have been
easily persuaded by those who don't care a straw for you. The
future will settle accounts between us. You are blinded now; but
hereafter you will be convinced that your master was your best
friend. My lenity towards you is a proof of it. I might have
punished you in many ways. I might have whipped till you fell dead
under the lash. But I wanted you to live; I would have bettered
your condition. Others cannot do it. You are my slave. Your
mistress, disgusted by your conduct, forbids you to return to the
house; therefore I leave you here for the present; but I shall see
you often. I will call to-morrow."
He came with frowning brows, that showed a dissatisfied state of
mind. After asking about my health, he inquired whether my board
was paid, and who visited me. He then went on to say that he had
neglected his duty; that as a physician there were certain things
that he ought to have explained to me. Then followed talk such as
would have made the most shameless blush. He ordered me to stand
up before him. I obeyed. "I command you," said he, "to tell me
whether the father of your child is white or black." I hesitated.
"Answer me this instant!" he exclaimed. I did answer. He sprang
upon me like a wolf, and grabbed my arm as if he would have broken
it. "Do you love him?" said he, in a hissing tone.
"I am thankful that I do not despise him," I replied.
He raised his hand to strike me; but it fell again. I don't know
what arrested the blow. He sat down, with lips tightly compressed.
At last he spoke. "I came here," said he, "to make you a friendly
proposition; but your ingratitude chafes me beyond endurance. You
turn aside all my good intentions towards you. I don't know what
it is that keeps me from killing you." Again he rose, as if he had
a mind to strike me.
But he resumed. "On one condition I will forgive your insolence
and crime. You must henceforth have no communication of any kind
with the father of your child. You must not ask any thing from
him, or receive any thing from him. I will take care of you and
your child. You had better promise this at once, and not wait till
you are deserted by him. This is the last act of mercy I shall
show towards you."
I said something about being unwilling to have my child supported
by a man who had cursed it and me also. He rejoined, that a woman
who had sunk to my level had no right to expect any thing else. He
asked, for the last time, would I accept his kindness? I answered
that I would not.
"Very well," said he; "then take the consequences of your wayward
course.
Never look to me for help. You are my slave, and shall always be
my slave.
I will never sell you, that you may depend upon."
Hope died away in my heart as he closed the door after him. I had
calculated that in his rage he would sell me to a slave-trader;
and I knew the father of my child was on the watch to buy me.
About this time my uncle Phillip was expected to return from a
voyage. The day before his departure I had officiated as
bridesmaid to a young friend. My heart was then ill at ease, but
my smiling countenance did not betray it. Only a year had passed;
but what fearful changes it had wrought! My heart had grown gray
in misery. Lives that flash in sunshine, and lives that are born
in tears, receive their hue from circumstances. None of us know
what a year may bring forth.
I felt no joy when they told me my uncle had come. He wanted to
see me, though he knew what had happened. I shrank from him at
first; but at last consented that he should come to my room. He
received me as he always had done. O, how my heart smote me when I
felt his tears on my burning cheeks! The words of my grandmother
came to my mind,—"Perhaps your mother and father are taken from
the evil days to come." My disappointed heart could now praise God
that it was so. But why, thought I, did my relatives ever cherish
hopes for me? What was there to save me from the usual fate of
slave girls? Many more beautiful and more intelligent than I had
experienced a similar fate, or a far worse one. How could they
hope that I should escape?
My uncle's stay was short, and I was not sorry for it. I was too
ill in mind and body to enjoy my friends as I had done. For some
weeks I was unable to leave my bed. I could not have any doctor
but my master, and I would not have him sent for. At last, alarmed
by my increasing illness, they sent for him. I was very weak and
nervous; and as soon as he entered the room, I began to scream.
They told him my state was very critical. He had no wish to hasten
me out of the world, and he withdrew.
When my babe was born, they said it was premature. It weighed
only four pounds; but God let it live. I heard the doctor say I
could not survive till morning. I had often prayed for death; but
now I did not want to die, unless my child could die too. Many
weeks passed before I was able to leave my bed. I was a mere wreck
of my former self. For a year there was scarcely a day when I was
free from chills and fever. My babe also was sickly. His little
limbs were often racked with pain. Dr. Flint continued his visits,
to look after my health; and he did not fail to remind me that my
child was an addition to his stock of slaves.
I felt too feeble to dispute with him, and listened to his
remarks in silence. His visits were less frequent; but his busy
spirit could not remain quiet. He employed my brother in his
office; and he was made the medium of frequent notes and messages
to me. William was a bright lad, and of much use to the doctor. He
had learned to put up medicines, to leech, cup, and bleed. He had
taught himself to read and spell. I was proud of my brother, and
the old doctor suspected as much. One day, when I had not seen him
for several weeks, I heard his steps approaching the door. I
dreaded the encounter, and hid myself. He inquired for me, of
course; but I was nowhere to be found. He went to his office, and
despatched William with a note. The color mounted to my brother's
face when he gave it to me; and he said, "Don't you hate me,
Linda, for bringing you these things?" I told him I could not
blame him; he was a slave, and obliged to obey his master's will.
The note ordered me to come to his office. I went. He demanded to
know where I was when he called. I told him I was at home. He flew
into a passion, and said he knew better. Then he launched out upon
his usual themes,—my crimes against him, and my ingratitude for
his forbearance. The laws were laid down to me anew, and I was
dismissed. I felt humiliated that my brother should stand by, and
listen to such language as would be addressed only to a slave.
Poor boy! He was powerless to defend me; but I saw the tears,
which he vainly strove to keep back. The manifestation of feeling
irritated the doctor. William could do nothing to please him. One
morning he did not arrive at the office so early as usual; and
that circumstance afforded his master an opportunity to vent his
spleen. He was put in jail. The next day my brother sent a trader
to the doctor, with a request to be sold. His master was greatly
incensed at what he called his insolence. He said he had put him
there, to reflect upon his bad conduct, and he certainly was not
giving any evidence of repentance. For two days he harassed
himself to find somebody to do his office work; but every thing
went wrong without William. He was released, and ordered to take
his old stand, with many threats, if he was not careful about his
future behavior.
As the months passed on, my boy improved in health. When he was a
year old, they called him beautiful. The little vine was taking
deep root in my existence, though its clinging fondness excited a
mixture of love and pain. When I was most sorely oppressed I found
a solace in his smiles. I loved to watch his infant slumbers; but
always there was a dark cloud over my enjoyment. I could never
forget that he was a slave. Sometimes I wished that he might die
in infancy. God tried me. My darling became very ill. The bright
eyes grew dull, and the little feet and hands were so icy cold
that I thought death had already touched them. I had prayed for
his death, but never so earnestly as I now prayed for his life;
and my prayer was heard. Alas, what mockery it is for a slave
mother to try to pray back her dying child to life! Death is
better than slavery. It was a sad thought that I had no name to
give my child. His father caressed him and treated him kindly,
whenever he had a chance to see him. He was not unwilling that he
should bear his name; but he had no legal claim to it; and if I
had bestowed it upon him, my master would have regarded it as a
new crime, a new piece of insolence, and would, perhaps, revenge
it on the boy. O, the serpent of Slavery has many and poisonous
fangs!
[text omitted]
XXI. The Loophole Of Retreat
A small shed had been added to my grandmother's house years ago.
Some boards were laid across the joists at the top, and between
these boards and the roof was a very small garret, never occupied
by any thing but rats and mice. It was a pent roof, covered with
nothing but shingles, according to the southern custom for such
buildings. The garret was only nine feet long and seven wide. The
highest part was three feet high, and sloped down abruptly to the
loose board floor. There was no admission for either light or air.
My uncle Phillip, who was a carpenter, had very skilfully made a
concealed trap-door, which communicated with the storeroom. He had
been doing this while I was waiting in the swamp. The storeroom
opened upon a piazza. To this hole I was conveyed as soon as I
entered the house. The air was stifling; the darkness total. A bed
had been spread on the floor. I could sleep quite comfortably on
one side; but the slope was so sudden that I could not turn on my
other without hitting the roof. The rats and mice ran over my bed;
but I was weary, and I slept such sleep as the wretched may, when
a tempest has passed over them. Morning came. I knew it only by
the noises I heard; for in my small den day and night were all the
same. I suffered for air even more than for light. But I was not
comfortless. I heard the voices of my children. There was joy and
there was sadness in the sound. It made my tears flow. How I
longed to speak to them! I was eager to look on their faces; but
there was no hole, no crack, through which I could peep. This
continued darkness was oppressive. It seemed horrible to sit or
lie in a cramped position day after day, without one gleam of
light. Yet I would have chosen this, rather than my lot as a
slave, though white people considered it an easy one; and it was
so compared with the fate of others. I was never cruelly
overworked; I was never lacerated with the whip from head to foot;
I was never so beaten and bruised that I could not turn from one
side to the other; I never had my heel-strings cut to prevent my
running away; I was never chained to a log and forced to drag it
about, while I toiled in the fields from morning till night; I was
never branded with hot iron, or torn by bloodhounds. On the
contrary, I had always been kindly treated, and tenderly cared
for, until I came into the hands of Dr. Flint. I had never wished
for freedom till then. But though my life in slavery was
comparatively devoid of hardships, God pity the woman who is
compelled to lead such a life!
My food was passed up to me through the trap-door my uncle had
contrived; and my grandmother, my uncle Phillip, and aunt Nancy
would seize such opportunities as they could, to mount up there
and chat with me at the opening. But of course this was not safe
in the daytime. It must all be done in darkness. It was impossible
for me to move in an erect position, but I crawled about my den
for exercise. One day I hit my head against something, and found
it was a gimlet. My uncle had left it sticking there when he made
the trap-door. I was as rejoiced as Robinson Crusoe could have
been at finding such a treasure. It put a lucky thought into my
head. I said to myself, "Now I will have some light. Now I will
see my children." I did not dare to begin my work during the
daytime, for fear of attracting attention. But I groped round; and
having found the side next the street, where I could frequently
see my children, I stuck the gimlet in and waited for evening. I
bored three rows of holes, one above another; then I bored out the
interstices between. I thus succeeded in making one hole about an
inch long and an inch broad. I sat by it till late into the night,
to enjoy the little whiff of air that floated in. In the morning I
watched for my children. The first person I saw in the street was
Dr. Flint. I had a shuddering, superstitious feeling that it was a
bad omen. Several familiar faces passed by. At last I heard the
merry laugh of children, and presently two sweet little faces were
looking up at me, as though they knew I was there, and were
conscious of the joy they imparted. How I longed to tell them I
was there!
My condition was now a little improved. But for weeks I was
tormented by hundreds of little red insects, fine as a needle's
point, that pierced through my skin, and produced an intolerable
burning. The good grandmother gave me herb teas and cooling
medicines, and finally I got rid of them. The heat of my den was
intense, for nothing but thin shingles protected me from the
scorching summer's sun. But I had my consolations. Through my
peeping-hole I could watch the children, and when they were near
enough, I could hear their talk. Aunt Nancy brought me all the
news she could hear at Dr. Flint's. From her I learned that the
doctor had written to New York to a colored woman, who had been
born and raised in our neighborhood, and had breathed his
contaminating atmosphere. He offered her a reward if she could
find out any thing about me. I know not what was the nature of her
reply; but he soon after started for New York in haste, saying to
his family that he had business of importance to transact. I
peeped at him as he passed on his way to the steamboat. It was a
satisfaction to have miles of land and water between us, even for
a little while; and it was a still greater satisfaction to know
that he believed me to be in the Free States. My little den seemed
less dreary than it had done. He returned, as he did from his
former journey to New York, without obtaining any satisfactory
information. When he passed our house next morning, Benny was
standing at the gate. He had heard them say that he had gone to
find me, and he called out, "Dr. Flint, did you bring my mother
home? I want to see her." The doctor stamped his foot at him in a
rage, and exclaimed, "Get out of the way, you little damned
rascal! If you don't, I'll cut off your head."
Benny ran terrified into the house, saying, "You can't put me in
jail again. I don't belong to you now." It was well that the wind
carried the words away from the doctor's ear. I told my
grandmother of it, when we had our next conference at the
trap-door, and begged of her not to allow the children to be
impertinent to the irascible old man.
Autumn came, with a pleasant abatement of heat. My eyes had
become accustomed to the dim light, and by holding my book or work
in a certain position near the aperture I contrived to read and
sew. That was a great relief to the tedious monotony of my life.
But when winter came, the cold penetrated through the thin shingle
roof, and I was dreadfully chilled. The winters there are not so
long, or so severe, as in northern latitudes; but the houses are
not built to shelter from cold, and my little den was peculiarly
comfortless. The kind grandmother brought me bedclothes and warm
drinks. Often I was obliged to lie in bed all day to keep
comfortable; but with all my precautions, my shoulders and feet
were frostbitten. O, those long, gloomy days, with no object for
my eye to rest upon, and no thoughts to occupy my mind, except the
dreary past and the uncertain future! I was thankful when there
came a day sufficiently mild for me to wrap myself up and sit at
the loophole to watch the passers by. Southerners have the habit
of stopping and talking in the streets, and I heard many
conversations not intended to meet my ears. I heard slave-hunters
planning how to catch some poor fugitive. Several times I heard
allusions to Dr. Flint, myself, and the history of my children,
who, perhaps, were playing near the gate. One would say, "I
wouldn't move my little finger to catch her, as old Flint's
property." Another would say, "I'll catch any nigger for the
reward. A man ought to have what belongs to him, if he is a damned
brute." The opinion was often expressed that I was in the Free
States. Very rarely did any one suggest that I might be in the
vicinity. Had the least suspicion rested on my grandmother's
house, it would have been burned to the ground. But it was the
last place they thought of. Yet there was no place, where slavery
existed, that could have afforded me so good a place of
concealment.
Dr. Flint and his family repeatedly tried to coax and bribe my
children to tell something they had heard said about me. One day
the doctor took them into a shop, and offered them some bright
little silver pieces and gay handkerchiefs if they would tell
where their mother was. Ellen shrank away from him, and would not
speak; but Benny spoke up, and said, "Dr. Flint, I don't know
where my mother is. I guess she's in New York; and when you go
there again, I wish you'd ask her to come home, for I want to see
her; but if you put her in jail, or tell her you'll cut her head
off, I'll tell her to go right back."
[text omitted]
Frederick Douglass (1818-1895)
Resources for
Douglass
[image]
Frederick Douglass was born on a Maryland plantation, probably the
son of his white owner, Captain Aaron Anthony. He was sent to work
for the Auld family in Baltimore and there acquired literacy,
which according to Douglass helped feed his desire for freedom. In
1833 Douglass was sent back to the plantation, where he would have
his famous run-in with slave-breaker Edward Covey. Back in
Baltimore, Douglass learned the ship-building trade, then escaped
to the North in 1838, eventually marrying Anna Murray in New York
and then moving to New Bedford, Massachusetts to assuming the name
of Douglass. He became involved in the abolitionist cause,
eventually writing the Narrative of the Life of Frederick
Douglass in 1845. Establishing his own newspaper, The
North Star, Douglass advocated for black rights during the
Civil War while helping convince Abraham Lincoln to allow African
Americans to enlist in the war effort. Douglass revised his
autobiography a number of times, publishing My Bondage and My
Freedom in 1855 and The Life and Times of Frederick
Douglass in 1881. His original book is considered one of
the most important slave narratives of the era, articulating many
of the qualities and motifs to be found in other such tales of
freedom and self-determination. Two complementary biographies
include Benjamin Quarles' Frederick Douglass (1948) and
William S. McFeely's Frederick Douglass (1991). For an
accessible critical collection, see Bill Lawson's and Frank
Kirkland's Frederick Douglass: A Critical Reader (1999).
The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
Douglass, Frederick. The Narrative of the Life of Frederick
Douglass. An American Slave. Written by Himself. Boston,
1845.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23
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:—
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.
[text omitted]
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.
[text omitted]
Resources for Stowe
Harriett Beecher Stowe (1811-1896)
[image]
Harriet Beecher Stowe was born in Litchfield, Connecticut on June
14, 1811. Her father, Lyman Beecher, was a prominent Evangelical
Calvinist minister, and her brother Henry Ward Beecher would go on
to become one of the most famous preachers and orators of his day.
She studied at the Hartford Female Seminary, founded by her
sister, Catherine Beecher. Afterward, she was hired as an
assistant teacher there. When Stowe was 21, she moved with her
family to Cincinnati, Ohio, where her father served as President
of the Lane Theological Seminary. The family, on the border
between North and South, would be in the midst of fugitive slaves
crossing the river into Ohio and gained first-hand exposure to the
realities behind the intense debates concerning slavery sweeping
the nation at the time. During her time in Cincinnati, she and her
sister founded a new seminary, Western Female Institute. She also
joined the Semi-Colon Club, a literary salon, where she met Calvin
Ellis Stowe, who she married when she was 25. Stowe was a widower
and a professor at the Lane Theological Seminary. Over the course
of fourteen years, the couple had seven children. One son, Samuel,
caught cholera and died at a young age. In 1850, her husband was
offered the position of professor at Bowdoin College. The family
moved to Brunswick, Maine, there resuming the cause of abolition,
supporting the Underground Railroad, and housing several fugitive
slaves. Stowe's writing career began with a prize contest for Western
Monthly Magazine in 1834. While raising an ever-growing
family, she became a regular writer of stories and essays for a
number of journals and magazines, bringing in valuable household
income. In 1843, her first book, The Mayflower, was published.
Before it was printed in book form, one of her best known works, Uncle
Tom's Cabin, was published serially in The National
Era, an anti-slavery newspaper, starting in June of1851. It
went on to became one of the most famous and best-selling American
novels of the nineteenth century. Anecdotally, in a meeting
between Stowe and Abraham Lincoln, he stated, "So you're the
little woman who wrote the book that started this great war."
Stowe's popularity allowed her to continue a fruitful literary
career. Though nothing she wrote ever gained the popularity of Uncle
Tom's Cabin, she was an accomplished writer, and she
published a substantial number of works in her lifetime. She died
at the age of 85, on July 1, 1896, in Hartford, Connecticut. Joan
D. Hedrick's Harriet Beecher Stowe: A Life (1994) is a
key biography. Critical collections include Thomas F. Gossett's Uncle
Tom's Cabin and American Culture (1985), Eric Sundquist's New
Essays on Uncle Tom's Cabin (1986), and Cindy Weinstein's The
Cambridge Companion to Harriet Beecher Stowe (2004).
Additionally, Stephen Railton's online site, Uncle
Tom's Cabin and American Culture, is valuable to general
readers and scholars alike.
Illustration:
"Uncle Tom and Little Eva." by Edwin Long, 1866.
Excerpts from Uncle Tom's Cabin or Life Among the Lowly
Stowe, Harriett Beecher. Uncle Tom's Cabin or Life Among the
Lowly. Boston: John P. Jewett and Company, 1852.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/203
Chapter I, In Which the Reader Is Introduced
to a Man of Humanity
Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two gentlemen
were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished dining
parlor, in the town of P——, in Kentucky. There were no servants
present, and the gentlemen, with chairs closely approaching,
seemed to be discussing some subject with great earnestness.
For convenience sake, we have said, hitherto, two gentlemen.
One of the parties, however, when critically examined, did not
seem, strictly speaking, to come under the species. He was a
short, thick-set man, with coarse, commonplace features, and that
swaggering air of pretension which marks a low man who is trying
to elbow his way upward in the world. He was much over-dressed, in
a gaudy vest of many colors, a blue neckerchief, bedropped gayly
with yellow spots, and arranged with a flaunting tie, quite in
keeping with the general air of the man. His hands, large and
coarse, were plentifully bedecked with rings; and he wore a heavy
gold watch-chain, with a bundle of seals of portentous size, and a
great variety of colors, attached to it,—which, in the ardor of
conversation, he was in the habit of flourishing and jingling with
evident satisfaction. His conversation was in free and easy
defiance of Murray's Grammar, and was garnished at convenient
intervals with various profane expressions, which not even the
desire to be graphic in our account shall induce us to transcribe.
His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gentleman; and
the arrangements of the house, and the general air of the
housekeeping, indicated easy, and even opulent circumstances. As
we before stated, the two were in the midst of an earnest
conversation.
"That is the way I should arrange the matter," said Mr. Shelby.
"I can't make trade that way—I positively can't, Mr. Shelby,"
said the other, holding up a glass of wine between his eye and the
light.
"Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow; he is
certainly worth that sum anywhere,—steady, honest, capable,
manages my whole farm like a clock."
"You mean honest, as niggers go," said Haley, helping himself to
a glass of brandy.
"No; I mean, really, Tom is a good, steady, sensible, pious
fellow. He got religion at a camp-meeting, four years ago; and I
believe he really did get it. I've trusted him, since
then, with everything I have,—money, house, horses,—and let him
come and go round the country; and I always found him true and
square in everything."
"Some folks don't believe there is pious niggers Shelby," said
Haley, with a candid flourish of his hand, "but I do. I
had a fellow, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans—'t was
as good as a meetin, now, really, to hear that critter pray; and
he was quite gentle and quiet like. He fetched me a good sum, too,
for I bought him cheap of a man that was 'bliged to sell out; so I
realized six hundred on him. Yes, I consider religion a valeyable
thing in a nigger, when it's the genuine article, and no mistake."
"Well, Tom's got the real article, if ever a fellow had,"
rejoined the other. "Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati
alone, to do business for me, and bring home five hundred dollars.
'Tom,' says I to him, 'I trust you, because I think you're a
Christian—I know you wouldn't cheat.' Tom comes back, sure enough;
I knew he would. Some low fellows, they say, said to him—Tom, why
don't you make tracks for Canada?' 'Ah, master trusted me, and I
couldn't,'—they told me about it. I am sorry to part with Tom, I
must say. You ought to let him cover the whole balance of the
debt; and you would, Haley, if you had any conscience."
"Well, I've got just as much conscience as any man in business
can afford to keep,—just a little, you know, to swear by, as 't
were," said the trader, jocularly; "and, then, I'm ready to do
anything in reason to 'blige friends; but this yer, you see, is a
leetle too hard on a fellow—a leetle too hard." The trader sighed
contemplatively, and poured out some more brandy.
"Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?" said Mr. Shelby, after
an uneasy interval of silence.
"Well, haven't you a boy or gal that you could throw in with
Tom?"
"Hum!—none that I could well spare; to tell the truth, it's only
hard necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don't like
parting with any of my hands, that's a fact."
Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between four and
five years of age, entered the room. There was something in his
appearance remarkably beautiful and engaging. His black hair, fine
as floss silk, hung in glossy curls about his round, dimpled face,
while a pair of large dark eyes, full of fire and softness, looked
out from beneath the rich, long lashes, as he peered curiously
into the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet and yellow plaid,
carefully made and neatly fitted, set off to advantage the dark
and rich style of his beauty; and a certain comic air of
assurance, blended with bashfulness, showed that he had been not
unused to being petted and noticed by his master.
"Hulloa, Jim Crow!" said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and snapping a
bunch of raisins towards him, "pick that up, now!"
The child scampered, with all his little strength, after the
prize, while his master laughed.
"Come here, Jim Crow," said he. The child came up, and the master
patted the curly head, and chucked him under the chin.
"Now, Jim, show this gentleman how you can dance and sing." The
boy commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common among the
negroes, in a rich, clear voice, accompanying his singing with
many comic evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all in
perfect time to the music.
"Bravo!" said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an orange.
"Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe, when he has the
rheumatism," said his master.
Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed the appearance
of deformity and distortion, as, with his back humped up, and his
master's stick in his hand, he hobbled about the room, his
childish face drawn into a doleful pucker, and spitting from right
to left, in imitation of an old man.
Both gentlemen laughed uproariously.
"Now, Jim," said his master, "show us how old Elder Robbins leads
the psalm." The boy drew his chubby face down to a formidable
length, and commenced toning a psalm tune through his nose, with
imperturbable gravity.
"Hurrah! bravo! what a young 'un!" said Haley; "that chap's a
case, I'll promise. Tell you what," said he, suddenly clapping his
hand on Mr. Shelby's shoulder, "fling in that chap, and I'll
settle the business—I will. Come, now, if that ain't doing the
thing up about the rightest!"
At this moment, the door was pushed gently open, and a young
quadroon woman, apparently about twenty-five, entered the room.
There needed only a glance from the child to her, to identify her
as its mother. There was the same rich, full, dark eye, with its
long lashes; the same ripples of silky black hair. The brown of
her complexion gave way on the cheek to a perceptible flush, which
deepened as she saw the gaze of the strange man fixed upon her in
bold and undisguised admiration. Her dress was of the neatest
possible fit, and set off to advantage her finely moulded shape;—a
delicately formed hand and a trim foot and ankle were items of
appearance that did not escape the quick eye of the trader, well
used to run up at a glance the points of a fine female article.
"Well, Eliza?" said her master, as she stopped and looked
hesitatingly at him.
"I was looking for Harry, please, sir;" and the boy bounded
toward her, showing his spoils, which he had gathered in the skirt
of his robe.
"Well, take him away then," said Mr. Shelby; and hastily she
withdrew, carrying the child on her arm.
"By Jupiter," said the trader, turning to him in admiration,
"there's an article, now! You might make your fortune on that ar
gal in Orleans, any day. I've seen over a thousand, in my day,
paid down for gals not a bit handsomer."
"I don't want to make my fortune on her," said Mr. Shelby, dryly;
and, seeking to turn the conversation, he uncorked a bottle of
fresh wine, and asked his companion's opinion of it.
"Capital, sir,—first chop!" said the trader; then turning, and
slapping his hand familiarly on Shelby's shoulder, he added—
"Come, how will you trade about the gal?—what shall I say for
her—what'll you take?"
"Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold," said Shelby. "My wife would
not part with her for her weight in gold."
"Ay, ay! women always say such things, cause they ha'nt no sort
of calculation. Just show 'em how many watches, feathers, and
trinkets, one's weight in gold would buy, and that alters the
case, I reckon."
"I tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of; I say no, and I
mean no," said Shelby, decidedly.
"Well, you'll let me have the boy, though," said the trader; "you
must own I've come down pretty handsomely for him."
"What on earth can you want with the child?" said Shelby.
"Why, I've got a friend that's going into this yer branch of the
business—wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for the market.
Fancy articles entirely—sell for waiters, and so on, to rich 'uns,
that can pay for handsome 'uns. It sets off one of yer great
places—a real handsome boy to open door, wait, and tend. They
fetch a good sum; and this little devil is such a comical, musical
concern, he's just the article!'
"I would rather not sell him," said Mr. Shelby, thoughtfully;
"the fact is, sir, I'm a humane man, and I hate to take the boy
from his mother, sir."
"O, you do?—La! yes—something of that ar natur. I understand,
perfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on with women,
sometimes, I al'ays hates these yer screechin,' screamin' times.
They are mighty onpleasant; but, as I manages business, I
generally avoids 'em, sir. Now, what if you get the girl off for a
day, or a week, or so; then the thing's done quietly,—all over
before she comes home. Your wife might get her some ear-rings, or
a new gown, or some such truck, to make up with her."
"I'm afraid not."
"Lor bless ye, yes! These critters ain't like white folks, you
know; they gets over things, only manage right. Now, they say,"
said Haley, assuming a candid and confidential air, "that this
kind o' trade is hardening to the feelings; but I never found it
so. Fact is, I never could do things up the way some fellers
manage the business. I've seen 'em as would pull a woman's child
out of her arms, and set him up to sell, and she screechin' like
mad all the time;—very bad policy—damages the article—makes 'em
quite unfit for service sometimes. I knew a real handsome gal
once, in Orleans, as was entirely ruined by this sort o' handling.
The fellow that was trading for her didn't want her baby; and she
was one of your real high sort, when her blood was up. I tell you,
she squeezed up her child in her arms, and talked, and went on
real awful. It kinder makes my blood run cold to think of 't; and
when they carried off the child, and locked her up, she jest went
ravin' mad, and died in a week. Clear waste, sir, of a thousand
dollars, just for want of management,—there's where 't is. It's
always best to do the humane thing, sir; that's been my
experience." And the trader leaned back in his chair, and folded
his arm, with an air of virtuous decision, apparently considering
himself a second Wilberforce.
The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply; for while
Mr. Shelby was thoughtfully peeling an orange, Haley broke out
afresh, with becoming diffidence, but as if actually driven by the
force of truth to say a few words more.
"It don't look well, now, for a feller to be praisin' himself;
but I say it jest because it's the truth. I believe I'm reckoned
to bring in about the finest droves of niggers that is brought
in,—at least, I've been told so; if I have once, I reckon I have a
hundred times,—all in good case,—fat and likely, and I lose as few
as any man in the business. And I lays it all to my management,
sir; and humanity, sir, I may say, is the great pillar of my
management."
Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said, "Indeed!"
"Now, I've been laughed at for my notions, sir, and I've been
talked to. They an't pop'lar, and they an't common; but I stuck to
'em, sir; I've stuck to 'em, and realized well on 'em; yes, sir,
they have paid their passage, I may say," and the trader laughed
at his joke.
There was something so piquant and original in these elucidations
of humanity, that Mr. Shelby could not help laughing in company.
Perhaps you laugh too, dear reader; but you know humanity comes
out in a variety of strange forms now-a-days, and there is no end
to the odd things that humane people will say and do.
Mr. Shelby's laugh encouraged the trader to proceed.
"It's strange, now, but I never could beat this into people's
heads. Now, there was Tom Loker, my old partner, down in Natchez;
he was a clever fellow, Tom was, only the very devil with
niggers,—on principle 't was, you see, for a better hearted feller
never broke bread; 't was his system, sir. I used to talk
to Tom. 'Why, Tom,' I used to say, 'when your gals takes on and
cry, what's the use o' crackin on' em over the head, and knockin'
on 'em round? It's ridiculous,' says I, 'and don't do no sort o'
good. Why, I don't see no harm in their cryin',' says I; 'it's
natur,' says I, 'and if natur can't blow off one way, it will
another. Besides, Tom,' says I, 'it jest spiles your gals; they
get sickly, and down in the mouth; and sometimes they gets
ugly,—particular yallow gals do,—and it's the devil and all
gettin' on 'em broke in. Now,' says I, 'why can't you kinder coax
'em up, and speak 'em fair? Depend on it, Tom, a little humanity,
thrown in along, goes a heap further than all your jawin' and
crackin'; and it pays better,' says I, 'depend on 't.' But Tom
couldn't get the hang on 't; and he spiled so many for me, that I
had to break off with him, though he was a good-hearted fellow,
and as fair a business hand as is goin'."
"And do you find your ways of managing do the business better
than Tom's?" said Mr. Shelby.
"Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any ways can, I
takes a leetle care about the onpleasant parts, like selling young
uns and that,—get the gals out of the way—out of sight, out of
mind, you know,—and when it's clean done, and can't be helped,
they naturally gets used to it. 'Tan't, you know, as if it was
white folks, that's brought up in the way of 'spectin' to keep
their children and wives, and all that. Niggers, you know, that's
fetched up properly, ha'n't no kind of 'spectations of no kind; so
all these things comes easier."
"I'm afraid mine are not properly brought up, then," said Mr.
Shelby.
"S'pose not; you Kentucky folks spile your niggers. You mean well
by 'em, but 'tan't no real kindness, arter all. Now, a nigger, you
see, what's got to be hacked and tumbled round the world, and sold
to Tom, and Dick, and the Lord knows who, 'tan't no kindness to be
givin' on him notions and expectations, and bringin' on him up too
well, for the rough and tumble comes all the harder on him arter.
Now, I venture to say, your niggers would be quite chop-fallen in
a place where some of your plantation niggers would be singing and
whooping like all possessed. Every man, you know, Mr. Shelby,
naturally thinks well of his own ways; and I think I treat niggers
just about as well as it's ever worth while to treat 'em."
"It's a happy thing to be satisfied," said Mr. Shelby, with a
slight shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a disagreeable
nature.
"Well," said Haley, after they had both silently picked their
nuts for a season, "what do you say?"
"I'll think the matter over, and talk with my wife," said Mr.
Shelby. "Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter carried on in the
quiet way you speak of, you'd best not let your business in this
neighborhood be known. It will get out among my boys, and it will
not be a particularly quiet business getting away any of my
fellows, if they know it, I'll promise you."
"O! certainly, by all means, mum! of course. But I'll tell you.
I'm in a devil of a hurry, and shall want to know, as soon as
possible, what I may depend on," said he, rising and putting on
his overcoat.
"Well, call up this evening, between six and seven, and you shall
have my answer," said Mr. Shelby, and the trader bowed himself out
of the apartment.
"I'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the steps,"
said he to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed, "with his
impudent assurance; but he knows how much he has me at advantage.
If anybody had ever said to me that I should sell Tom down south
to one of those rascally traders, I should have said, 'Is thy
servant a dog, that he should do this thing?' And now it must
come, for aught I see. And Eliza's child, too! I know that I shall
have some fuss with wife about that; and, for that matter, about
Tom, too. So much for being in debt,—heigho! The fellow sees his
advantage, and means to push it."
Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to be seen
in the State of Kentucky. The general prevalence of agricultural
pursuits of a quiet and gradual nature, not requiring those
periodic seasons of hurry and pressure that are called for in the
business of more southern districts, makes the task of the negro a
more healthful and reasonable one; while the master, content with
a more gradual style of acquisition, has not those temptations to
hardheartedness which always overcome frail human nature when the
prospect of sudden and rapid gain is weighed in the balance, with
no heavier counterpoise than the interests of the helpless and
unprotected.
Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the good-humored
indulgence of some masters and mistresses, and the affectionate
loyalty of some slaves, might be tempted to dream the oft-fabled
poetic legend of a patriarchal institution, and all that; but over
and above the scene there broods a portentous shadow—the shadow of
law. So long as the law considers all these human beings,
with beating hearts and living affections, only as so many things
belonging to a master,—so long as the failure, or misfortune, or
imprudence, or death of the kindest owner, may cause them any day
to exchange a life of kind protection and indulgence for one of
hopeless misery and toil,—so long it is impossible to make
anything beautiful or desirable in the best regulated
administration of slavery.
Mr. Shelby was a fair average kind of man, good-natured and
kindly, and disposed to easy indulgence of those around him, and
there had never been a lack of anything which might contribute to
the physical comfort of the negroes on his estate. He had,
however, speculated largely and quite loosely; had involved
himself deeply, and his notes to a large amount had come into the
hands of Haley; and this small piece of information is the key to
the preceding conversation.
Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the door, Eliza had
caught enough of the conversation to know that a trader was making
offers to her master for somebody.
She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as she came
out; but her mistress just then calling, she was obliged to hasten
away.
Still she thought she heard the trader make an offer for her
boy;—could she be mistaken? Her heart swelled and throbbed, and
she involuntarily strained him so tight that the little fellow
looked up into her face in astonishment.
"Eliza, girl, what ails you today?" said her mistress, when Eliza
had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked down the workstand, and
finally was abstractedly offering her mistress a long nightgown in
place of the silk dress she had ordered her to bring from the
wardrobe.
Eliza started. "O, missis!" she said, raising her eyes; then,
bursting into tears, she sat down in a chair, and began sobbing.
"Why, Eliza child, what ails you?" said her mistress.
"O! missis, missis," said Eliza, "there's been a trader talking
with master in the parlor! I heard him."
"Well, silly child, suppose there has."
"O, missis, do you suppose mas'r would sell my Harry?"
And the poor creature threw herself into a chair, and sobbed
convulsively.
"Sell him! No, you foolish girl! You know your master never deals
with those southern traders, and never means to sell any of his
servants, as long as they behave well. Why, you silly child, who
do you think would want to buy your Harry? Do you think all the
world are set on him as you are, you goosie? Come, cheer up, and
hook my dress. There now, put my back hair up in that pretty braid
you learnt the other day, and don't go listening at doors any
more."
"Well, but, missis, you never would give your
consent—to—to—"
"Nonsense, child! to be sure, I shouldn't. What do you talk so
for? I would as soon have one of my own children sold. But really,
Eliza, you are getting altogether too proud of that little fellow.
A man can't put his nose into the door, but you think he must be
coming to buy him."
Reassured by her mistress' confident tone, Eliza proceeded nimbly
and adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her own fears, as she
proceeded.
Mrs. Shelby was a woman of high class, both intellectually and
morally. To that natural magnanimity and generosity of mind which
one often marks as characteristic of the women of Kentucky, she
added high moral and religious sensibility and principle, carried
out with great energy and ability into practical results. Her
husband, who made no professions to any particular religious
character, nevertheless reverenced and respected the consistency
of hers, and stood, perhaps, a little in awe of her opinion.
Certain it was that he gave her unlimited scope in all her
benevolent efforts for the comfort, instruction, and improvement
of her servants, though he never took any decided part in them
himself. In fact, if not exactly a believer in the doctrine of the
efficiency of the extra good works of saints, he really seemed
somehow or other to fancy that his wife had piety and benevolence
enough for two—to indulge a shadowy expectation of getting into
heaven through her superabundance of qualities to which he made no
particular pretension.
The heaviest load on his mind, after his conversation with the
trader, lay in the foreseen necessity of breaking to his wife the
arrangement contemplated,—meeting the importunities and opposition
which he knew he should have reason to encounter.
Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband's
embarrassments, and knowing only the general kindliness of his
temper, had been quite sincere in the entire incredulity with
which she had met Eliza's suspicions. In fact, she dismissed the
matter from her mind, without a second thought; and being occupied
in preparations for an evening visit, it passed out of her
thoughts entirely.
[text omitted]
Chapter VII, The Mother's Struggle
It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more wholly
desolate and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footsteps
from Uncle Tom's cabin.
Her husband's suffering and dangers, and the danger of her child,
all blended in her mind, with a confused and stunning sense of the
risk she was running, in leaving the only home she had ever known,
and cutting loose from the protection of a friend whom she loved
and revered. Then there was the parting from every familiar
object,—the place where she had grown up, the trees under which
she had played, the groves where she had walked many an evening in
happier days, by the side of her young husband,—everything, as it
lay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed to speak reproachfully
to her, and ask her whither could she go from a home like that?
But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysm
of frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy was
old enough to have walked by her side, and, in an indifferent
case, she would only have led him by the hand; but now the bare
thought of putting him out of her arms made her shudder, and she
strained him to her bosom with a convulsive grasp, as she went
rapidly forward.
The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled at
the sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow sent the blood
backward to her heart, and quickened her footsteps. She wondered
within herself at the strength that seemed to be come upon her;
for she felt the weight of her boy as if it had been a feather,
and every flutter of fear seemed to increase the supernatural
power that bore her on, while from her pale lips burst forth, in
frequent ejaculations, the prayer to a Friend above—"Lord, help!
Lord, save me!"
If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were
going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, tomorrow morning,—if
you had seen the man, and heard that the papers were signed and
delivered, and you had only from twelve o'clock till morning to
make good your escape,—how fast could you walk? How many
miles could you make in those few brief hours, with the darling at
your bosom,—the little sleepy head on your shoulder,—the small,
soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck?
For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kept him
waking; but his mother so hurriedly repressed every breath or
sound, and so assured him that if he were only still she would
certainly save him, that he clung quietly round her neck, only
asking, as he found himself sinking to sleep,
"Mother, I don't need to keep awake, do I?"
"No, my darling; sleep, if you want to."
"But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won't let him get me?"
"No! so may God help me!" said his mother, with a paler cheek,
and a brighter light in her large dark eyes.
"You're sure, an't you, mother?"
"Yes, sure!" said the mother, in a voice that startled
herself; for it seemed to her to come from a spirit within, that
was no part of her; and the boy dropped his little weary head on
her shoulder, and was soon asleep. How the touch of those warm
arms, the gentle breathings that came in her neck, seemed to add
fire and spirit to her movements! It seemed to her as if strength
poured into her in electric streams, from every gentle touch and
movement of the sleeping, confiding child. Sublime is the dominion
of the mind over the body, that, for a time, can make flesh and
nerve impregnable, and string the sinews like steel, so that the
weak become so mighty.
The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed by
her dizzily, as she walked on; and still she went, leaving one
familiar object after another, slacking not, pausing not, till
reddening daylight found her many a long mile from all traces of
any familiar objects upon the open highway.
She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connections,
in the little village of T——, not far from the Ohio river, and
knew the road well. To go thither, to escape across the Ohio
river, were the first hurried outlines of her plan of escape;
beyond that, she could only hope in God.
When horses and vehicles began to move along the highway, with
that alert perception peculiar to a state of excitement, and which
seems to be a sort of inspiration, she became aware that her
headlong pace and distracted air might bring on her remark and
suspicion. She therefore put the boy on the ground, and, adjusting
her dress and bonnet, she walked on at as rapid a pace as she
thought consistent with the preservation of appearances. In her
little bundle she had provided a store of cakes and apples, which
she used as expedients for quickening the speed of the child,
rolling the apple some yards before them, when the boy would run
with all his might after it; and this ruse, often repeated,
carried them over many a half-mile.
After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland, through
which murmured a clear brook. As the child complained of hunger
and thirst, she climbed over the fence with him; and, sitting down
behind a large rock which concealed them from the road, she gave
him a breakfast out of her little package. The boy wondered and
grieved that she could not eat; and when, putting his arms round
her neck, he tried to wedge some of his cake into her mouth, it
seemed to her that the rising in her throat would choke her.
"No, no, Harry darling! mother can't eat till you are safe! We
must go on—on—till we come to the river!" And she hurried again
into the road, and again constrained herself to walk regularly and
composedly forward.
She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was personally
known. If she should chance to meet any who knew her, she
reflected that the well-known kindness of the family would be of
itself a blind to suspicion, as making it an unlikely supposition
that she could be a fugitive. As she was also so white as not to
be known as of colored lineage, without a critical survey, and her
child was white also, it was much easier for her to pass on
unsuspected.
On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse, to
rest herself, and buy some dinner for her child and self; for, as
the danger decreased with the distance, the supernatural tension
of the nervous system lessened, and she found herself both weary
and hungry.
The good woman, kindly and gossipping, seemed rather pleased than
otherwise with having somebody come in to talk with; and accepted,
without examination, Eliza's statement, that she "was going on a
little piece, to spend a week with her friends,"—all which she
hoped in her heart might prove strictly true.
An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T——, by the
Ohio river, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in heart. Her
first glance was at the river, which lay, like Jordan, between her
and the Canaan of liberty on the other side.
It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and turbulent;
great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in
the turbid waters. Owing to the peculiar form of the shore on the
Kentucky side, the land bending far out into the water, the ice
had been lodged and detained in great quantities, and the narrow
channel which swept round the bend was full of ice, piled one cake
over another, thus forming a temporary barrier to the descending
ice, which lodged, and formed a great, undulating raft, filling up
the whole river, and extending almost to the Kentucky shore.
Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this unfavorable aspect
of things, which she saw at once must prevent the usual ferry-boat
from running, and then turned into a small public house on the
bank, to make a few inquiries.
The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing
operations over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal,
stopped, with a fork in her hand, as Eliza's sweet and plaintive
voice arrested her.
"What is it?" she said.
"Isn't there any ferry or boat, that takes people over to B——,
now?" she said.
"No, indeed!" said the woman; "the boats has stopped running."
Eliza's look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, and
she said, inquiringly,
"May be you're wanting to get over?—anybody sick? Ye seem mighty
anxious?"
"I've got a child that's very dangerous," said Eliza. "I never
heard of it till last night, and I've walked quite a piece today,
in hopes to get to the ferry."
"Well, now, that's onlucky," said the woman, whose motherly
sympathies were much aroused; "I'm re'lly consarned for ye.
Solomon!" she called, from the window, towards a small back
building. A man, in leather apron and very dirty hands, appeared
at the door.
"I say, Sol," said the woman, "is that ar man going to tote them
bar'ls over tonight?"
"He said he should try, if 't was any way prudent," said the man.
"There's a man a piece down here, that's going over with some
truck this evening, if he durs' to; he'll be in here to supper
tonight, so you'd better set down and wait. That's a sweet little
fellow," added the woman, offering him a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
"Poor fellow! he isn't used to walking, and I've hurried him on
so," said Eliza.
"Well, take him into this room," said the woman, opening into a
small bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laid the
weary boy upon it, and held his hands in hers till he was fast
asleep. For her there was no rest. As a fire in her bones, the
thought of the pursuer urged her on; and she gazed with longing
eyes on the sullen, surging waters that lay between her and
liberty.
Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the
course of her pursuers.
Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried
on table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen
before, that it required more than one to make a bargain. So,
although the order was fairly given out in Haley's hearing, and
carried to Aunt Chloe by at least half a dozen juvenile
messengers, that dignitary only gave certain very gruff snorts,
and tosses of her head, and went on with every operation in an
unusually leisurely and circumstantial manner.
For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among the
servants generally that Missis would not be particularly
disobliged by delay; and it was wonderful what a number of counter
accidents occurred constantly, to retard the course of things. One
luckless wight contrived to upset the gravy; and then gravy had to
be got up de novo, with due care and formality, Aunt Chloe
watching and stirring with dogged precision, answering shortly, to
all suggestions of haste, that she "warn't a going to have raw
gravy on the table, to help nobody's catchings." One tumbled down
with the water, and had to go to the spring for more; and another
precipitated the butter into the path of events; and there was
from time to time giggling news brought into the kitchen that
"Mas'r Haley was mighty oneasy, and that he couldn't sit in his
cheer no ways, but was a walkin' and stalkin' to the winders and
through the porch."
"Sarves him right!" said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. "He'll get wus
nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don't mend his ways. His
master'll be sending for him, and then see how he'll look!"
"He'll go to torment, and no mistake," said little Jake.
"He desarves it!" said Aunt Chloe, grimly; "he's broke a many,
many, many hearts,—I tell ye all!" she said, stopping, with a fork
uplifted in her hands; "it's like what Mas'r George reads in
Ravelations,—souls a callin' under the altar! and a callin' on the
Lord for vengeance on sich!—and by and by the Lord he'll hear
'em—so he will!"
Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listened to
with open mouth; and, the dinner being now fairly sent in, the
whole kitchen was at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to
her remarks.
"Sich'll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won't ther?" said
Andy.
"I'd be glad to see it, I'll be boun'," said little Jake.
"Chil'en!" said a voice, that made them all start. It was Uncle
Tom, who had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at
the door.
"Chil'en!" he said, "I'm afeard you don't know what ye're sayin'.
Forever is a dre'ful word, chil'en; it's awful to think on
't. You oughtenter wish that ar to any human crittur."
"We wouldn't to anybody but the soul-drivers," said Andy; "nobody
can help wishing it to them, they 's so awful wicked."
"Don't natur herself kinder cry out on 'em?" said Aunt Chloe.
"Don't dey tear der suckin' baby right off his mother's breast,
and sell him, and der little children as is crying and holding on
by her clothes,—don't dey pull 'em off and sells 'em? Don't dey
tear wife and husband apart?" said Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry,
"when it's jest takin' the very life on 'em?—and all the while
does they feel one bit, don't dey drink and smoke, and take it
oncommon easy? Lor, if the devil don't get them, what's he good
for?" And Aunt Chloe covered her face with her checked apron, and
began to sob in good earnest.
"Pray for them that 'spitefully use you, the good book says,"
says Tom.
"Pray for 'em!" said Aunt Chloe; "Lor, it's too tough! I can't
pray for 'em."
"It's natur, Chloe, and natur 's strong," said Tom, "but the
Lord's grace is stronger; besides, you oughter think what an awful
state a poor crittur's soul 's in that'll do them ar things,—you
oughter thank God that you an't like him, Chloe. I'm sure
I'd rather be sold, ten thousand times over, than to have all that
ar poor crittur's got to answer for."
"So 'd I, a heap," said Jake. "Lor, shouldn't we cotch
it, Andy?"
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.
"I'm glad Mas'r didn't go off this morning, as he looked to,"
said Tom; "that ar hurt me more than sellin', it did. Mebbe it
might have been natural for him, but 't would have come desp't
hard on me, as has known him from a baby; but I've seen Mas'r, and
I begin ter feel sort o' reconciled to the Lord's will now. Mas'r
couldn't help hisself; he did right, but I'm feared things will be
kinder goin' to rack, when I'm gone Mas'r can't be spected to be a
pryin' round everywhar, as I've done, a keepin' up all the ends.
The boys all means well, but they 's powerful car'less. That ar
troubles me."
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor.
"Tom," said his master, kindly, "I want you to notice that I give
this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not
on the spot when he wants you; he's going today to look after his
other business, and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere
you like, boy."
"Thank you, Mas'r," said Tom.
"And mind yourself," said the trader, "and don't come it over
your master with any o' yer nigger tricks; for I'll take every
cent out of him, if you an't thar. If he'd hear to me, he wouldn't
trust any on ye—slippery as eels!"
"Mas'r," said Tom,—and he stood very straight,—"I was jist eight
years old when ole Missis put you into my arms, and you wasn't a
year old. 'Thar,' says she, 'Tom, that's to be your young
Mas'r; take good care on him,' says she. And now I jist ask you,
Mas'r, have I ever broke word to you, or gone contrary to you,
'specially since I was a Christian?"
Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.
"My good boy," said he, "the Lord knows you say but the truth;
and if I was able to help it, all the world shouldn't buy you."
"And sure as I am a Christian woman," said Mrs. Shelby, "you
shall be redeemed as soon as I can any bring together means. Sir,"
she said to Haley, "take good account of who you sell him to, and
let me know."
"Lor, yes, for that matter," said the trader, "I may bring him up
in a year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back."
"I'll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage," said
Mrs. Shelby.
"Of course," said the trader, "all 's equal with me; li'ves trade
'em up as down, so I does a good business. All I want is a livin',
you know, ma'am; that's all any on us wants, I, s'pose."
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the
familiar impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute
necessity of putting a constraint on their feelings. The more
hopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the greater became
Mrs. Shelby's dread of his succeeding in recapturing Eliza and her
child, and of course the greater her motive for detaining him by
every female artifice. She therefore graciously smiled, assented,
chatted familiarly, and did all she could to make time pass
imperceptibly.
At two o'clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts,
apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the
morning.
Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous
and ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was boasting, in
flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and eminent success of
the operation, now that he had "farly come to it."
"Your master, I s'pose, don't keep no dogs," said Haley,
thoughtfully, as he prepared to mount.
"Heaps on 'em," said Sam, triumphantly; "thar's Bruno—he's a
roarer! and, besides that, 'bout every nigger of us keeps a pup of
some natur or uther."
"Poh!" said Haley,—and he said something else, too, with regard
to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered,
"I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way."
"But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don't)
for trackin' out niggers."
Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest
and desperate simplicity.
"Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they's the
kind, though they han't never had no practice. They 's far
dogs, though, at most anything, if you'd get 'em started. Here,
Bruno," he called, whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who
came pitching tumultuously toward them.
"You go hang!" said Haley, getting up. "Come, tumble up now."
Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy
as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh,
greatly to Haley's indignation, who made a cut at him with his
riding-whip.
"I 's 'stonished at yer, Andy," said Sam, with awful gravity.
"This yer's a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn't be a makin' game.
This yer an't no way to help Mas'r."
"I shall take the straight road to the river," said Haley,
decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. "I
know the way of all of 'em,—they makes tracks for the
underground."
"Sartin," said Sam, "dat's de idee. Mas'r Haley hits de thing
right in de middle. Now, der's two roads to de river,—de dirt road
and der pike,—which Mas'r mean to take?"
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new
geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said, by a
vehement reiteration.
"Cause," said Sam, "I'd rather be 'clined to 'magine that Lizy 'd
take de dirt road, bein' it's the least travelled."
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally
inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this
view of the case.
"If yer warn't both on yer such cussed liars, now!" he said,
contemplatively as he pondered a moment.
The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken appeared to
amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so
as apparently to run a great risk of failing off his horse, while
Sam's face was immovably composed into the most doleful gravity.
"Course," said Sam, "Mas'r can do as he'd ruther, go de straight
road, if Mas'r thinks best,—it's all one to us. Now, when I study
'pon it, I think de straight road de best, deridedly."
"She would naturally go a lonesome way," said Haley, thinking
aloud, and not minding Sam's remark.
"Dar an't no sayin'," said Sam; "gals is pecular; they never does
nothin' ye thinks they will; mose gen'lly the contrary. Gals is
nat'lly made contrary; and so, if you thinks they've gone one
road, it is sartin you'd better go t' other, and then you'll be
sure to find 'em. Now, my private 'pinion is, Lizy took der road;
so I think we'd better take de straight one."
This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem to
dispose Haley particularly to the straight road, and he announced
decidedly that he should go the other, and asked Sam when they
should come to it.
"A little piece ahead," said Sam, giving a wink to Andy with the
eye which was on Andy's side of the head; and he added, gravely,
"but I've studded on de matter, and I'm quite clar we ought not to
go dat ar way. I nebber been over it no way. It's despit lonesome,
and we might lose our way,—whar we'd come to, de Lord only knows."
"Nevertheless," said Haley, "I shall go that way."
"Now I think on 't, I think I hearn 'em tell that dat ar road was
all fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an't it, Andy?"
Andy wasn't certain; he'd only "hearn tell" about that road, but
never been over it. In short, he was strictly noncommittal.
Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between
lies of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in favor
of the dirt road aforesaid. The mention of the thing he thought he
perceived was involuntary on Sam's part at first, and his confused
attempts to dissuade him he set down to a desperate lying on
second thoughts, as being unwilling to implicate Liza.
When, therefore, Sam indicated the road, Haley plunged briskly
into it, followed by Sam and Andy.
Now, the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerly been a
thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many years after the
laying of the new pike. It was open for about an hour's ride, and
after that it was cut across by various farms and fences. Sam knew
this fact perfectly well,—indeed, the road had been so long closed
up, that Andy had never heard of it. He therefore rode along with
an air of dutiful submission, only groaning and vociferating
occasionally that 't was "desp't rough, and bad for Jerry's foot."
"Now, I jest give yer warning," said Haley, "I know yer; yer
won't get me to turn off this road, with all yer fussin'—so you
shet up!"
"Mas'r will go his own way!" said Sam, with rueful submission, at
the same time winking most Portentously to Andy, whose delight was
now very near the explosive point.
Sam was in wonderful spirits,—professed to keep a very brisk
lookout,—at one time exclaiming that he saw "a gal's bonnet" on
the top of some distant eminence, or calling to Andy "if that thar
wasn't 'Lizy' down in the hollow;" always making these
exclamations in some rough or craggy part of the road, where the
sudden quickening of speed was a special inconvenience to all
parties concerned, and thus keeping Haley in a state of constant
commotion.
After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party made a
precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a
large farming establishment. Not a soul was in sight, all the
hands being employed in the fields; but, as the barn stood
conspicuously and plainly square across the road, it was evident
that their journey in that direction had reached a decided finale.
"Wan't dat ar what I telled Mas'r?" said Sam, with an air of
injured innocence. "How does strange gentleman spect to know more
about a country dan de natives born and raised?"
"You rascal!" said Haley, "you knew all about this."
"Didn't I tell yer I knowd, and yer wouldn't believe me?
I telled Mas'r 't was all shet up, and fenced up, and I didn't
spect we could get through,—Andy heard me."
It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had to
pocket his wrath with the best grace he was able, and all three
faced to the right about, and took up their line of march for the
highway.
In consequence of all the various delays, it was about
three-quarters of an hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep
in the village tavern that the party came riding into the same
place. Eliza was standing by the window, looking out in another
direction, when Sam's quick eye caught a glimpse of her. Haley and
Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis, Sam contrived to have
his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic
ejaculation, which startled her at once; she drew suddenly back;
the whole train swept by the window, round to the front door.
A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment to
Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her
child, and sprang down the steps towards it. The trader caught a
full glimpse of her just as she was disappearing down the bank;
and throwing himself from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and
Andy, he was after her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy
moment her feet to her scarce seemed to touch the ground, and a
moment brought her to the water's edge. Right on behind they came;
and, nerved with strength such as God gives only to the desperate,
with one wild cry and flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the
turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of ice beyond. It was
a desperate leap—impossible to anything but madness and despair;
and Haley, Sam, and Andy, instinctively cried out, and lifted up
their hands, as she did it.
The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitched and
creaked as her weight came on it, but she staid there not a
moment. With wild cries and desperate energy she leaped to another
and still another cake; stumbling—leaping—slipping—springing
upwards again! Her shoes are gone—her stockings cut from her
feet—while blood marked every step; but she saw nothing, felt
nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio side, and a
man helping her up the bank.
"Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!" said the man, with an
oath.
Eliza recognized the voice and face for a man who owned a farm
not far from her old home.
"O, Mr. Symmes!—save me—do save me—do hide me!" said Elia.
"Why, what's this?" said the man. "Why, if 'tan't Shelby's gal!"
"My child!—this boy!—he'd sold him! There is his Mas'r," said
she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. "O, Mr. Symmes, you've got a
little boy!"
"So I have," said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drew her up
the steep bank. "Besides, you're a right brave gal. I like grit,
wherever I see it."
When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused.
"I'd be glad to do something for ye," said he; "but then there's
nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do is to tell ye to go thar,"
said he, pointing to a large white house which stood by itself,
off the main street of the village. "Go thar; they're kind folks.
Thar's no kind o' danger but they'll help you,—they're up to all
that sort o' thing."
"The Lord bless you!" said Eliza, earnestly.
"No 'casion, no 'casion in the world," said the man. "What I've
done's of no 'count."
"And, oh, surely, sir, you won't tell any one!"
"Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for? In course
not," said the man. "Come, now, go along like a likely, sensible
gal, as you are. You've arnt your liberty, and you shall have it,
for all me."
The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmly and
swiftly away. The man stood and looked after her.
"Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neighborly
thing in the world; but what's a feller to do? If he catches one
of my gals in the same fix, he's welcome to pay back. Somehow I
never could see no kind o' critter a strivin' and pantin', and
trying to clar theirselves, with the dogs arter 'em and go agin
'em. Besides, I don't see no kind of 'casion for me to be hunter
and catcher for other folks, neither."
So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not been
instructed in his constitutional relations, and consequently was
betrayed into acting in a sort of Christianized manner, which, if
he had been better situated and more enlightened, he would not
have been left to do.
Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene, till
Eliza had disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank,
inquiring look on Sam and Andy.
"That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business," said Sam.
"The gal 's got seven devils in her, I believe!" said Haley. "How
like a wildcat she jumped!"
"Wal, now," said Sam, scratching his head, "I hope Mas'r'll
'scuse us trying dat ar road. Don't think I feel spry enough for
dat ar, no way!" and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle.
"You laugh!" said the trader, with a growl.
"Lord bless you, Mas'r, I couldn't help it now," said Sam, giving
way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. "She looked so
curi's, a leapin' and springin'—ice a crackin'—and only to hear
her,—plump! ker chunk! ker splash! Spring! Lord! how she goes it!"
and Sam and Andy laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks.
"I'll make ye laugh t' other side yer mouths!" said the trader,
laying about their heads with his riding-whip.
Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on their
horses before he was up.
"Good-evening, Mas'r!" said Sam, with much gravity. "I berry much
spect Missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r Haley won't want us no
longer. Missis wouldn't hear of our ridin' the critters over
Lizy's bridge tonight;" and, with a facetious poke into Andy's
ribs, he started off, followed by the latter, at full speed,—their
shouts of laughter coming faintly on the wind.
[text omitted]
Chapter XIV, Evangeline
"A young star! which shone
O'er life—too sweet an image, for such glass!
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded;
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."
The Mississippi! How, as by an enchanted wand, have its scenes
been changed, since Chateaubriand wrote his prose-poetic
description of it, as a river of mighty, unbroken solitudes,
rolling amid undreamed wonders of vegetable and animal existence.
But as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance has
emerged to a reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. What
other river of the world bears on its bosom to the ocean the
wealth and enterprise of such another country?—a country whose
products embrace all between the tropics and the poles! Those
turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing along, an apt
resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is poured
along its wave by a race more vehement and energetic than any the
old world ever saw. Ah! would that they did not also bear along a
more fearful freight,—the tears of the oppressed, the sighs of the
helpless, the bitter prayers of poor, ignorant hearts to an
unknown God—unknown, unseen and silent, but who will yet "come out
of his place to save all the poor of the earth!"
The slanting light of the setting sun quivers on the sea-like
expanse of the river; the shivery canes, and the tall, dark
cypress, hung with wreaths of dark, funereal moss, glow in the
golden ray, as the heavily-laden steamboat marches onward.
Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over deck and
sides, till she seems in the distance a square, massive block of
gray, she moves heavily onward to the nearing mart. We must look
some time among its crowded decks before we shall find again our
humble friend Tom. High on the upper deck, in a little nook among
the everywhere predominant cotton-bales, at last we may find him.
Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby's representations,
and partly from the remarkably inoffensive and quiet character of
the man, Tom had insensibly won his way far into the confidence
even of such a man as Haley.
At first he had watched him narrowly through the day, and never
allowed him to sleep at night unfettered; but the uncomplaining
patience and apparent contentment of Tom's manner led him
gradually to discontinue these restraints, and for some time Tom
had enjoyed a sort of parole of honor, being permitted to come and
go freely where he pleased on the boat.
Ever quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a hand in
every emergency which occurred among the workmen below, he had won
the good opinion of all the hands, and spent many hours in helping
them with as hearty a good will as ever he worked on a Kentucky
farm.
When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he would climb to
a nook among the cotton-bales of the upper deck, and busy himself
in studying over his Bible,—and it is there we see him now.
For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the river is
higher than the surrounding country, and rolls its tremendous
volume between massive levees twenty feet in height. The traveller
from the deck of the steamer, as from some floating castle top,
overlooks the whole country for miles and miles around. Tom,
therefore, had spread out full before him, in plantation after
plantation, a map of the life to which he was approaching.
He saw the distant slaves at their toil; he saw afar their
villages of huts gleaming out in long rows on many a plantation,
distant from the stately mansions and pleasure-grounds of the
master;—and as the moving picture passed on, his poor, foolish
heart would be turning backward to the Kentucky farm, with its old
shadowy beeches,—to the master's house, with its wide, cool halls,
and, near by, the little cabin overgrown with the multiflora and
bignonia. There he seemed to see familiar faces of comrades who
had grown up with him from infancy; he saw his busy wife, bustling
in her preparations for his evening meals; he heard the merry
laugh of his boys at their play, and the chirrup of the baby at
his knee; and then, with a start, all faded, and he saw again the
canebrakes and cypresses and gliding plantations, and heard again
the creaking and groaning of the machinery, all telling him too
plainly that all that phase of life had gone by forever.
In such a case, you write to your wife, and send messages to your
children; but Tom could not write,—the mail for him had no
existence, and the gulf of separation was unbridged by even a
friendly word or signal.
Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages of his
Bible, as he lays it on the cotton-bale, and, with patient finger,
threading his slow way from word to word, traces out its promises?
Having learned late in life, Tom was but a slow reader, and passed
on laboriously from verse to verse. Fortunate for him was it that
the book he was intent on was one which slow reading cannot
injure,—nay, one whose words, like ingots of gold, seem often to
need to be weighed separately, that the mind may take in their
priceless value. Let us follow him a moment, as, pointing to each
word, and pronouncing each half aloud, he reads,
"Let—not—your—heart—be—troubled. In—my
—Father's—house—are—many—mansions.
I—go—to—prepare—a—place—for—you."
Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had a heart
as full of honest grief as poor Tom's,—perhaps no fuller, for both
were only men;—but Cicero could pause over no such sublime words
of hope, and look to no such future reunion; and if he had
seen them, ten to one he would not have believed,—he must fill his
head first with a thousand questions of authenticity of
manuscript, and correctness of translation. But, to poor Tom,
there it lay, just what he needed, so evidently true and divine
that the possibility of a question never entered his simple head.
It must be true; for, if not true, how could he live?
As for Tom's Bible, though it had no annotations and helps in
margin from learned commentators, still it had been embellished
with certain way-marks and guide-boards of Tom's own invention,
and which helped him more than the most learned expositions could
have done. It had been his custom to get the Bible read to him by
his master's children, in particular by young Master George; and,
as they read, he would designate, by bold, strong marks and
dashes, with pen and ink, the passages which more particularly
gratified his ear or affected his heart. His Bible was thus marked
through, from one end to the other, with a variety of styles and
designations; so he could in a moment seize upon his favorite
passages, without the labor of spelling out what lay between
them;—and while it lay there before him, every passage breathing
of some old home scene, and recalling some past enjoyment, his
Bible seemed to him all of this life that remained, as well as the
promise of a future one.
Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman of fortune
and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the name of St.
Clare. He had with him a daughter between five and six years of
age, together with a lady who seemed to claim relationship to
both, and to have the little one especially under her charge.
Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl,—for she was
one of those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no more
contained in one place than a sunbeam or a summer breeze,—nor was
she one that, once seen, could be easily forgotten.
Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual
chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was about it an
undulating and aerial grace, such as one might dream of for some
mythic and allegorical being. Her face was remarkable less for its
perfect beauty of feature than for a singular and dreamy
earnestness of expression, which made the ideal start when they
looked at her, and by which the dullest and most literal were
impressed, without exactly knowing why. The shape of her head and
the turn of her neck and bust was peculiarly noble, and the long
golden-brown hair that floated like a cloud around it, the deep
spiritual gravity of her violet blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringes
of golden brown,—all marked her out from other children, and made
every one turn and look after her, as she glided hither and
thither on the boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not what you
would have called either a grave child or a sad one. On the
contrary, an airy and innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like
the shadow of summer leaves over her childish face, and around her
buoyant figure. She was always in motion, always with a half smile
on her rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an undulating
and cloud-like tread, singing to herself as she moved as in a
happy dream. Her father and female guardian were incessantly busy
in pursuit of her,—but, when caught, she melted from them again
like a summer cloud; and as no word of chiding or reproof ever
fell on her ear for whatever she chose to do, she pursued her own
way all over the boat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to move
like a shadow through all sorts of places, without contracting
spot or stain; and there was not a corner or nook, above or below,
where those fairy footsteps had not glided, and that visionary
golden head, with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along.
The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes
found those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging depths of the
furnace, and fearfully and pityingly at him, as if she thought him
in some dreadful danger. Anon the steersman at the wheel paused
and smiled, as the picture-like head gleamed through the window of
the round house, and in a moment was gone again. A thousand times
a day rough voices blessed her, and smiles of unwonted softness
stole over hard faces, as she passed; and when she tripped
fearlessly over dangerous places, rough, sooty hands were
stretched involuntarily out to save her, and smooth her path.
Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly race,
ever yearning toward the simple and childlike, watched the little
creature with daily increasing interest. To him she seemed
something almost divine; and whenever her golden head and deep
blue eyes peered out upon him from behind some dusky cotton-bale,
or looked down upon him over some ridge of packages, he half
believed that he saw one of the angels stepped out of his New
Testament.
Often and often she walked mournfully round the place where
Haley's gang of men and women sat in their chains. She would glide
in among them, and look at them with an air of perplexed and
sorrowful earnestness; and sometimes she would lift their chains
with her slender hands, and then sigh wofully, as she glided away.
Several times she appeared suddenly among them, with her hands
full of candy, nuts, and oranges, which she would distribute
joyfully to them, and then be gone again.
Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he ventured on
any overtures towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abundance of
simple acts to propitiate and invite the approaches of the little
people, and he resolved to play his part right skilfully. He could
cut cunning little baskets out of cherry-stones, could make
grotesque faces on hickory-nuts, or odd-jumping figures out of
elder-pith, and he was a very Pan in the manufacture of whistles
of all sizes and sorts. His pockets were full of miscellaneous
articles of attraction, which he had hoarded in days of old for
his master's children, and which he now produced, with commendable
prudence and economy, one by one, as overtures for acquaintance
and friendship.
The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in everything
going on, and it was not easy to tame her. For a while, she would
perch like a canary-bird on some box or package near Tom, while
busy in the little arts afore-named, and take from him, with a
kind of grave bashfulness, the little articles he offered. But at
last they got on quite confidential terms.
"What's little missy's name?" said Tom, at last, when he thought
matters were ripe to push such an inquiry.
"Evangeline St. Clare," said the little one, "though papa and
everybody else call me Eva. Now, what's your name?"
"My name's Tom; the little chil'en used to call me Uncle Tom, way
back thar in Kentuck."
"Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, I like
you," said Eva. "So, Uncle Tom, where are you going?"
"I don't know, Miss Eva."
"Don't know?" said Eva.
"No, I am going to be sold to somebody. I don't know who."
"My papa can buy you," said Eva, quickly; "and if he buys you,
you will have good times. I mean to ask him, this very day."
"Thank you, my little lady," said Tom.
The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in wood, and
Eva, hearing her father's voice, bounded nimbly away. Tom rose up,
and went forward to offer his service in wooding, and soon was
busy among the hands.
Eva and her father were standing together by the railings to see
the boat start from the landing-place, the wheel had made two or
three revolutions in the water, when, by some sudden movement, the
little one suddenly lost her balance and fell sheer over the side
of the boat into the water. Her father, scarce knowing what he
did, was plunging in after her, but was held back by some behind
him, who saw that more efficient aid had followed his child.
Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck, as she fell.
He saw her strike the water, and sink, and was after her in a
moment. A broad-chested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for
him to keep afloat in the water, till, in a moment or two the
child rose to the surface, and he caught her in his arms, and,
swimming with her to the boat-side, handed her up, all dripping,
to the grasp of hundreds of hands, which, as if they had all
belonged to one man, were stretched eagerly out to receive her. A
few moments more, and her father bore her, dripping and senseless,
to the ladies' cabin, where, as is usual in cases of the kind,
there ensued a very well-meaning and kind-hearted strife among the
female occupants generally, as to who should do the most things to
make a disturbance, and to hinder her recovery in every way
possible.
It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamer drew
near to New Orleans. A general bustle of expectation and
preparation was spread through the boat; in the cabin, one and
another were gathering their things together, and arranging them,
preparatory to going ashore. The steward and chambermaid, and all,
were busily engaged in cleaning, furbishing, and arranging the
splendid boat, preparatory to a grand entree.
On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded, and
anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes towards a group on
the other side of the boat.
There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day
before, but otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accident which
had befallen her. A graceful, elegantly-formed young man stood by
her, carelessly leaning one elbow on a bale of cotton while a
large pocket-book lay open before him. It was quite evident, at a
glance, that the gentleman was Eva's father. There was the same
noble cast of head, the same large blue eyes, the same
golden-brown hair; yet the expression was wholly different. In the
large, clear blue eyes, though in form and color exactly similar,
there was wanting that misty, dreamy depth of expression; all was
clear, bold, and bright, but with a light wholly of this world:
the beautifully cut mouth had a proud and somewhat sarcastic
expression, while an air of free-and-easy superiority sat not
ungracefully in every turn and movement of his fine form. He was
listening, with a good-humored, negligent air, half comic, half
contemptuous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating on the
quality of the article for which they were bargaining.
"All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black Morocco,
complete!" he said, when Haley had finished. "Well, now, my good
fellow, what's the damage, as they say in Kentucky; in short,
what's to be paid out for this business? How much are you going to
cheat me, now? Out with it!"
"Wal," said Haley, "if I should say thirteen hundred dollars for
that ar fellow, I shouldn't but just save myself; I shouldn't,
now, re'ly."
"Poor fellow!" said the young man, fixing his keen, mocking blue
eye on him; "but I suppose you'd let me have him for that, out of
a particular regard for me."
"Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, and nat'lly
enough."
"O! certainly, there's a call on your benevolence, my friend.
Now, as a matter of Christian charity, how cheap could you afford
to let him go, to oblige a young lady that's particular sot on
him?"
"Wal, now, just think on 't," said the trader; "just look at them
limbs,—broad-chested, strong as a horse. Look at his head; them
high forrads allays shows calculatin niggers, that'll do any kind
o' thing. I've, marked that ar. Now, a nigger of that ar heft and
build is worth considerable, just as you may say, for his body,
supposin he's stupid; but come to put in his calculatin faculties,
and them which I can show he has oncommon, why, of course, it
makes him come higher. Why, that ar fellow managed his master's
whole farm. He has a strornary talent for business."
"Bad, bad, very bad; knows altogether too much!" said the young
man, with the same mocking smile playing about his mouth. "Never
will do, in the world. Your smart fellows are always running off,
stealing horses, and raising the devil generally. I think you'll
have to take off a couple of hundred for his smartness."
"Wal, there might be something in that ar, if it warnt for his
character; but I can show recommends from his master and others,
to prove he is one of your real pious,—the most humble, prayin,
pious crittur ye ever did see. Why, he's been called a preacher in
them parts he came from."
"And I might use him for a family chaplain, possibly," added the
young man, dryly. "That's quite an idea. Religion is a remarkably
scarce article at our house."
"You're joking, now."
"How do you know I am? Didn't you just warrant him for a
preacher? Has he been examined by any synod or council? Come, hand
over your papers."
If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humored
twinkle in the large eye, that all this banter was sure, in the
long run, to turn out a cash concern, he might have been somewhat
out of patience; as it was, he laid down a greasy pocket-book on
the cotton-bales, and began anxiously studying over certain papers
in it, the young man standing by, the while, looking down on him
with an air of careless, easy drollery.
"Papa, do buy him! it's no matter what you pay," whispered Eva,
softly, getting up on a package, and putting her arm around her
father's neck. "You have money enough, I know. I want him."
"What for, pussy? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box, or a
rocking-horse, or what?
"I want to make him happy."
"An original reason, certainly."
Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby,
which the young man took with the tips of his long fingers, and
glanced over carelessly.
"A gentlemanly hand," he said, "and well spelt, too. Well, now,
but I'm not sure, after all, about this religion," said he, the
old wicked expression returning to his eye; "the country is almost
ruined with pious white people; such pious politicians as we have
just before elections,—such pious goings on in all departments of
church and state, that a fellow does not know who'll cheat him
next. I don't know, either, about religion's being up in the
market, just now. I have not looked in the papers lately, to see
how it sells. How many hundred dollars, now, do you put on for
this religion?"
"You like to be jokin, now," said the trader; "but, then, there's
sense under all that ar. I know there's differences in
religion. Some kinds is mis'rable: there's your meetin pious;
there's your singin, roarin pious; them ar an't no account, in
black or white;—but these rayly is; and I've seen it in niggers as
often as any, your rail softly, quiet, stiddy, honest, pious, that
the hull world couldn't tempt 'em to do nothing that they thinks
is wrong; and ye see in this letter what Tom's old master says
about him."
"Now," said the young man, stooping gravely over his book of
bills, "if you can assure me that I really can buy this
kind of pious, and that it will be set down to my account in the
book up above, as something belonging to me, I wouldn't care if I
did go a little extra for it. How d'ye say?"
"Wal, raily, I can't do that," said the trader. "I'm a thinkin
that every man'll have to hang on his own hook, in them ar
quarters."
"Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and can't
trade with it in the state where he wants it most, an't it, now?"
said the young man, who had been making out a roll of bills while
he was speaking. "There, count your money, old boy!" he added, as
he handed the roll to the trader.
"All right," said Haley, his face beaming with delight; and
pulling out an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of
sale, which, in a few moments, he handed to the young man.
"I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried," said the
latter as he ran over the paper, "how much I might bring. Say so
much for the shape of my head, so much for a high forehead, so
much for arms, and hands, and legs, and then so much for
education, learning, talent, honesty, religion! Bless me! there
would be small charge on that last, I'm thinking. But come, Eva,"
he said; and taking the hand of his daughter, he stepped across
the boat, and carelessly putting the tip of his finger under Tom's
chin, said, good-humoredly, "Look-up, Tom, and see how you like
your new master."
Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, young,
handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure; and Tom felt the
tears start in his eyes as he said, heartily, "God bless you,
Mas'r!"
"Well, I hope he will. What's your name? Tom? Quite as likely to
do it for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive
horses, Tom?"
"I've been allays used to horses," said Tom. "Mas'r Shelby raised
heaps of 'em."
"Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition that you
won't be drunk more than once a week, unless in cases of
emergency, Tom."
Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, "I never drink,
Mas'r."
"I've heard that story before, Tom; but then we'll see. It will
be a special accommodation to all concerned, if you don't. Never
mind, my boy," he added, good-humoredly, seeing Tom still looked
grave; "I don't doubt you mean to do well."
"I sartin do, Mas'r," said Tom.
"And you shall have good times," said Eva. "Papa is very good to
everybody, only he always will laugh at them."
"Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation," said St.
Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away.
[text omitted]
Chapter XL, The Martyr
"Deem not the just by Heaven forgot!
Though life its common gifts deny,—
Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart,
And spurned of man, he goes to die!
For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every bitter tear,
And heaven's long years of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here."
BRYANT.
The longest way must have its close,—the gloomiest night will
wear on to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is
ever hurrying the day of the evil to an eternal night, and the
night of the just to an eternal day. We have walked with our
humble friend thus far in the valley of slavery; first through
flowery fields of ease and indulgence, then through heart-breaking
separations from all that man holds dear. Again, we have waited
with him in a sunny island, where generous hands concealed his
chains with flowers; and, lastly, we have followed him when the
last ray of earthly hope went out in night, and seen how, in the
blackness of earthly darkness, the firmament of the unseen has
blazed with stars of new and significant lustre.
The morning-star now stands over the tops of the mountains, and
gales and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are
unclosing.
The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly
temper of Legree to the last degree; and his fury, as was to be
expected, fell upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedly
announced the tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light in
Tom's eye, a sudden upraising of his hands, that did not escape
him. He saw that he did not join the muster of the pursuers. He
thought of forcing him to do it; but, having had, of old,
experience of his inflexibility when commanded to take part in any
deed of inhumanity, he would not, in his hurry, stop to enter into
any conflict with him.
Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of
him to pray, and offered up prayers for the escape of the
fugitives.
When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the
long-working hatred of his soul towards his slave began to gather
in a deadly and desperate form. Had not this man braved
him,—steadily, powerfully, resistlessly,—ever since he bought him?
Was there not a spirit in him which, silent as it was, burned on
him like the fires of perdition?
"I hate him!" said Legree, that night, as he sat up in
his bed; "I hate him! And isn't he MINE? Can't I do what I
like with him? Who's to hinder, I wonder?" And Legree clenched his
fist, and shook it, as if he had something in his hands that he
could rend in pieces.
But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant; and, although
Legree hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was
still somewhat of a restraint to him.
The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet; to
assemble a party, from some neighboring plantations, with dogs and
guns; to surround the swamp, and go about the hunt systematically.
If it succeeded, well and good; if not, he would summon Tom before
him, and—his teeth clenched and his blood boiled—then he
would break the fellow down, or—there was a dire inward whisper,
to which his soul assented.
Ye say that the interest of the master is a sufficient
safeguard for the slave. In the fury of man's mad will, he will
wittingly, and with open eye, sell his own soul to the devil to
gain his ends; and will he be more careful of his neighbor's body?
"Well," said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she
reconnoitred through the knot-hole, "the hunt's going to begin
again, today!"
Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on the
space in front of the house; and one or two leashes of strange
dogs were struggling with the negroes who held them, baying and
barking at each other.
The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the
vicinity; and others were some of Legree's associates at the
tavern-bar of a neighboring city, who had come for the interest of
the sport. A more hard-favored set, perhaps, could not be
imagined. Legree was serving brandy, profusely, round among them,
as also among the negroes, who had been detailed from the various
plantations for this service; for it was an object to make every
service of this kind, among the negroes, as much of a holiday as
possible.
Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole; and, as the morning air
blew directly towards the house, she could overhear a good deal of
the conversation. A grave sneer overcast the dark, severe gravity
of her face, as she listened, and heard them divide out the
ground, discuss the rival merits of the dogs, give orders about
firing, and the treatment of each, in case of capture.
Cassy drew back; and, clasping her hands, looked upward, and
said, "O, great Almighty God! we are all sinners; but what
have we done, more than all the rest of the world, that we
should be treated so?"
There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, as she
spoke.
"If it wasn't for you, child," she said, looking at
Emmeline, "I'd go out to them; and I'd thank any one of
them that would shoot me down; for what use will freedom
be to me? Can it give me back my children, or make me what I used
to be?"
Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of the
dark moods of Cassy. She looked perplexed, but made no answer. She
only took her hand, with a gentle, caressing movement.
"Don't!" said Cassy, trying to draw it away; "you'll get me to
loving you; and I never mean to love anything, again!"
"Poor Cassy!" said Emmeline, "don't feel so! If the Lord gives us
liberty, perhaps he'll give you back your daughter; at any rate,
I'll be like a daughter to you. I know I'll never see my poor old
mother again! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you love me or
not!"
The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down by her,
put her arm round her neck, stroked her soft, brown hair; and
Emmeline then wondered at the beauty of her magnificent eyes, now
soft with tears.
"O, Em!" said Cassy, "I've hungered for my children, and thirsted
for them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here! here!" she
said, striking her breast, "it's all desolate, all empty! If God
would give me back my children, then I could pray."
"You must trust him, Cassy," said Emmeline; "he is our Father!"
"His wrath is upon us," said Cassy; "he has turned away in
anger."
"No, Cassy! He will be good to us! Let us hope in Him," said
Emmeline,—"I always have had hope."
The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and,
with grave, ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on Legree, as,
weary and dispirited, he alighted from his horse.
"Now, Quimbo," said Legree, as he stretched himself down in the
sitting-room, "you jest go and walk that Tom up here, right away!
The old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter; and I'll
have it out of his old black hide, or I'll know the reason why!"
Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were joined in
one mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree had told them,
at first, that he had bought him for a general overseer, in his
absence; and this had begun an ill will, on their part, which had
increased, in their debased and servile natures, as they saw him
becoming obnoxious to their master's displeasure. Quimbo,
therefore, departed, with a will, to execute his orders.
Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knew all
the plan of the fugitives' escape, and the place of their present
concealment;—he knew the deadly character of the man he had to
deal with, and his despotic power. But he felt strong in God to
meet death, rather than betray the helpless.
He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, "Into
thy hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, oh Lord God
of truth!" and then quietly yielded himself to the rough, brutal
grasp with which Quimbo seized him.
"Ay, ay!" said the giant, as he dragged him along; "ye'll cotch
it, now! I'll boun' Mas'r's back 's up high! No sneaking
out, now! Tell ye, ye'll get it, and no mistake! See how ye'll
look, now, helpin' Mas'r's niggers to run away! See what ye'll
get!"
The savage words none of them reached that ear!—a higher voice
there was saying, "Fear not them that kill the body, and, after
that, have no more that they can do." Nerve and bone of that poor
man's body vibrated to those words, as if touched by the finger of
God; and he felt the strength of a thousand souls in one. As he
passed along, the trees and bushes, the huts of his servitude, the
whole scene of his degradation, seemed to whirl by him as the
landscape by the rushing ear. His soul throbbed,—his home was in
sight,—and the hour of release seemed at hand.
"Well, Tom!" said Legree, walking up, and seizing him grimly by
the collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a
paroxysm of determined rage, "do you know I've made up my mind to
KILL YOU?"
"It's very likely, Mas'r," said Tom, calmly.
"I have," said Legree, with a grim, terrible calmness, "done—just—that—thing,
Tom, unless you'll tell me what you know about these yer gals!"
Tom stood silent.
"D'ye hear?" said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an
incensed lion. "Speak!"
"I han't got nothing to tell, Mas'r," said Tom, with a
slow, firm, deliberate utterance.
"Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don't know?"
said Legree.
Tom was silent.
"Speak!" thundered Legree, striking him furiously. "Do you know
anything?"
"I know, Mas'r; but I can't tell anything. I can die!"
Legree drew in a long breath; and, suppressing his rage, took Tom
by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said, in a
terrible voice, "Hark 'e, Tom!—ye think, 'cause I've let you off
before, I don't mean what I say; but, this time, I've made up
my mind, and counted the cost. You've always stood it out
again' me: now, I'll conquer ye, or kill ye!—one or t'
other. I'll count every drop of blood there is in you, and take
'em, one by one, till ye give up!"
Tom looked up to his master, and answered, "Mas'r, if you was
sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I'd give
ye my heart's blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in this
poor old body would save your precious soul, I'd give 'em freely,
as the Lord gave his for me. O, Mas'r! don't bring this great sin
on your soul! It will hurt you more than 't will me! Do the worst
you can, my troubles'll be over soon; but, if ye don't repent,
yours won't never end!"
Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull of a
tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment's blank pause. Legree
stood aghast, and looked at Tom; and there was such a silence,
that the tick of the old clock could be heard, measuring, with
silent touch, the last moments of mercy and probation to that
hardened heart.
It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause,—one
irresolute, relenting thrill,—and the spirit of evil came back,
with seven-fold vehemence; and Legree, foaming with rage, smote
his victim to the ground.
Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart.
What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear. What
brother-man and brother-Christian must suffer, cannot be told us,
even in our secret chamber, it so harrows the soul! And yet, oh my
country! these things are done under the shadow of thy laws! O,
Christ! thy church sees them, almost in silence!
But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an instrument
of torture, degradation and shame, into a symbol of glory, honor,
and immortal life; and, where His spirit is, neither degrading
stripes, nor blood, nor insults, can make the Christian's last
struggle less than glorious.
Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was
bearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal
stripes?
Nay! There stood by him ONE,—seen by him alone,—"like unto the
Son of God."
The tempter stood by him, too,—blinded by furious, despotic
will,—every moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal
of the innocent. But the brave, true heart was firm on the Eternal
Rock. Like his Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself
he could not save; nor could utmost extremity wring from him
words, save of prayers and holy trust.
"He's most gone, Mas'r," said Sambo, touched, in spite of
himself, by the patience of his victim.
"Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him!—give it to him!"
shouted Legree. "I'll take every drop of blood he has, unless he
confesses!"
Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. "Ye poor
miserable critter!" he said, "there ain't no more ye can do! I
forgive ye, with all my soul!" and he fainted entirely away.
"I b'lieve, my soul, he's done for, finally," said Legree,
stepping forward, to look at him. "Yes, he is! Well, his mouth's
shut up, at last,—that's one comfort!"
Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul? that
soul, past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire
that never shall be quenched is already burning!
Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers
had struck upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks, who had been
the instruments of cruelty upon him; and, the instant Legree
withdrew, they took him down, and, in their ignorance, sought to
call him back to life,—as if that were any favor to him.
"Sartin, we 's been doin' a drefful wicked thing!" said Sambo;
"hopes Mas'r'll have to 'count for it, and not we."
They washed his wounds,—they provided a rude bed, of some refuse
cotton, for him to lie down on; and one of them, stealing up to
the house, begged a drink of brandy of Legree, pretending that he
was tired, and wanted it for himself. He brought it back, and
poured it down Tom's throat.
"O, Tom!" said Quimbo, "we's been awful wicked to ye!"
"I forgive ye, with all my heart!" said Tom, faintly.
"O, Tom! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow?" said
Sambo;—"Jesus, that's been a standin' by you so, all this
night!—Who is he?"
The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a
few energetic sentences of that wondrous One,—his life, his death,
his everlasting presence, and power to save.
They wept,—both the two savage men.
"Why didn't I never hear this before?" said Sambo; "but I do
believe!—I can't help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us!"
"Poor critters!" said Tom, "I'd be willing to bar' all I have, if
it'll only bring ye to Christ! O, Lord! give me these two more
souls, I pray!"
That prayer was answered!
Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
[image]
Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth President of the United States, was
born on February 12, 1809, in Hardin County, Kentucky. His family
moved to Indiana, then Illinois, looking for better
opportunities. He fought in the Black Hawk War, became a lawyer,
and served for eight years in the Illinois legislature. He gained
a wider reputation by debating Stephen A. Douglas when running for
Senator, which led to his nomination for President by the
Republican Party. His win precipitated the succession of southern
states from the Union and the beginning of the Civil War. His
leadership during this conflict and in ending slavery in the U.S.,
along with his memorable writing and speeches, such as the
Emancipation Proclamation, the Gettysburg Address, and his Second
Inaugural Address, helped to secure his place as one of the
greatest Presidents of all time. Lincoln was shot by John Wilkes
Booth, a Southern sympathizer, on April 14, 1865 and died the
following morning. He is buried in Springfield, Illinois.
Writings about Lincoln are plentiful. Carl Sandburg has a six
volume biography that has stood the test of time. Students should
also read the introduction to Andrew Delbanco’s The Portable
Abraham Lincoln (1992) for a key analysis of Lincoln as a
writer.
Lincoln, Abraham. The Papers And Writings Of Abraham Lincoln,
Volume Seven. Constitutional Edition. Ed. Arthur Brooks Lapsley.
New York and London: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1906.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3253
Address at Gettysburg, November 19, 1863
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this
continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to
the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that
nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long
endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have
come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place
for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.
It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not
consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living
and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our
poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long
remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did
here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the
unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly
advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great
task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take
increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full
measure of devotion that we here highly resolve that these dead
shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall
have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by
the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Second Inaugural Address, March 4, 1865
FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN:—At this second appearing to take the oath of
the presidential office there is less occasion for an extended
address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in
detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now,
at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations
have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the
great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the
energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The
progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as
well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust,
reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for
the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.
On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts
were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it,
all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being
delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union
without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy
it without war seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by
negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would
make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would
accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.
One eighth of the whole population was colored slaves, not
distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the
southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and
powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the
cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this
interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the
Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do
more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither
party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it
has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the
conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself
should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less
fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to
the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may
seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's
assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's
faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of
both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered
fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world
because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but
woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose
that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the
providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued
through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He
gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to
those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any
departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a
living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do
we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away.
Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by
the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil
shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash
shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three
thousand years ago, so still it must be said, "The judgments of
the Lord are true and righteous altogether."
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in
the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to
finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care
for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his
orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting
peace among ourselves and with all nations.
***
DALA: Digital American Literature Anthology
Edited by Dr. Michael O'Conner, Millikin University
Unit 11: Writing Slavery
digitalamlit.com
***
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