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In the same book, I met with one of Sheridan’s mighty speeches on and

in behalf of Catholic emancipation. These were choice documents to me.

I read them over and over again with unabated interest. They gave

tongue to interesting thoughts of my own soul, which had frequently

flashed through my mind, and died away for want of utterance. The moral

which I gained from the dialogue was the power of truth over the

conscience of even a slaveholder. What I got from Sheridan was a bold

denunciation of slavery, and a powerful vindication of human rights.

The reading of these documents enabled me to utter my thoughts, and to

meet the arguments brought forward to sustain slavery; but while they

relieved me of one difficulty, they brought on another even more

painful than the one of which I was relieved. The more I read, the more

I was led to abhor and detest my enslavers. I could regard them in no

other light than a band of successful robbers, who had left their

homes, and gone to Africa, and stolen us from our homes, and in a

strange land reduced us to slavery. I loathed them as being the meanest

as well as the most wicked of men. As I read and contemplated the

subject, behold! that very discontentment which Master Hugh had

predicted would follow my learning to read had already come, to torment

and sting my soul to unutterable anguish. As I writhed under it, I

would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than

a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without

the remedy. It opened my eyes to the horrible pit, but to no ladder

upon which to get out. In moments of agony, I envied my fellow-slaves

for their stupidity. I have often wished myself a beast. I preferred

the condition of the meanest reptile to my own. Any thing, no matter

what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my

condition that tormented me. There was no getting rid of it. It was

pressed upon me by every object within sight or hearing, animate or

inanimate. The silver trump of freedom had roused my soul to eternal

wakefulness. Freedom now appeared, to disappear no more forever. It was

heard in every sound, and seen in every thing. It was ever present to

torment me with a sense of my wretched condition. I saw nothing without

seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt nothing without

feeling it. It looked from every star, it smiled in every calm,

breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.

I often found myself regretting my own existence, and wishing myself

dead; and but for the hope of being free, I have no doubt but that I

should have killed myself, or done something for which I should have

been killed. While in this state of mind, I was eager to hear any one

speak of slavery. I was a ready listener. Every little while, I could

hear something about the abolitionists. It was some time before I found

what the word meant. It was always used in such connections as to make

it an interesting word to me. If a slave ran away and succeeded in

getting clear, or if a slave killed his master, set fire to a barn, or

did any thing very wrong in the mind of a slaveholder, it was spoken of

as the fruit of _abolition._ Hearing the word in this connection very

often, I set about learning what it meant. The dictionary afforded me

little or no help. I found it was “the act of abolishing;” but then I

did not know what was to be abolished. Here I was perplexed. I did not

dare to ask any one about its meaning, for I was satisfied that it was

something they wanted me to know very little about. After a patient

waiting, I got one of our city papers, containing an account of the

number of petitions from the north, praying for the abolition of

slavery in the District of Columbia, and of the slave trade between the

States. From this time I understood the words _abolition_ and

_abolitionist,_ and always drew near when that word was spoken,

expecting to hear something of importance to myself and fellow-slaves.

The light broke in upon me by degrees. I went one day down on the wharf

of Mr. Waters; and seeing two Irishmen unloading a scow of stone, I

went, unasked, and helped them. When we had finished, one of them came

to me and asked me if I were a slave. I told him I was. He asked, “Are

ye a slave for life?” I told him that I was. The good Irishman seemed

to be deeply affected by the statement. He said to the other that it

was a pity so fine a little fellow as myself should be a slave for

life. He said it was a shame to hold me. They both advised me to run

away to the north; that I should find friends there, and that I should

be free. I pretended not to be interested in what they said, and

treated them as if I did not understand them; for I feared they might

be treacherous. White men have been known to encourage slaves to

escape, and then, to get the reward, catch them and return them to

their masters. I was afraid that these seemingly good men might use me

so; but I nevertheless remembered their advice, and from that time I

resolved to run away. I looked forward to a time at which it would be

safe for me to escape. I was too young to think of doing so

immediately; besides, I wished to learn how to write, as I might have

occasion to write my own pass. I consoled myself with the hope that I

should one day find a good chance. Meanwhile, I would learn to write.

The idea as to how I might learn to write was suggested to me by being

in Durgin and Bailey’s ship-yard, and frequently seeing the ship

carpenters, after hewing, and getting a piece of timber ready for use,

write on the timber the name of that part of the ship for which it was

intended. When a piece of timber was intended for the larboard side, it

would be marked thus—“L.” When a piece was for the starboard side, it

would be marked thus—“S.” A piece for the larboard side forward, would

be marked thus—“L. F.” When a piece was for starboard side forward, it

would be marked thus—“S. F.” For larboard aft, it would be marked

thus—“L. A.” For starboard aft, it would be marked thus—“S. A.” I soon

learned the names of these letters, and for what they were intended

when placed upon a piece of timber in the ship-yard. I immediately

commenced copying them, and in a short time was able to make the four

letters named. After that, when I met with any boy who I knew could

write, I would tell him I could write as well as he. The next word

would be, “I don’t believe you. Let me see you try it.” I would then

make the letters which I had been so fortunate as to learn, and ask him

to beat that. In this way I got a good many lessons in writing, which

it is quite possible I should never have gotten in any other way.

During this time, my copy-book was the board fence, brick wall, and

pavement; my pen and ink was a lump of chalk. With these, I learned

mainly how to write. I then commenced and continued copying the Italics

in Webster’s Spelling Book, until I could make them all without looking

on the book. By this time, my little Master Thomas had gone to school,

and learned how to write, and had written over a number of copy-books.

These had been brought home, and shown to some of our near neighbors,

and then laid aside. My mistress used to go to class meeting at the

Wilk Street meetinghouse every Monday afternoon, and leave me to take

care of the house. When left thus, I used to spend the time in writing

in the spaces left in Master Thomas’s copy-book, copying what he had

written. I continued to do this until I could write a hand very similar

to that of Master Thomas. Thus, after a long, tedious effort for years,

I finally succeeded in learning how to write.

CHAPTER VIII

In a very short time after I went to live at Baltimore, my old master’s

youngest son Richard died; and in about three years and six months

after his death, my old master, Captain Anthony, died, leaving only his

son, Andrew, and daughter, Lucretia, to share his estate. He died while

on a visit to see his daughter at Hillsborough. Cut off thus

unexpectedly, he left no will as to the disposal of his property. It

was therefore necessary to have a valuation of the property, that it

might be equally divided between Mrs. Lucretia and Master Andrew. I was

immediately sent for, to be valued with the other property. Here again

my feelings rose up in detestation of slavery. I had now a new

conception of my degraded condition. Prior to this, I had become, if

not insensible to my lot, at least partly so. I left Baltimore with a

young heart overborne with sadness, and a soul full of apprehension. I

took passage with Captain Rowe, in the schooner Wild Cat, and, after a

sail of about twenty-four hours, I found myself near the place of my

birth. I had now been absent from it almost, if not quite, five years.

I, however, remembered the place very well. I was only about five years

old when I left it, to go and live with my old master on Colonel

Lloyd’s plantation; so that I was now between ten and eleven years old.

We were all ranked together at the valuation. Men and women, old and

young, married and single, were ranked with horses, sheep, and swine.

There were horses and men, cattle and women, pigs and children, all

holding the same rank in the scale of being, and were all subjected to

the same narrow examination. Silvery-headed age and sprightly youth,

maids and matrons, had to undergo the same indelicate inspection. At

this moment, I saw more clearly than ever the brutalizing effects of

slavery upon both slave and slaveholder.

After the valuation, then came the division. I have no language to

express the high excitement and deep anxiety which were felt among us

poor slaves during this time. Our fate for life was now to be decided.

We had no more voice in that decision than the brutes among whom we

were ranked. A single word from the white men was enough—against all

our wishes, prayers, and entreaties—to sunder forever the dearest

friends, dearest kindred, and strongest ties known to human beings. In

addition to the pain of separation, there was the horrid dread of

falling into the hands of Master Andrew. He was known to us all as

being a most cruel wretch,—a common drunkard, who had, by his reckless

mismanagement and profligate dissipation, already wasted a large

portion of his father’s property. We all felt that we might as well be

sold at once to the Georgia traders, as to pass into his hands; for we

knew that that would be our inevitable condition,—a condition held by

us all in the utmost horror and dread.

I suffered more anxiety than most of my fellow-slaves. I had known what

it was to be kindly treated; they had known nothing of the kind. They

had seen little or nothing of the world. They were in very deed men and

women of sorrow, and acquainted with grief. Their backs had been made

familiar with the bloody lash, so that they had become callous; mine

was yet tender; for while at Baltimore I got few whippings, and few

slaves could boast of a kinder master and mistress than myself; and the

thought of passing out of their hands into those of Master Andrew—a man

who, but a few days before, to give me a sample of his bloody

disposition, took my little brother by the throat, threw him on the

ground, and with the heel of his boot stamped upon his head till the

blood gushed from his nose and ears—was well calculated to make me

anxious as to my fate. After he had committed this savage outrage upon

my brother, he turned to me, and said that was the way he meant to

serve me one of these days,—meaning, I suppose, when I came into his

possession.

Thanks to a kind Providence, I fell to the portion of Mrs. Lucretia,

and was sent immediately back to Baltimore, to live again in the family

of Master Hugh. Their joy at my return equalled their sorrow at my

departure. It was a glad day to me. I had escaped a worse than lion’s

jaws. I was absent from Baltimore, for the purpose of valuation and

division, just about one month, and it seemed to have been six.

Very soon after my return to Baltimore, my mistress, Lucretia, died,

leaving her husband and one child, Amanda; and in a very short time

after her death, Master Andrew died. Now all the property of my old

master, slaves included, was in the hands of strangers,—strangers who

had had nothing to do with accumulating it. Not a slave was left free.

All remained slaves, from the youngest to the oldest. If any one thing

in my experience, more than another, served to deepen my conviction of

the infernal character of slavery, and to fill me with unutterable

loathing of slaveholders, it was their base ingratitude to my poor old

grandmother. She had served my old master faithfully from youth to old

age. She had been the source of all his wealth; she had peopled his

plantation with slaves; she had become a great grandmother in his

service. She had rocked him in infancy, attended him in childhood,

served him through life, and at his death wiped from his icy brow the

cold death-sweat, and closed his eyes forever. She was nevertheless

left a slave—a slave for life—a slave in the hands of strangers; and in

their hands she saw her children, her grandchildren, and her

great-grandchildren, divided, like so many sheep, without being

gratified with the small privilege of a single word, as to their or her

own destiny. And, to cap the climax of their base ingratitude and

fiendish barbarity, my grandmother, who was now very old, having

outlived my old master and all his children, having seen the beginning

and end of all of them, and her present owners finding she was of but

little value, her frame already racked with the pains of old age, and

complete helplessness fast stealing over her once active limbs, they

took her to the woods, built her a little hut, put up a little

mud-chimney, and then made her welcome to the privilege of supporting

herself there in perfect loneliness; thus virtually turning her out to

die! If my poor old grandmother now lives, she lives to suffer in utter

loneliness; she lives to remember and mourn over the loss of children,

the loss of grandchildren, and the loss of great-grandchildren. They

are, in the language of the slave’s poet, Whittier,—

“Gone, gone, sold and gone

To the rice swamp dank and lone,

Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,

Where the noisome insect stings,

Where the fever-demon strews

Poison with the falling dews,

Where the sickly sunbeams glare

Through the hot and misty air:—

Gone, gone, sold and gone

To the rice swamp dank and lone,

From Virginia hills and waters—

Woe is me, my stolen daughters!”

The hearth is desolate. The children, the unconscious children, who

once sang and danced in her presence, are gone. She gropes her way, in

the darkness of age, for a drink of water. Instead of the voices of her

children, she hears by day the moans of the dove, and by night the

screams of the hideous owl. All is gloom. The grave is at the door. And

now, when weighed down by the pains and aches of old age, when the head

inclines to the feet, when the beginning and ending of human existence

meet, and helpless infancy and painful old age combine together—at this

time, this most needful time, the time for the exercise of that

tenderness and affection which children only can exercise towards a

declining parent—my poor old grandmother, the devoted mother of twelve

children, is left all alone, in yonder little hut, before a few dim

embers. She stands—she sits—she staggers—she falls—she groans—she

dies—and there are none of her children or grandchildren present, to

wipe from her wrinkled brow the cold sweat of death, or to place

beneath the sod her fallen remains. Will not a righteous God visit for

these things?

In about two years after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, Master Thomas

married his second wife. Her name was Rowena Hamilton. She was the

eldest daughter of Mr. William Hamilton. Master now lived in St.

Michael’s. Not long after his marriage, a misunderstanding took place

between himself and Master Hugh; and as a means of punishing his

brother, he took me from him to live with himself at St. Michael’s.

Here I underwent another most painful separation. It, however, was not

so severe as the one I dreaded at the division of property; for, during

this interval, a great change had taken place in Master Hugh and his

once kind and affectionate wife. The influence of brandy upon him, and

of slavery upon her, had effected a disastrous change in the characters

of both; so that, as far as they were concerned, I thought I had little

to lose by the change. But it was not to them that I was attached. It

was to those little Baltimore boys that I felt the strongest

attachment. I had received many good lessons from them, and was still

receiving them, and the thought of leaving them was painful indeed. I

was leaving, too, without the hope of ever being allowed to return.

Master Thomas had said he would never let me return again. The barrier

betwixt himself and brother he considered impassable.

I then had to regret that I did not at least make the attempt to carry

out my resolution to run away; for the chances of success are tenfold

greater from the city than from the country.

I sailed from Baltimore for St. Michael’s in the sloop Amanda, Captain

Edward Dodson. On my passage, I paid particular attention to the

direction which the steamboats took to go to Philadelphia. I found,

instead of going down, on reaching North Point they went up the bay, in

a north-easterly direction. I deemed this knowledge of the utmost

importance. My determination to run away was again revived. I resolved

to wait only so long as the offering of a favorable opportunity. When

that came, I was determined to be off.

CHAPTER IX

I have now reached a period of my life when I can give dates. I left

Baltimore, and went to live with Master Thomas Auld, at St. Michael’s,

in March, 1832. It was now more than seven years since I lived with him

in the family of my old master, on Colonel Lloyd’s plantation. We of

course were now almost entire strangers to each other. He was to me a

new master, and I to him a new slave. I was ignorant of his temper and

disposition; he was equally so of mine. A very short time, however,

brought us into full acquaintance with each other. I was made

acquainted with his wife not less than with himself. They were well

matched, being equally mean and cruel. I was now, for the first time

during a space of more than seven years, made to feel the painful

gnawings of hunger—a something which I had not experienced before since

I left Colonel Lloyd’s plantation. It went hard enough with me then,

when I could look back to no period at which I had enjoyed a

sufficiency. It was tenfold harder after living in Master Hugh’s

family, where I had always had enough to eat, and of that which was

good. I have said Master Thomas was a mean man. He was so. Not to give

a slave enough to eat, is regarded as the most aggravated development

of meanness even among slaveholders. The rule is, no matter how coarse

the food, only let there be enough of it. This is the theory; and in

the part of Maryland from which I came, it is the general

practice,—though there are many exceptions. Master Thomas gave us

enough of neither coarse nor fine food. There were four slaves of us in

the kitchen—my sister Eliza, my aunt Priscilla, Henny, and myself; and

we were allowed less than a half of a bushel of corn-meal per week, and

very little else, either in the shape of meat or vegetables. It was not

enough for us to subsist upon. We were therefore reduced to the

wretched necessity of living at the expense of our neighbors. This we

did by begging and stealing, whichever came handy in the time of need,

the one being considered as legitimate as the other. A great many times

have we poor creatures been nearly perishing with hunger, when food in

abundance lay mouldering in the safe and smoke-house, and our pious

mistress was aware of the fact; and yet that mistress and her husband

would kneel every morning, and pray that God would bless them in basket

and store!

Bad as all slaveholders are, we seldom meet one destitute of every

element of character commanding respect. My master was one of this rare

sort. I do not know of one single noble act ever performed by him. The

leading trait in his character was meanness; and if there were any

other element in his nature, it was made subject to this. He was mean;

and, like most other mean men, he lacked the ability to conceal his

meanness. Captain Auld was not born a slaveholder. He had been a poor

man, master only of a Bay craft. He came into possession of all his

slaves by marriage; and of all men, adopted slaveholders are the worst.

He was cruel, but cowardly. He commanded without firmness. In the

enforcement of his rules, he was at times rigid, and at times lax. At

times, he spoke to his slaves with the firmness of Napoleon and the

fury of a demon; at other times, he might well be mistaken for an

inquirer who had lost his way. He did nothing of himself. He might have

passed for a lion, but for his ears. In all things noble which he

attempted, his own meanness shone most conspicuous. His airs, words,

and actions, were the airs, words, and actions of born slaveholders,

and, being assumed, were awkward enough. He was not even a good

imitator. He possessed all the disposition to deceive, but wanted the

power. Having no resources within himself, he was compelled to be the

copyist of many, and being such, he was forever the victim of

inconsistency; and of consequence he was an object of contempt, and was

held as such even by his slaves. The luxury of having slaves of his own

to wait upon him was something new and unprepared for. He was a

slaveholder without the ability to hold slaves. He found himself

incapable of managing his slaves either by force, fear, or fraud. We

seldom called him “master;” we generally called him “Captain Auld,” and

were hardly disposed to title him at all. I doubt not that our conduct

had much to do with making him appear awkward, and of consequence

fretful. Our want of reverence for him must have perplexed him greatly.

He wished to have us call him master, but lacked the firmness necessary

to command us to do so. His wife used to insist upon our calling him

so, but to no purpose. In August, 1832, my master attended a Methodist

camp-meeting held in the Bay-side, Talbot county, and there experienced

religion. I indulged a faint hope that his conversion would lead him to

emancipate his slaves, and that, if he did not do this, it would, at

any rate, make him more kind and humane. I was disappointed in both

these respects. It neither made him to be humane to his slaves, nor to

emancipate them. If it had any effect on his character, it made him

more cruel and hateful in all his ways; for I believe him to have been

a much worse man after his conversion than before. Prior to his

conversion, he relied upon his own depravity to shield and sustain him

in his savage barbarity; but after his conversion, he found religious

sanction and support for his slaveholding cruelty. He made the greatest

pretensions to piety. His house was the house of prayer. He prayed

morning, noon, and night. He very soon distinguished himself among his

brethren, and was soon made a class-leader and exhorter. His activity

in revivals was great, and he proved himself an instrument in the hands

of the church in converting many souls. His house was the preachers’

home. They used to take great pleasure in coming there to put up; for

while he starved us, he stuffed them. We have had three or four

preachers there at a time. The names of those who used to come most

frequently while I lived there, were Mr. Storks, Mr. Ewery, Mr.

Humphry, and Mr. Hickey. I have also seen Mr. George Cookman at our

house. We slaves loved Mr. Cookman. We believed him to be a good man.

We thought him instrumental in getting Mr. Samuel Harrison, a very rich

slaveholder, to emancipate his slaves; and by some means got the

impression that he was laboring to effect the emancipation of all the

slaves. When he was at our house, we were sure to be called in to

prayers. When the others were there, we were sometimes called in and

sometimes not. Mr. Cookman took more notice of us than either of the

other ministers. He could not come among us without betraying his

sympathy for us, and, stupid as we were, we had the sagacity to see it.

While I lived with my master in St. Michael’s, there was a white young

man, a Mr. Wilson, who proposed to keep a Sabbath school for the

instruction of such slaves as might be disposed to learn to read the

New Testament. We met but three times, when Mr. West and Mr. Fairbanks,

both class-leaders, with many others, came upon us with sticks and

other missiles, drove us off, and forbade us to meet again. Thus ended

our little Sabbath school in the pious town of St. Michael’s.

I have said my master found religious sanction for his cruelty. As an

example, I will state one of many facts going to prove the charge. I

have seen him tie up a lame young woman, and whip her with a heavy

cowskin upon her naked shoulders, causing the warm red blood to drip;

and, in justification of the bloody deed, he would quote this passage

of Scripture—“He that knoweth his master’s will, and doeth it not,

shall be beaten with many stripes.”

Master would keep this lacerated young woman tied up in this horrid

situation four or five hours at a time. I have known him to tie her up

early in the morning, and whip her before breakfast; leave her, go to

his store, return at dinner, and whip her again, cutting her in the

places already made raw with his cruel lash. The secret of master’s

cruelty toward “Henny” is found in the fact of her being almost

helpless. When quite a child, she fell into the fire, and burned

herself horribly. Her hands were so burnt that she never got the use of

them. She could do very little but bear heavy burdens. She was to

master a bill of expense; and as he was a mean man, she was a constant

offence to him. He seemed desirous of getting the poor girl out of

existence. He gave her away once to his sister; but, being a poor gift,

she was not disposed to keep her. Finally, my benevolent master, to use

his own words, “set her adrift to take care of herself.” Here was a

recently-converted man, holding on upon the mother, and at the same

time turning out her helpless child, to starve and die! Master Thomas

was one of the many pious slaveholders who hold slaves for the very

charitable purpose of taking care of them.

My master and myself had quite a number of differences. He found me

unsuitable to his purpose. My city life, he said, had had a very

pernicious effect upon me. It had almost ruined me for every good

purpose, and fitted me for every thing which was bad. One of my

greatest faults was that of letting his horse run away, and go down to

his father-in-law’s farm, which was about five miles from St.

Michael’s. I would then have to go after it. My reason for this kind of

carelessness, or carefulness, was, that I could always get something to

eat when I went there. Master William Hamilton, my master’s

father-in-law, always gave his slaves enough to eat. I never left there

hungry, no matter how great the need of my speedy return. Master Thomas

at length said he would stand it no longer. I had lived with him nine

months, during which time he had given me a number of severe whippings,

all to no good purpose. He resolved to put me out, as he said, to be

broken; and, for this purpose, he let me for one year to a man named

Edward Covey. Mr. Covey was a poor man, a farm-renter. He rented the

place upon which he lived, as also the hands with which he tilled it.

Mr. Covey had acquired a very high reputation for breaking young

slaves, and this reputation was of immense value to him. It enabled him

to get his farm tilled with much less expense to himself than he could

have had it done without such a reputation. Some slaveholders thought

it not much loss to allow Mr. Covey to have their slaves one year, for

the sake of the training to which they were subjected, without any

other compensation. He could hire young help with great ease, in

consequence of this reputation. Added to the natural good qualities of

Mr. Covey, he was a professor of religion—a pious soul—a member and a

class-leader in the Methodist church. All of this added weight to his

reputation as a “nigger-breaker.” I was aware of all the facts, having

been made acquainted with them by a young man who had lived there. I

nevertheless made the change gladly; for I was sure of getting enough

to eat, which is not the smallest consideration to a hungry man.

CHAPTER X