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My Bondage and My Freedom

Frederick Douglas A Penn State Electronic Classics Series Publication

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Frederick Douglas

My Bondage and My Freedom

Frederick Douglas

By a principle essential to Christianity, a PERSON is eternally

differenced from a THING; so that the idea of a HUMAN

BEING, necessarily excludes the idea of PROPERTY IN THAT

BEING.

—Coleridge

Entered according to Act of Congress in 1855 by Frederick

Douglass in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the

Northern District of New York

TO HONORABLE GERRIT SMITH, AS A SLIGHT

TOKEN OF ESTEEM FOR HIS CHARACTER, ADMI-

RATION FOR HIS GENIUS AND BENEVOLENCE,

AFFECTION FOR HIS PERSON, AND GRATITUDE

FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, AND AS A Small but most Sin-

cere Acknowledgement of HIS PRE-EMINENT SERVICES

IN BEHALF OF THE RIGHTS AND LIBERTIES OF

AN AFFLICTED, DESPISED AND DEEPLY OUT-

RAGED PEOPLE, BY RANKING SLAVERY WITH PI-

RACY AND MURDER, AND BY DENYING IT EITHER

A LEGAL OR CONSTITUTIONAL EXISTENCE, This

Volume is Respectfully Dedicated, BY HIS FAITHFUL

AND FIRMLY ATTACHED FRIEND, FREDERICK

DOUGLAS. ROCHESTER, N.Y.

My Bondage and My Freedom

EDITEDITEDITEDITEDITOR’S PREFOR’S PREFOR’S PREFOR’S PREFOR’S PREFAAAAACECECECECE

If the volume now presented to the public were a mere work

of ART, the history of its misfortune might be written in

two very simple words—TOO LATE. The nature and char-

acter of slavery have been subjects of an almost endless vari-

ety of artistic representation; and after the brilliant achieve-

ments in that field, and while those achievements are yet

fresh in the memory of the million, he who would add an-

other to the legion, must possess the charm of transcendent

excellence, or apologize for something worse than rashness.

The reader is, therefore, assured, with all due promptitude,

that his attention is not invited to a work of ART, but to a

work of FACTS—Facts, terrible and almost incredible, it

may be yet FACTS, nevertheless.

I am authorized to say that there is not a fictitious name

nor place in the whole volume; but that names and places

are literally given, and that every transaction therein described

actually transpired.

Perhaps the best Preface to this volume is furnished in the

following letter of Mr. Douglass, written in answer to my

urgent solicitation for such a work:

ROCHESTER, N. Y. July 2, 1855.

DEAR FRIEND: I have long entertained, as you very well

know, a somewhat positive repugnance to writing or speak-

ing anything for the public, which could, with any degree of

plausibilty, make me liable to the imputation of seeking per-

sonal notoriety, for its own sake. Entertaining that feeling

very sincerely, and permitting its control, perhaps, quite un-

reasonably, I have often refused to narrate my personal expe-

rience in public anti-slavery meetings, and in sympathizing

circles, when urged to do so by friends, with whose views

and wishes, ordinarily, it were a pleasure to comply. In my

letters and speeches, I have generally aimed to discuss the

question of Slavery in the light of fundamental principles,

and upon facts, notorious and open to all; making, I trust,

no more of the fact of my own former enslavement, than

circumstances seemed absolutely to require. I have never

placed my opposition to slavery on a basis so narrow as my

own enslavement, but rather upon the indestructible and

Frederick Douglas

unchangeable laws of human nature, every one of which is

perpetually and flagrantly violated by the slave system. I have

also felt that it was best for those having histories worth the

writing—or supposed to be so—to commit such work to hands

other than their own. To write of one’s self, in such a manner

as not to incur the imputation of weakness, vanity, and ego-

tism, is a work within the ability of but few; and I have little

reason to believe that I belong to that fortunate few.

These considerations caused me to hesitate, when first you

kindly urged me to prepare for publication a full account of

my life as a slave, and my life as a freeman.

Nevertheless, I see, with you, many reasons for regarding

my autobiography as exceptional in its character, and as be-

ing, in some sense, naturally beyond the reach of those re-

proaches which honorable and sensitive minds dislike to in-

cur. It is not to illustrate any heroic achievements of a man,

but to vindicate a just and beneficent principle, in its applica-

tion to the whole human family, by letting in the light of truth

upon a system, esteemed by some as a blessing, and by others

as a curse and a crime. I agree with you, that this system is

now at the bar of public opinion—not only of this country,

but of the whole civilized world—for judgment. Its friends

have made for it the usual plea—”not guilty;” the case must,

therefore, proceed. Any facts, either from slaves, slaveholders,

or by-standers, calculated to enlighten the public mind, by

revealing the true nature, character, and tendency of the slave

system, are in order, and can scarcely be innocently withheld.

I see, too, that there are special reasons why I should write

my own biography, in preference to employing another to

do it. Not only is slavery on trial, but unfortunately, the en-

slaved people are also on trial. It is alleged, that they are,

naturally, inferior; that they are so low in the scale of human-

ity, and so utterly stupid, that they are unconscious of their

wrongs, and do not apprehend their rights. Looking, then,

at your request, from this stand-point, and wishing every-

thing of which you think me capable to go to the benefit of

my afflicted people, I part with my doubts and hesitation,

and proceed to furnish you the desired manuscript; hoping

that you may be able to make such arrangements for its pub-

lication as shall be best adapted to accomplish that good

which you so enthusiastically anticipate.

Frederick Douglas

My Bondage and My Freedom

There was little necessity for doubt and hesitation on the

part of Mr. Douglass, as to the propriety of his giving to the

world a full account of himself. A man who was born and

brought up in slavery, a living witness of its horrors; who

often himself experienced its cruelties; and who, despite the

depressing influences surrounding his birth, youth and man-

hood, has risen, from a dark and almost absolute obscurity,

to the distinguished position which he now occupies, might

very well assume the existence of a commendable curiosity,

on the part of the public, to know the facts of his remarkable

history.

Editor

INTRINTRINTRINTRINTRODUCTIONODUCTIONODUCTIONODUCTIONODUCTION

When a man raises himself from the lowest condition in so-

ciety to the highest, mankind pay him the tribute of their

admiration; when he accomplishes this elevation by native

energy, guided by prudence and wisdom, their admiration is

increased; but when his course, onward and upward, excel-

lent in itself, furthermore proves a possible, what had hith-

erto been regarded as an impossible, reform, then he becomes

a burning and a shining light, on which the aged may look

with gladness, the young with hope, and the down-trodden,

as a representative of what they may themselves become. To

such a man, dear reader, it is my privilege to introduce you.

The life of Frederick Douglass, recorded in the pages which

follow, is not merely an example of self-elevation under the

most adverse circumstances; it is, moreover, a noble vindica-

tion of the highest aims of the American anti-slavery move-

ment. The real object of that movement is not only to

disenthrall, it is, also, to bestow upon the Negro the exercise

of all those rights, from the possession of which he has been

so long debarred.

Frederick Douglas

But this full recognition of the colored man to the right,

and the entire admission of the same to the full privileges,

political, religious and social, of manhood, requires power-

ful effort on the part of the enthralled, as well as on the part

of those who would disenthrall them. The people at large

must feel the conviction, as well as admit the abstract logic,

of human equality; the Negro, for the first time in the world’s

history, brought in full contact with high civilization, must

prove his title first to all that is demanded for him; in the

teeth of unequal chances, he must prove himself equal to the

mass of those who oppress him—therefore, absolutely supe-

rior to his apparent fate, and to their relative ability. And it is

most cheering to the friends of freedom, today, that evidence

of this equality is rapidly accumulating, not from the ranks

of the half-freed colored people of the free states, but from

the very depths of slavery itself; the indestructible equality

of man to man is demonstrated by the ease with which black

men, scarce one remove from barbarism—if slavery can be

honored with such a distinction—vault into the high places

of the most advanced and painfully acquired civilization.

Ward and Garnett, Wells Brown and Pennington, Loguen

and Douglass, are banners on the outer wall, under which

abolition is fighting its most successful battles, because they

are living exemplars of the practicability of the most radical

abolitionism; for, they were all of them born to the doom of

slavery, some of them remained slaves until adult age, yet

they all have not only won equality to their white fellow

citizens, in civil, religious, political and social rank, but they

have also illustrated and adorned our common country by

their genius, learning and eloquence.

The characteristics whereby Mr. Douglass has won first

rank among these remarkable men, and is still rising toward

highest rank among living Americans, are abundantly laid

bare in the book before us. Like the autobiography of Hugh

Miller, it carries us so far back into early childhood, as to

throw light upon the question, “when positive and persis-

tent memory begins in the human being.” And, like Hugh

Miller, he must have been a shy old-fashioned child, occa-

sionally oppressed by what he could not well account for,

peering and poking about among the layers of right and

wrong, of tyrant and thrall, and the wonderfulness of that

hopeless tide of things which brought power to one race,

My Bondage and My Freedom

and unrequited toil to another, until, finally, he stumbled upon

his “first-found Ammonite,” hidden away down in the depths

of his own nature, and which revealed to him the fact that

liberty and right, for all men, were anterior to slavery and

wrong. When his knowledge of the world was bounded by

the visible horizon on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, and while every

thing around him bore a fixed, iron stamp, as if it had always

been so, this was, for one so young, a notable discovery.

To his uncommon memory, then, we must add a keen and

accurate insight into men and things; an original breadth of

common sense which enabled him to see, and weigh, and

compare whatever passed before him, and which kindled a

desire to search out and define their relations to other things

not so patent, but which never succumbed to the marvelous

nor the supernatural; a sacred thirst for liberty and for learn-

ing, first as a means of attaining liberty, then as an end in

itself most desirable; a will; an unfaltering energy and deter-

mination to obtain what his soul pronounced desirable; a

majestic self-hood; determined courage; a deep and agoniz-

ing sympathy with his embruted, crushed and bleeding fel-

low slaves, and an extraordinary depth of passion, together

with that rare alliance between passion and intellect, which

enables the former, when deeply roused, to excite, develop

and sustain the latter.

With these original gifts in view, let us look at his school-

ing; the fearful discipline through which it pleased God to

prepare him for the high calling on which he has since en-

tered—the advocacy of emancipation by the people who are

not slaves. And for this special mission, his plantation edu-

cation was better than any he could have acquired in any

lettered school. What he needed, was facts and experiences,

welded to acutely wrought up sympathies, and these he could

not elsewhere have obtained, in a manner so peculiarly

adapted to his nature. His physical being was well trained,

also, running wild until advanced into boyhood; hard work

and light diet, thereafter, and a skill in handicraft in youth.

For his special mission, then, this was, considered in con-

nection with his natural gifts, a good schooling; and, for his

special mission, he doubtless “left school” just at the proper

moment. Had he remained longer in slavery—had he fret-

ted under bonds until the ripening of manhood and its pas-

sions, until the drear agony of slave-wife and slave-children

Frederick Douglas

had been piled upon his already bitter experiences—then,

not only would his own history have had another termina-

tion, but the drama of American slavery would have been

essentially varied; for I cannot resist the belief, that the boy

who learned to read and write as he did, who taught his

fellow slaves these precious acquirements as he did, who plot-

ted for their mutual escape as he did, would, when a man at

bay, strike a blow which would make slavery reel and stag-

ger. Furthermore, blows and insults he bore, at the moment,

without resentment; deep but suppressed emotion rendered

him insensible to their sting; but it was afterward, when the

memory of them went seething through his brain, breeding

a fiery indignation at his injured self-hood, that the resolve

came to resist, and the time fixed when to resist, and the plot

laid, how to resist; and he always kept his self-pledged word.

In what he undertook, in this line, he looked fate in the face,

and had a cool, keen look at the relation of means to ends.

Henry Bibb, to avoid chastisement, strewed his master’s bed

with charmed leaves and was whipped. Frederick Douglass

quietly pocketed a like fetiche, compared his muscles with

those of Covey—and whipped him.

In the history of his life in bondage, we find, well devel-

oped, that inherent and continuous energy of character which

will ever render him distinguished. What his hand found to

do, he did with his might; even while conscious that he was

wronged out of his daily earnings, he worked, and worked

hard. At his daily labor he went with a will; with keen, well set

eye, brawny chest, lithe figure, and fair sweep of arm, he would

have been king among calkers, had that been his mission.

It must not be overlooked, in this glance at his education,

that Mr. Douglass lacked one aid to which so many men of

mark have been deeply indebted—he had neither a mother’s

care, nor a mother’s culture, save that which slavery grudg-

ingly meted out to him. Bitter nurse! may not even her fea-

tures relax with human feeling, when she gazes at such off-

spring! How susceptible he was to the kindly influences of

mother-culture, may be gathered from his own words, on

page 57: “It has been a life-long standing grief to me, that I

know so little of my mother, and that I was so early sepa-

rated from her. The counsels of her love must have been

beneficial to me. The side view of her face is imaged on my

memory, and I take few steps in life, without feeling her

My Bondage and My Freedom

presence; but the image is mute, and I have no striking words

of hers treasured up.”

From the depths of chattel slavery in Maryland, our au-

thor escaped into the caste-slavery of the north, in New

Bedford, Massachusetts. Here he found oppression assum-

ing another, and hardly less bitter, form; of that very handi-

craft which the greed of slavery had taught him, his half-

freedom denied him the exercise for an honest living; he

found himself one of a class—free colored men—whose po-

sition he has described in the following words:

“Aliens are we in our native land. The fundamental prin-

ciples of the republic, to which the humblest white man,

whether born here or elsewhere, may appeal with confidence,

in the hope of awakening a favorable response, are held to be

inapplicable to us. The glorious doctrines of your revolu-

tionary fathers, and the more glorious teachings of the Son

of God, are construed and applied against us. We are liter-

ally scourged beyond the beneficent range of both authori-

ties, human and divine. * * * * American humanity hates us,

scorns us, disowns and denies, in a thousand ways, our very

personality. The outspread wing of American christianity,

apparently broad enough to give shelter to a perishing world,

refuses to cover us. To us, its bones are brass, and its features

iron. In running thither for shelter and succor, we have only

fled from the hungry blood-hound to the devouring wolf—

from a corrupt and selfish world, to a hollow and hypocriti-

cal church.”—Speech before American and Foreign Anti-Sla-

very Society, May, 1854.

Four years or more, from 1837 to 1841, he struggled on,

in New Bedford, sawing wood, rolling casks, or doing what

labor he might, to support himself and young family; four

years he brooded over the scars which slavery and semi-sla-

very had inflicted upon his body and soul; and then, with

his wounds yet unhealed, he fell among the Garrisonians—

a glorious waif to those most ardent reformers. It happened

one day, at Nantucket, that he, diffidently and reluctantly,

was led to address an anti-slavery meeting. He was about the

age when the younger Pitt entered the House of Commons;

like Pitt, too, he stood up a born orator.

William Lloyd Garrison, who was happily present, writes

thus of Mr. Douglass’ maiden effort; “I shall never forget his

first speech at the convention—the extraordinary emotion it

Frederick Douglas

excited in my own mind—the powerful impression it cre-

ated upon a crowded auditory, completely taken by surprise.

* * * I think I never hated slavery so intensely as at that

moment; certainly, my perception of the enormous outrage

which is inflicted by it on the godlike nature of its victims,

was rendered far more clear than ever. There stood one in

physical proportions and stature commanding and exact—

in intellect richly endowed—in natural eloquence a

prodigy.”1

It is of interest to compare Mr. Douglass’s account of this

meeting with Mr. Garrison’s. Of the two, I think the latter

the most correct. It must have been a grand burst of elo-

quence! The pent up agony, indignation and pathos of an

abused and harrowed boyhood and youth, bursting out in

all their freshness and overwhelming earnestness!

This unique introduction to its great leader, led immedi-

ately to the employment of Mr. Douglass as an agent by the

American Anti-Slavery Society. So far as his self-relying and

independent character would permit, he became, after the

strictest sect, a Garrisonian. It is not too much to say, that he

formed a complement which they needed, and they were a

complement equally necessary to his “make-up.” With his

deep and keen sensitiveness to wrong, and his wonderful

memory, he came from the land of bondage full of its woes

and its evils, and painting them in characters of living light;

and, on his part, he found, told out in sound Saxon phrase,

all those principles of justice and right and liberty, which

had dimly brooded over the dreams of his youth, seeking

definite forms and verbal expression. It must have been an

electric flashing of thought, and a knitting of soul, granted

to but few in this life, and will be a life-long memory to

those who participated in it. In the society, moreover, of

Wendell Phillips, Edmund Quincy, William Lloyd Garri-

son, and other men of earnest faith and refined culture, Mr.

Douglass enjoyed the high advantage of their assistance and

counsel in the labor of self-culture, to which he now ad-

dressed himself with wonted energy. Yet, these gentlemen,

although proud of Frederick Douglass, failed to fathom, and

bring out to the light of day, the highest qualities of his mind;

the force of their own education stood in their own way:

they did not delve into the mind of a colored man for ca-1 Letter, Introduction to Life of Frederick Douglass, Boston, 1841.

My Bondage and My Freedom

pacities which the pride of race led them to believe to be

restricted to their own Saxon blood. Bitter and vindictive

sarcasm, irresistible mimicry, and a pathetic narrative of his

own experiences of slavery, were the intellectual manifesta-

tions which they encouraged him to exhibit on the platform

or in the lecture desk.

A visit to England, in 1845, threw Mr. Douglass among

men and women of earnest souls and high culture, and who,

moreover, had never drank of the bitter waters of American

caste. For the first time in his life, he breathed an atmo-

sphere congenial to the longings of his spirit, and felt his

manhood free and unrestricted. The cordial and manly greet-

ings of the British and Irish audiences in public, and the

refinement and elegance of the social circles in which he

mingled, not only as an equal, but as a recognized man of

genius, were, doubtless, genial and pleasant resting places in

his hitherto thorny and troubled journey through life. There

are joys on the earth, and, to the wayfaring fugitive from

American slavery or American caste, this is one of them.

But his sojourn in England was more than a joy to Mr.

Douglass. Like the platform at Nantucket, it awakened him

to the consciousness of new powers that lay in him. From

the pupilage of Garrisonism he rose to the dignity of a teacher

and a thinker; his opinions on the broader aspects of the

great American question were earnestly and incessantly

sought, from various points of view, and he must, perforce,

bestir himself to give suitable answer. With that prompt and

truthful perception which has led their sisters in all ages of

the world to gather at the feet and support the hands of re-

formers, the gentlewomen of England2 were foremost to

encourage and strengthen him to carve out for himself a path

fitted to his powers and energies, in the life-battle against

slavery and caste to which he was pledged. And one stirring

thought, inseparable from the British idea of the evangel of

freedom, must have smote his ear from every side—

Hereditary bondmen! know ye not

Who would be free, themselves mast strike the blow?

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

Frederick Douglas

The result of this visit was, that on his return to the United

States, he established a newspaper. This proceeding was sorely

against the wishes and the advice of the leaders of the Ameri-

can Anti-Slavery Society, but our author had fully grown up

to the conviction of a truth which they had once promulged,

but now forgotten, to wit: that in their own elevation—self-

elevation—colored men have a blow to strike “on their own

hook,” against slavery and caste. Differing from his Boston

friends in this matter, diffident in his own abilities, reluc-

tant at their dissuadings, how beautiful is the loyalty with

which he still clung to their principles in all things else,

and even in this.

Now came the trial hour. Without cordial support from

any large body of men or party on this side the Atlantic, and

too far distant in space and immediate interest to expect much

more, after the much already done, on the other side, he

stood up, almost alone, to the arduous labor and heavy ex-

penditure of editor and lecturer. The Garrison party, to which

he still adhered, did not want a colored newspaper—there

was an odor of caste about it; the Liberty party could hardly

be expected to give warm support to a man who smote their

principles as with a hammer; and the wide gulf which sepa-

rated the free colored people from the Garrisonians, also sepa-

rated them from their brother, Frederick Douglass.

The arduous nature of his labors, from the date of the es-

tablishment of his paper, may be estimated by the fact, that

anti-slavery papers in the United States, even while organs

of, and when supported by, anti-slavery parties, have, with a

single exception, failed to pay expenses. Mr. Douglass has

maintained, and does maintain, his paper without the sup-

port of any party, and even in the teeth of the opposition of

those from whom he had reason to expect counsel and en-

couragement. He has been compelled, at one and the same

time, and almost constantly, during the past seven years, to

contribute matter to its columns as editor, and to raise funds

for its support as lecturer. It is within bounds to say, that he

has expended twelve thousand dollars of his own hard earned

money, in publishing this paper, a larger sum than has been

contributed by any one individual for the general advance-

ment of the colored people. There had been many other pa-

pers published and edited by colored men, beginning as far

back as 1827, when the Rev. Samuel E. Cornish and John B.

My Bondage and My Freedom

Russworm (a graduate of Bowdoin college, and afterward

Governor of Cape Palmas) published the Freedom’s Journal,

in New York City; probably not less than one hundred news-

paper enterprises have been started in the United States, by

free colored men, born free, and some of them of liberal

education and fair talents for this work; but, one after an-

other, they have fallen through, although, in several instances,

anti-slavery friends contributed to their support.3 It had al-

most been given up, as an impracticable thing, to maintain a

colored newspaper, when Mr. Douglass, with fewest early

advantages of all his competitors, essayed, and has proved

the thing perfectly practicable, and, moreover, of great pub-

lic benefit. This paper, in addition to its power in holding up

the hands of those to whom it is especially devoted, also

affords irrefutable evidence of the justice, safety and practi-

cability of Immediate Emancipation; it further proves the

immense loss which slavery inflicts on the land while it dooms

such energies as his to the hereditary degradation of slavery.

It has been said in this Introduction, that Mr. Douglass

had raised himself by his own efforts to the highest position

in society. As a successful editor, in our land, he occupies

this position. Our editors rule the land, and he is one of

them. As an orator and thinker, his position is equally high,

in the opinion of his countrymen. If a stranger in the United

States would seek its most distinguished men—the movers

of public opinion—he will find their names mentioned, and

their movements chronicled, under the head of “BY MAG-

NETIC TELEGRAPH, in the daily papers. The keen cater-

ers for the public attention, set down, in this column, such

men only as have won high mark in the public esteem. Dur-

ing the past winter—1854-5—very frequent mention of

Frederick Douglass was made under this head in the daily

papers; his name glided as often—this week from Chicago,

next week from Boston—over the lightning wires, as the name

of any other man, of whatever note. To no man did the people

more widely nor more earnestly say, “Tell me thy thought!”

And, somehow or other, revolution seemed to follow in his

wake. His were not the mere words of eloquence which

Kossuth speaks of, that delight the ear and then pass away.

No! They were work-able, do-able words, that brought forth

fruits in the revolution in Illinois, and in the passage of the3 Mr. Stephen Myers, of Albany, deserves mention as one of the most persevering among the colored editorial fraternity.

Frederick Douglas

franchise resolutions by the Assembly of New York.

And the secret of his power, what is it? He is a Representa-

tive American man—a type of his countrymen. Naturalists

tell us that a full grown man is a resultant or representative

of all animated nature on this globe; beginning with the early

embryo state, then representing the lowest forms of organic

life,4 and passing through every subordinate grade or type,

until he reaches the last and highest—manhood. In like

manner, and to the fullest extent, has Frederick Douglass

passed through every gradation of rank comprised in our

national make-up, and bears upon his person and upon his

soul every thing that is American. And he has not only full

sympathy with every thing American; his proclivity or bent,

to active toil and visible progress, are in the strictly national

direction, delighting to outstrip “all creation.”

Nor have the natural gifts, already named as his, lost any-

thing by his severe training. When unexcited, his mental

processes are probably slow, but singularly clear in percep-

tion, and wide in vision, the unfailing memory bringing up

all the facts in their every aspect; incongruities he lays hold

of incontinently, and holds up on the edge of his keen and

telling wit. But this wit never descends to frivolity; it is rig-

idly in the keeping of his truthful common sense, and al-

ways used in illustration or proof of some point which could

not so readily be reached any other way. “Beware of a Yankee

when he is feeding,” is a shaft that strikes home in a matter

never so laid bare by satire before. “The Garrisonian views

of disunion, if carried to a successful issue, would only place

the people of the north in the same relation to American

slavery which they now bear to the slavery of Cuba or the

Brazils,” is a statement, in a few words, which contains the

result and the evidence of an argument which might cover

pages, but could not carry stronger conviction, nor be stated

in less pregnable form. In proof of this, I may say, that hav-

ing been submitted to the attention of the Garrisonians in

print, in March, it was repeated before them at their busi-

ness meeting in May—the platform, par excellence, on which

they invite free fight, a l’outrance, to all comers. It was given

out in the clear, ringing tones, wherewith the hall of shields

was wont to resound of old, yet neither Garrison, nor Phillips, 4 The German physiologists have even discovered vegetable matter—starch—in the human body. See Med. Chirurgical Rev., Oct., 1854, p. 339.

My Bondage and My Freedom

nor May, nor Remond, nor Foster, nor Burleigh, with his subtle

steel of “the ice brook’s temper,” ventured to break a lance

upon it! The doctrine of the dissolution of the Union, as a

means for the abolition of American slavery, was silenced upon

the lips that gave it birth, and in the presence of an array of

defenders who compose the keenest intellects in the land.

“The man who is right is a majority” is an aphorism struck

out by Mr. Douglass in that great gathering of the friends of

freedom, at Pittsburgh, in 1852, where he towered among

the highest, because, with abilities inferior to none, and

moved more deeply than any, there was neither policy nor

party to trammel the outpourings of his soul. Thus we find,

opposed to all disadvantages which a black man in the United

States labors and struggles under, is this one vantage ground—

when the chance comes, and the audience where he may

have a say, he stands forth the freest, most deeply moved and

most earnest of all men.

It has been said of Mr. Douglass, that his descriptive and

declamatory powers, admitted to be of the very highest or-

der, take precedence of his logical force. Whilst the schools

might have trained him to the exhibition of the formulas of

deductive logic, nature and circumstances forced him into

the exercise of the higher faculties required by induction.

The first ninety pages of this “Life in Bondage,” afford speci-

mens of observing, comparing, and careful classifying, of such

superior character, that it is difficult to believe them the re-

sults of a child’s thinking; he questions the earth, and the

children and the slaves around him again and again, and

finally looks to “God in the sky” for the why and the where-

fore of the unnatural thing, slavery. “Yes, if indeed thou art,

wherefore dost thou suffer us to be slain?” is the only prayer and

worship of the God-forsaken Dodos in the heart of Africa.

Almost the same was his prayer. One of his earliest observa-

tions was that white children should know their ages, while

the colored children were ignorant of theirs; and the songs

of the slaves grated on his inmost soul, because a something

told him that harmony in sound, and music of the spirit,

could not consociate with miserable degradation.

To such a mind, the ordinary processes of logical deduc-

tion are like proving that two and two make four. Mastering

the intermediate steps by an intuitive glance, or recurring to

them as Ferguson resorted to geometry, it goes down to the

Frederick Douglas

deeper relation of things, and brings out what may seem, to

some, mere statements, but which are new and brilliant gen-

eralizations, each resting on a broad and stable basis. Thus,

Chief Justice Marshall gave his decisions, and then told

Brother Story to look up the authorities—and they never

differed from him. Thus, also, in his “Lecture on the Anti-

Slavery Movement,” delivered before the Rochester Ladies’

Anti-Slavery Society, Mr. Douglass presents a mass of

thought, which, without any showy display of logic on his

part, requires an exercise of the reasoning faculties of the

reader to keep pace with him. And his “Claims of the Negro

Ethnologically Considered,” is full of new and fresh thoughts

on the dawning science of race-history.

If, as has been stated, his intellection is slow, when unex-

cited, it is most prompt and rapid when he is thoroughly

aroused. Memory, logic, wit, sarcasm, invective pathos and

bold imagery of rare structural beauty, well up as from a co-

pious fountain, yet each in its proper place, and contribut-

ing to form a whole, grand in itself, yet complete in the mi-

nutest proportions. It is most difficult to hedge him in a

corner, for his positions are taken so deliberately, that it is

rare to find a point in them undefended aforethought. Pro-

fessor Reason tells me the following: “On a recent visit of a

public nature, to Philadelphia, and in a meeting composed

mostly of his colored brethren, Mr. Douglass proposed a

comparison of views in the matters of the relations and du-

ties of `our people;’ he holding that prejudice was the result

of condition, and could be conquered by the efforts of the

degraded themselves. A gentleman present, distinguished for

logical acumen and subtlety, and who had devoted no small

portion of the last twenty-five years to the study and eluci-

dation of this very question, held the opposite view, that

prejudice is innate and unconquerable. He terminated a se-

ries of well dove-tailed, Socratic questions to Mr. Douglass,

with the following: `If the legislature at Harrisburgh should

awaken, to-morrow morning, and find each man’s skin turned

black and his hair woolly, what could they do to remove

prejudice?’ ̀ Immediately pass laws entitling black men to all

civil, political and social privileges,’ was the instant reply—

and the questioning ceased.”

The most remarkable mental phenomenon in Mr.

Douglass, is his style in writing and speaking. In March, 1855,

My Bondage and My Freedom

he delivered an address in the assembly chamber before the

members of the legislature of the state of New York. An eye

witness5 describes the crowded and most intelligent audi-

ence, and their rapt attention to the speaker, as the grandest

scene he ever witnessed in the capitol. Among those whose

eyes were riveted on the speaker full two hours and a half,

were Thurlow Weed and Lieutenant Governor Raymond;

the latter, at the conclusion of the address, exclaimed to a

friend, “I would give twenty thousand dollars, if I could de-

liver that address in that manner.” Mr. Raymond is a first

class graduate of Dartmouth, a rising politician, ranking fore-

most in the legislature; of course, his ideal of oratory must

be of the most polished and finished description.

The style of Mr. Douglass in writing, is to me an intellec-

tual puzzle. The strength, affluence and terseness may easily

be accounted for, because the style of a man is the man; but

how are we to account for that rare polish in his style of

writing, which, most critically examined, seems the result of

careful early culture among the best classics of our language;

it equals if it does not surpass the style of Hugh Miller, which

was the wonder of the British literary public, until he unrav-

eled the mystery in the most interesting of autobiographies.

But Frederick Douglass was still calking the seams of Balti-

more clippers, and had only written a “pass,” at the age when

Miller’s style was already formed.

I asked William Whipper, of Pennsylvania, the gentleman

alluded to above, whether he thought Mr. Douglass’s power

inherited from the Negroid, or from what is called the Cau-

casian side of his make up? After some reflection, he frankly

answered, “I must admit, although sorry to do so, that the

Caucasian predominates.” At that time, I almost agreed with

him; but, facts narrated in the first part of this work, throw a

different light on this interesting question.

We are left in the dark as to who was the paternal ancestor

of our author; a fact which generally holds good of the

Romuluses and Remuses who are to inaugurate the new birth

of our republic. In the absence of testimony from the Cau-

casian side, we must see what evidence is given on the other

side of the house.

“My grandmother, though advanced in years, * * * was yet

a woman of power and spirit. She was marvelously straight5 Mr. Wm. H. Topp, of Albany.

Frederick Douglas

in figure, elastic and muscular.” (p. 46.)

After describing her skill in constructing nets, her perse-

verance in using them, and her wide-spread fame in the ag-

ricultural way he adds, “It happened to her—as it will hap-

pen to any careful and thrifty person residing in an ignorant

and improvident neighborhood—to enjoy the reputation of

being born to good luck.” And his grandmother was a black

woman.

“My mother was tall, and finely proportioned; of deep

black, glossy complexion; had regular features; and among

other slaves was remarkably sedate in her manners.” “Being

a field hand, she was obliged to walk twelve miles and re-

turn, between nightfall and daybreak, to see her children”

(p. 54.) “I shall never forget the indescribable expression of

her countenance when I told her that I had had no food

since morning. * * * There was pity in her glance at me, and

a fiery indignation at Aunt Katy at the same time; * * * * she

read Aunt Katy a lecture which she never forgot.” (p. 56.) “I

learned after my mother’s death, that she could read, and

that she was the only one of all the slaves and colored people

in Tuckahoe who enjoyed that advantage. How she acquired

this knowledge, I know not, for Tuckahoe is the last place in

the world where she would be apt to find facilities for learn-

ing.” (p. 57.) “There is, in Prichard’s Natural History of Man,

the head of a figure—on page 157—the features of which so

resemble those of my mother, that I often recur to it with

something of the feeling which I suppose others experience

when looking upon the pictures of dear departed ones.” (p.

52.)

The head alluded to is copied from the statue of Ramses

the Great, an Egyptian king of the nineteenth dynasty. The

authors of the Types of Mankind give a side view of the same

on page 148, remarking that the profile, “like Napoleon’s, is

superbly European!” The nearness of its resemblance to Mr.

Douglass’ mother rests upon the evidence of his memory,

and judging from his almost marvelous feats of recollection

of forms and outlines recorded in this book, this testimony

may be admitted.

These facts show that for his energy, perseverance, elo-

quence, invective, sagacity, and wide sympathy, he is indebted

to his Negro blood. The very marvel of his style would seem

to be a development of that other marvel—how his mother

My Bondage and My Freedom

learned to read. The versatility of talent which he wields, in

common with Dumas, Ira Aldridge, and Miss Greenfield,

would seem to be the result of the grafting of the Anglo-

Saxon on good, original, Negro stock. If the friends of

“Caucasus” choose to claim, for that region, what remains

after this analysis—to wit: combination—they are welcome

to it. They will forgive me for reminding them that the term

“Caucasian” is dropped by recent writers on Ethnology; for

the people about Mount Caucasus, are, and have ever been,

Mongols. The great “white race” now seek paternity, accord-

ing to Dr. Pickering, in Arabia—”Arida Nutrix” of the best

breed of horses &c. Keep on, gentlemen; you will find your-

selves in Africa, by-and-by. The Egyptians, like the Ameri-

cans, were a mixed race, with some Negro blood circling

around the throne, as well as in the mud hovels.

This is the proper place to remark of our author, that the

same strong self-hood, which led him to measure strength

with Mr. Covey, and to wrench himself from the embrace of

the Garrisonians, and which has borne him through many

resistances to the personal indignities offered him as a col-

ored man, sometimes becomes a hyper-sensitiveness to such

assaults as men of his mark will meet with, on paper. Keen

and unscrupulous opponents have sought, and not unsuc-

cessfully, to pierce him in this direction; for well they know,

that if assailed, he will smite back.

It is not without a feeling of pride, dear reader, that I present

you with this book. The son of a self-emancipated bond-

woman, I feel joy in introducing to you my brother, who has

rent his own bonds, and who, in his every relation—as a

public man, as a husband and as a father—is such as does

honor to the land which gave him birth. I shall place this

book in the hands of the only child spared me, bidding him

to strive and emulate its noble example. You may do like-

wise. It is an American book, for Americans, in the fullest

sense of the idea. It shows that the worst of our institutions,

in its worst aspect, cannot keep down energy, truthfulness,

and earnest struggle for the right. It proves the justice and

practicability of Immediate Emancipation. It shows that any

man in our land, “no matter in what battle his liberty may

have been cloven down, * * * * no matter what complexion

an Indian or an African sun may have burned upon him,”

not only may “stand forth redeemed and disenthralled,” but

Frederick Douglas

may also stand up a candidate for the highest suffrage of a

great people—the tribute of their honest, hearty admiration.

Reader, Vale!

New York JAMES MCCUNE SMITH

CHAPTER ICHAPTER ICHAPTER ICHAPTER ICHAPTER I ChildhoodChildhoodChildhoodChildhoodChildhood

PLACE OF BIRTH—CHARACTER OF THE DIS-

TRICT—TUCKAHOE—ORIGIN OF THE NAME—

CHOPTANK RIVER—TIME OF BIRTH—GENEA-

LOGICAL TREES—MODE OF COUNTING TIME—

NAMES OF GRANDPARENTS—THEIR POSITION—

GRANDMOTHER ESPECIALLY ESTEEMED—

“BORN TO GOOD LUCK—SWEET POTATOES—SU-

PERSTITION—THE LOG CABIN—ITS CHARMS—

SEPARATING CHILDREN—MY AUNTS—THEIR

NAMES—FIRST KNOWLEDGE OF BEING A

SLAVE—OLD MASTER—GRIEFS AND JOYS OF

CHILDHOOD—COMPARATIVE HAPPINESS OF

THE SL AVE-BOY AND THE SON OF A

SLAVEHOLDER.

In Talbot county, Eastern Shore, Maryland, near Easton, the

county town of that county, there is a small district of coun-

try, thinly populated, and remarkable for nothing that I know

of more than for the worn-out, sandy, desert-like appear-

ance of its soil, the general dilapidation of its farms and fences,

the indigent and spiritless character of its inhabitants, and

the prevalence of ague and fever.

The name of this singularly unpromising and truly famine

stricken district is Tuckahoe, a name well known to all Mary-

landers, black and white. It was given to this section of coun-

try probably, at the first, merely in derision; or it may possi-

bly have been applied to it, as I have heard, because some

one of its earlier inhabitants had been guilty of the petty

meanness of stealing a hoe—or taking a hoe that did not

belong to him. Eastern Shore men usually pronounce the

word took, as tuck; Took-a-hoe, therefore, is, in Maryland

parlance, Tuckahoe. But, whatever may have been its origin—

My Bondage and My Freedom

and about this I will not be positive—that name has stuck to

the district in question; and it is seldom mentioned but with

contempt and derision, on account of the barrenness of its

soil, and the ignorance, indolence, and poverty of its people.

Decay and ruin are everywhere visible, and the thin popula-

tion of the place would have quitted it long ago, but for the

Choptank river, which runs through it, from which they take

abundance of shad and herring, and plenty of ague and fever.

It was in this dull, flat, and unthrifty district, or neighbor-

hood, surrounded by a white population of the lowest order,

indolent and drunken to a proverb, and among slaves, who

seemed to ask, “Oh! what’s the use?” every time they lifted a

hoe, that I—without any fault of mine was born, and spent

the first years of my childhood.

The reader will pardon so much about the place of my

birth, on the score that it is always a fact of some importance

to know where a man is born, if, indeed, it be important to

know anything about him. In regard to the time of my birth,

I cannot be as definite as I have been respecting the place.

Nor, indeed, can I impart much knowledge concerning my

parents. Genealogical trees do not flourish among slaves. A

person of some consequence here in the north, sometimes

designated father, is literally abolished in slave law and slave

practice. It is only once in a while that an exception is found

to this statement. I never met with a slave who could tell me

how old he was. Few slave-mothers know anything of the

months of the year, nor of the days of the month. They keep

no family records, with marriages, births, and deaths. They

measure the ages of their children by spring time, winter

time, harvest time, planting time, and the like; but these

soon become undistinguishable and forgotten. Like other

slaves, I cannot tell how old I am. This destitution was among

my earliest troubles. I learned when I grew up, that my mas-

ter—and this is the case with masters generally—allowed no

questions to be put to him, by which a slave might learn his

GRANDPARENTS age. Such questions deemed evidence

of impatience, and even of impudent curiosity. From certain

events, however, the dates of which I have since learned, I

suppose myself to have been born about the year 1817.

The first experience of life with me that I now remem-

ber—and I remember it but hazily—began in the family of

my grandmother and grandfather. Betsey and Isaac Baily.

Frederick Douglas

They were quite advanced in life, and had long lived on the

spot where they then resided. They were considered old set-

tlers in the neighborhood, and, from certain circumstances,

I infer that my grandmother, especially, was held in high

esteem, far higher than is the lot of most colored persons in

the slave states. She was a good nurse, and a capital hand at

making nets for catching shad and herring; and these nets

were in great demand, not only in Tuckahoe, but at Denton

and Hillsboro, neighboring villages. She was not only good

at making the nets, but was also somewhat famous for her

good fortune in taking the fishes referred to. I have known

her to be in the water half the day. Grandmother was like-

wise more provident than most of her neighbors in the pres-

ervation of seedling sweet potatoes, and it happened to her—

as it will happen to any careful and thrifty person residing in

an ignorant and improvident community—to enjoy the repu-

tation of having been born to “good luck.” Her “good luck”

was owing to the exceeding care which she took in prevent-

ing the succulent root from getting bruised in the digging,

and in placing it beyond the reach of frost, by actually bury-

ing it under the hearth of her cabin during the winter months.

In the time of planting sweet potatoes, “Grandmother Betty,”

as she was familiarly called, was sent for in all directions,

simply to place the seedling potatoes in the hills; for super-

stition had it, that if “Grandmamma Betty but touches them

at planting, they will be sure to grow and flourish.” This

high reputation was full of advantage to her, and to the chil-

dren around her. Though Tuckahoe had but few of the good

things of life, yet of such as it did possess grandmother got a

full share, in the way of presents. If good potato crops came

after her planting, she was not forgotten by those for whom

she planted; and as she was remembered by others, so she

remembered the hungry little ones around her.

The dwelling of my grandmother and grandfather had few

pretensions. It was a log hut, or cabin, built of clay, wood,

and straw. At a distance it resembled—though it was smaller,

less commodious and less substantial—the cabins erected in

the western states by the first settlers. To my child’s eye, how-

ever, it was a noble structure, admirably adapted to promote

the comforts and conveniences of its inmates. A few rough,

Virginia fence-rails, flung loosely over the rafters above, an-

swered the triple purpose of floors, ceilings, and bedsteads.

My Bondage and My Freedom

To be sure, this upper apartment was reached only by a lad-

der—but what in the world for climbing could be better

than a ladder? To me, this ladder was really a high invention,

and possessed a sort of charm as I played with delight upon

the rounds of it. In this little hut there was a large family of

children: I dare not say how many. My grandmother—

whether because too old for field service, or because she had

so faithfully discharged the duties of her station in early life,

I know not—enjoyed the high privilege of living in a cabin,

separate from the quarter, with no other burden than her

own support, and the necessary care of the little children,

imposed. She evidently esteemed it a great fortune to live so.

The children were not her own, but her grandchildren—the

children of her daughters. She took delight in having them

around her, and in attending to their few wants. The prac-

tice of separating children from their mother, and hiring the

latter out at distances too great to admit of their meeting,

except at long intervals, is a marked feature of the cruelty

and barbarity of the slave system. But it is in harmony with

the grand aim of slavery, which, always and everywhere, is to

reduce man to a level with the brute. It is a successful method

of obliterating from the mind and heart of the slave, all just

ideas of the sacredness of the family, as an institution.

Most of the children, however, in this instance, being the

children of my grandmother’s daughters, the notions of fam-

ily, and the reciprocal duties and benefits of the relation, had

a better chance of being understood than where children are

placed—as they often are in the hands of strangers, who have

no care for them, apart from the wishes of their masters. The

daughters of my grandmother were five in number. Their

names were JENNY, ESTHER, MILLY, PRISCILLA, and

HARRIET. The daughter last named was my mother, of

whom the reader shall learn more by-and-by.

Living here, with my dear old grandmother and grandfa-

ther, it was a long time before I knew myself to be a slave. I

knew many other things before I knew that. Grandmother

and grandfather were the greatest people in the world to me;

and being with them so snugly in their own little cabin—I

supposed it be their own—knowing no higher authority over

me or the other children than the authority of grandmamma,

for a time there was nothing to disturb me; but, as I grew

larger and older, I learned by degrees the sad fact, that the

Frederick Douglas

“little hut,” and the lot on which it stood, belonged not to

my dear old grandparents, but to some person who lived a

great distance off, and who was called, by grandmother,

“OLD MASTER.” I further learned the sadder fact, that

not only the house and lot, but that grandmother herself,

(grandfather was free,) and all the little children around her,

belonged to this mysterious personage, called by grand-

mother, with every mark of reverence, “Old Master.” Thus

early did clouds and shadows begin to fall upon my path.

Once on the track—troubles never come singly—I was not

long in finding out another fact, still more grievous to my

childish heart. I was told that this “old master,” whose name

seemed ever to be mentioned with fear and shuddering,

only allowed the children to live with grandmother for a

limited time, and that in fact as soon as they were big

enough, they were promptly taken away, to live with the

said “old master.” These were distressing revelations indeed;

and though I was quite too young to comprehend the full

import of the intelligence, and mostly spent my childhood

days in gleesome sports with the other children, a shade of

disquiet rested upon me.

The absolute power of this distant “old master” had touched

my young spirit with but the point of its cold, cruel iron,

and left me something to brood over after the play and in

moments of repose. Grandmammy was, indeed, at that time,

all the world to me; and the thought of being separated from

her, in any considerable time, was more than an unwelcome

intruder. It was intolerable.

Children have their sorrows as well as men and women;

and it would be well to remember this in our dealings with

them. SLAVE-children are children, and prove no excep-

tions to the general rule. The liability to be separated from

my grandmother, seldom or never to see her again, haunted

me. I dreaded the thought of going to live with that mysteri-

ous “old master,” whose name I never heard mentioned with

affection, but always with fear. I look back to this as among

the heaviest of my childhood’s sorrows. My grandmother!

my grandmother! and the little hut, and the joyous circle

under her care, but especially she, who made us sorry when

she left us but for an hour, and glad on her return,—how

could I leave her and the good old home?

But the sorrows of childhood, like the pleasures of after

My Bondage and My Freedom

life, are transient. It is not even within the power of slavery

to write indelible sorrow, at a single dash, over the heart of a

child.

The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows,

Is like the dew-drop on the rose—

When next the summer breeze comes by,

And waves the bush—the flower is dry.

There is, after all, but little difference in the measure of con-

tentment felt by the slave-child neglected and the slaveholder’s

child cared for and petted. The spirit of the All Just merci-

fully holds the balance for the young.

The slaveholder, having nothing to fear from impotent

childhood, easily affords to refrain from cruel inflictions; and

if cold and hunger do not pierce the tender frame, the first

seven or eight years of the slave-boy’s life are about as full of

sweet content as those of the most favored and petted white

children of the slaveholder. The slave-boy escapes many

troubles which befall and vex his white brother. He seldom

has to listen to lectures on propriety of behavior, or on any-

thing else. He is never chided for handling his little knife

and fork improperly or awkwardly, for he uses none. He is

never reprimanded for soiling the table-cloth, for he takes

his meals on the clay floor. He never has the misfortune, in

his games or sports, of soiling or tearing his clothes, for he

has almost none to soil or tear. He is never expected to act

like a nice little gentleman, for he is only a rude little slave.

Thus, freed from all restraint, the slave-boy can be, in his life

and conduct, a genuine boy, doing whatever his boyish na-

ture suggests; enacting, by turns, all the strange antics and

freaks of horses, dogs, pigs, and barn-door fowls, without in

any manner compromising his dignity, or incurring reproach

of any sort. He literally runs wild; has no pretty little verses

to learn in the nursery; no nice little speeches to make for

aunts, uncles, or cousins, to show how smart he is; and, if he

can only manage to keep out of the way of the heavy feet

and fists of the older slave boys, he may trot on, in his joyous

and roguish tricks, as happy as any little heathen under the

palm trees of Africa. To be sure, he is occasionally reminded,

when he stumbles in the path of his master—and this he

Frederick Douglas

early learns to avoid—that he is eating his “white bread,”

and that he will be made to “see sights” by-and-by. The threat

is soon forgotten; the shadow soon passes, and our sable boy

continues to roll in the dust, or play in the mud, as bests

suits him, and in the veriest freedom. If he feels uncomfort-

able, from mud or from dust, the coast is clear; he can plunge

into the river or the pond, without the ceremony of undress-

ing, or the fear of wetting his clothes; his little tow-linen

shirt—for that is all he has on—is easily dried; and it needed

ablution as much as did his skin. His food is of the coarsest

kind, consisting for the most part of cornmeal mush, which

often finds it way from the wooden tray to his mouth in an

oyster shell. His days, when the weather is warm, are spent

in the pure, open air, and in the bright sunshine. He always

sleeps in airy apartments; he seldom has to take powders, or

to be paid to swallow pretty little sugar-coated pills, to cleanse

his blood, or to quicken his appetite. He eats no candies;

gets no lumps of loaf sugar; always relishes his food; cries

but little, for nobody cares for his crying; learns to esteem

his bruises but slight, because others so esteem them. In a

word, he is, for the most part of the first eight years of his

life, a spirited, joyous, uproarious, and happy boy, upon

whom troubles fall only like water on a duck’s back. And

such a boy, so far as I can now remember, was the boy whose

life in slavery I am now narrating.

My Bondage and My Freedom

CHAPTER IICHAPTER IICHAPTER IICHAPTER IICHAPTER II RRRRRemoemoemoemoemovvvvved fred fred fred fred from Mom Mom Mom Mom My Fy Fy Fy Fy First Hirst Hirst Hirst Hirst Homeomeomeomeome

THE NAME “OLD MASTER” A TERROR—COLONEL

LLOYD’S PLANTATION—WYE RIVER—WHENCE

ITS NAME—POSITION OF THE LLOYDS—HOME

ATTRACTION—MEET OFFERING—JOURNEY

FROM TUCKAHOE TO WYE RIVER—SCENE ON

REACHING OLD MASTER’S—DEPARTURE OF

GRANDMOTHER—STRANGE MEETING OF SIS-

TERS AND BROTHERS—REFUSAL TO BE COM-

FORTED—SWEET SLEEP.

THAT MYSTERIOUS INDIVIDUAL referred to in the first chapter

as an object of terror among the inhabitants of our little

cabin, under the ominous title of “old master,” was really a

man of some consequence. He owned several farms in Tuc-

kahoe; was the chief clerk and butler on the home planta-

tion of Col. Edward Lloyd; had overseers on his own farms;

and gave directions to overseers on the farms belonging to

Col. Lloyd. This plantation is situated on Wye river—the

river receiving its name, doubtless, from Wales, where the

Lloyds originated. They (the Lloyds) are an old and hon-

ored family in Maryland, exceedingly wealthy. The home

plantation, where they have resided, perhaps for a century

or more, is one of the largest, most fertile, and best ap-

pointed, in the state.

About this plantation, and about that queer old master—

who must be something more than a man, and something

worse than an angel—the reader will easily imagine that I

was not only curious, but eager, to know all that could be

known. Unhappily for me, however, all the information I

could get concerning him increased my great dread of being

carried thither—of being separated from and deprived of

the protection of my grandmother and grandfather. It was,

evidently, a great thing to go to Col. Lloyd’s; and I was not

without a little curiosity to see the place; but no amount of

coaxing could induce in me the wish to remain there. The

fact is, such was my dread of leaving the little cabin, that I

wished to remain little forever, for I knew the taller I grew

the shorter my stay. The old cabin, with its rail floor and rail

bedsteads upstairs, and its clay floor downstairs, and its dirt

Frederick Douglas

chimney, and windowless sides, and that most curious piece

of workmanship dug in front of the fireplace, beneath which

grandmammy placed the sweet potatoes to keep them from

the frost, was MY HOME—the only home I ever had; and

I loved it, and all connected with it. The old fences around

it, and the stumps in the edge of the woods near it, and the

squirrels that ran, skipped, and played upon them, were ob-

jects of interest and affection. There, too, right at the side of

the hut, stood the old well, with its stately and skyward-

pointing beam, so aptly placed between the limbs of what

had once been a tree, and so nicely balanced that I could

move it up and down with only one hand, and could get a

drink myself without calling for help. Where else in the world

could such a well be found, and where could such another

home be met with? Nor were these all the attractions of the

place. Down in a little valley, not far from grandmammy’s

cabin, stood Mr. Lee’s mill, where the people came often in

large numbers to get their corn ground. It was a watermill;

and I never shall be able to tell the many things thought and

felt, while I sat on the bank and watched that mill, and the

turning of that ponderous wheel. The mill-pond, too, had its

charms; and with my pinhook, and thread line, I could get

nibbles, if I could catch no fish. But, in all my sports and plays,

and in spite of them, there would, occasionally, come the pain-

ful foreboding that I was not long to remain there, and that I

must soon be called away to the home of old master.

I was A SLAVE—born a slave and though the fact was in-

comprehensible to me, it conveyed to my mind a sense of

my entire dependence on the will of somebody I had never

seen; and, from some cause or other, I had been made to fear

this somebody above all else on earth. Born for another’s

benefit, as the firstling of the cabin flock I was soon to be

selected as a meet offering to the fearful and inexorable demi-

god, whose huge image on so many occasions haunted my

childhood’s imagination. When the time of my departure

was decided upon, my grandmother, knowing my fears, and

in pity for them, kindly kept me ignorant of the dreaded

event about to transpire. Up to the morning (a beautiful sum-

mer morning) when we were to start, and, indeed, during

the whole journey—a journey which, child as I was, I re-

member as well as if it were yesterday—she kept the sad fact

hidden from me. This reserve was necessary; for, could I have

My Bondage and My Freedom

known all, I should have given grandmother some trouble

in getting me started. As it was, I was helpless, and she—

dear woman!—led me along by the hand, resisting, with the

reserve and solemnity of a priestess, all my inquiring looks

to the last.

The distance from Tuckahoe to Wye river—where my old

master lived—was full twelve miles, and the walk was quite

a severe test of the endurance of my young legs. The journey

would have proved too severe for me, but that my dear old

grandmother—blessings on her memory!—afforded occa-

sional relief by “toting” me (as Marylanders have it) on her

shoulder. My grandmother, though advanced in years—as

was evident from more than one gray hair, which peeped

from between the ample and graceful folds of her newly-

ironed bandana turban—was yet a woman of power and

spirit. She was marvelously straight in figure, elastic, and

muscular. I seemed hardly to be a burden to her. She would

have “toted” me farther, but that I felt myself too much of a

man to allow it, and insisted on walking. Releasing dear

grandmamma from carrying me, did not make me altogether

independent of her, when we happened to pass through por-

tions of the somber woods which lay between Tuckahoe and

Wye river. She often found me increasing the energy of my

grip, and holding her clothing, lest something should come

out of the woods and eat me up. Several old logs and stumps

imposed upon me, and got themselves taken for wild beasts.

I could see their legs, eyes, and ears, or I could see something

like eyes, legs, and ears, till I got close enough to them to see

that the eyes were knots, washed white with rain, and the

legs were broken limbs, and the ears, only ears owing to the

point from which they were seen. Thus early I learned that

the point from which a thing is viewed is of some impor-

tance.

As the day advanced the heat increased; and it was not

until the afternoon that we reached the much dreaded end

of the journey. I found myself in the midst of a group of

children of many colors; black, brown, copper colored, and

nearly white. I had not seen so many children before. Great

houses loomed up in different directions, and a great many

men and women were at work in the fields. All this hurry,

noise, and singing was very different from the stillness of

Tuckahoe. As a new comer, I was an object of special inter-

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est; and, after laughing and yelling around me, and playing

all sorts of wild tricks, they (the children) asked me to go out

and play with them. This I refused to do, preferring to stay

with grandmamma. I could not help feeling that our being

there boded no good to me. Grandmamma looked sad. She

was soon to lose another object of affection, as she had lost

many before. I knew she was unhappy, and the shadow fell

from her brow on me, though I knew not the cause.

All suspense, however, must have an end; and the end of

mine, in this instance, was at hand. Affectionately patting

me on the head, and exhorting me to be a good boy,

grandmamma told me to go and play with the little chil-

dren. “They are kin to you,” said she; “go and play with

them.” Among a number of cousins were Phil, Tom, Steve,

and Jerry, Nance and Betty.

Grandmother pointed out my brother PERRY, my sister

SARAH, and my sister ELIZA, who stood in the group. I

had never seen my brother nor my sisters before; and, though

I had sometimes heard of them, and felt a curious interest in

them, I really did not understand what they were to me, or I

to them. We were brothers and sisters, but what of that?

Why should they be attached to me, or I to them? Brothers

and sisters we were by blood; but slavery had made us strang-

ers. I heard the words brother and sisters, and knew they

must mean something; but slavery had robbed these terms

of their true meaning. The experience through which I was

passing, they had passed through before. They had already

been initiated into the mysteries of old master’s domicile,

and they seemed to look upon me with a certain degree of

compassion; but my heart clave to my grandmother. Think

it not strange, dear reader, that so little sympathy of feeling

existed between us. The conditions of brotherly and sisterly

feeling were wanting—we had never nestled and played to-

gether. My poor mother, like many other slave-women, had

many children, but NO FAMILY! The domestic hearth, with

its holy lessons and precious endearments, is abolished in

the case of a slave-mother and her children. “Little children,

love one another,” are words seldom heard in a slave cabin.

I really wanted to play with my brother and sisters, but

they were strangers to me, and I was full of fear that grand-

mother might leave without taking me with her. Entreated

to do so, however, and that, too, by my dear grandmother, I

My Bondage and My Freedom

went to the back part of the house, to play with them and

the other children. Play, however, I did not, but stood with

my back against the wall, witnessing the playing of the oth-

ers. At last, while standing there, one of the children, who

had been in the kitchen, ran up to me, in a sort of roguish

glee, exclaiming, “Fed, Fed! grandmammy gone!

grandmammy gone!” I could not believe it; yet, fearing the

worst, I ran into the kitchen, to see for myself, and found it

even so. Grandmammy had indeed gone, and was now far

away, “clean” out of sight. I need not tell all that happened

now. Almost heart-broken at the discovery, I fell upon the

ground, and wept a boy’s bitter tears, refusing to be com-

forted. My brother and sisters came around me, and said,

“Don’t cry,” and gave me peaches and pears, but I flung them

away, and refused all their kindly advances. I had never been

deceived before; and I felt not only grieved at parting—as I

supposed forever—with my grandmother, but indignant that

a trick had been played upon me in a matter so serious.

It was now late in the afternoon. The day had been an

exciting and wearisome one, and I knew not how or where,

but I suppose I sobbed myself to sleep. There is a healing in

the angel wing of sleep, even for the slave-boy; and its balm

was never more welcome to any wounded soul than it was to

mine, the first night I spent at the domicile of old master.

The reader may be surprised that I narrate so minutely an

incident apparently so trivial, and which must have occurred

when I was not more than seven years old; but as I wish to

give a faithful history of my experience in slavery, I cannot

withhold a circumstance which, at the time, affected me so

deeply. Besides, this was, in fact, my first introduction to the

realities of slavery.

Frederick Douglas

CHAPTER IIICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IIICHAPTER III PPPPParararararentageentageentageentageentage

MY FATHER SHROUDED IN MYSTERY—MY

MOTHER—HER PERSONAL APPEARANCE—IN-

TERFERENCE OF SLAVERY WITH THE NATURAL

AFFECTIONS OF MOTHER AND CHILDREN—

SITUATION OF MY MOTHER—HER NIGHTLY VIS-

ITS TO HER BOY—STRIKING INCIDENT—HER

DEATH—HER PLACE OF BURIAL.

IF THE READER will now be kind enough to allow me time to

grow bigger, and afford me an opportunity for my experi-

ence to become greater, I will tell him something, by-and-

by, of slave life, as I saw, felt, and heard it, on Col. Edward

Lloyd’s plantation, and at the house of old master, where I

had now, despite of myself, most suddenly, but not unex-

pectedly, been dropped. Meanwhile, I will redeem my prom-

ise to say something more of my dear mother.

I say nothing of father, for he is shrouded in a mystery I

have never been able to penetrate. Slavery does away with

fathers, as it does away with families. Slavery has no use for

either fathers or families, and its laws do not recognize their

existence in the social arrangements of the plantation. When

they do exist, they are not the outgrowths of slavery, but are

antagonistic to that system. The order of civilization is re-

versed here. The name of the child is not expected to be that

of its father, and his condition does not necessarily affect

that of the child. He may be the slave of Mr. Tilgman; and

his child, when born, may be the slave of Mr. Gross. He may

be a freeman; and yet his child may be a chattel. He may be

white, glorying in the purity of his Anglo-Saxon blood; and

his child may be ranked with the blackest slaves. Indeed, he

may be, and often is, master and father to the same child. He

can be father without being a husband, and may sell his child

without incurring reproach, if the child be by a woman in

whose veins courses one thirty-second part of African blood.

My father was a white man, or nearly white. It was some-

times whispered that my master was my father.

But to return, or rather, to begin. My knowledge of my

mother is very scanty, but very distinct. Her personal ap-

pearance and bearing are ineffaceably stamped upon my

My Bondage and My Freedom

memory. She was tall, and finely proportioned; of deep black,

glossy complexion; had regular features, and, among the other

slaves, was remarkably sedate in her manners. There is in

Prichard’s Natural History of Man, the head of a figure—on

page 157—the features of which so resemble those of my

mother, that I often recur to it with something of the feeling

which I suppose others experience when looking upon the

pictures of dear departed ones.

Yet I cannot say that I was very deeply attached to my

mother; certainly not so deeply as I should have been had

our relations in childhood been different. We were separated,

according to the common custom, when I was but an infant,

and, of course, before I knew my mother from any one else.

The germs of affection with which the Almighty, in his wis-

dom and mercy, arms the hopeless infant against the ills and

vicissitudes of his lot, had been directed in their growth to-

ward that loving old grandmother, whose gentle hand and

kind deportment it was in the first effort of my infantile un-

derstanding to comprehend and appreciate. Accordingly, the

tenderest affection which a beneficent Father allows, as a par-

tial compensation to the mother for the pains and lacerations

of her heart, incident to the maternal relation, was, in my

case, diverted from its true and natural object, by the envious,

greedy, and treacherous hand of slavery. The slave-mother can

be spared long enough from the field to endure all the bitter-

ness of a mother’s anguish, when it adds another name to a

master’s ledger, but not long enough to receive the joyous re-

ward afforded by the intelligent smiles of her child. I never

think of this terrible interference of slavery with my infantile

affections, and its diverting them from their natural course,

without feelings to which I can give no adequate expression.

I do not remember to have seen my mother at my

grandmother’s at any time. I remember her only in her visits

to me at Col. Lloyd’s plantation, and in the kitchen of my

old master. Her visits to me there were few in number, brief

in duration, and mostly made in the night. The pains she

took, and the toil she endured, to see me, tells me that a true

mother’s heart was hers, and that slavery had difficulty in

paralyzing it with unmotherly indifference.

My mother was hired out to a Mr. Stewart, who lived about

twelve miles from old master’s, and, being a field hand, she

seldom had leisure, by day, for the performance of the jour-

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ney. The nights and the distance were both obstacles to her

visits. She was obliged to walk, unless chance flung into her

way an opportunity to ride; and the latter was sometimes

her good luck. But she always had to walk one way or the

other. It was a greater luxury than slavery could afford, to

allow a black slave-mother a horse or a mule, upon which to

travel twenty-four miles, when she could walk the distance.

Besides, it is deemed a foolish whim for a slave-mother to

manifest concern to see her children, and, in one point of

view, the case is made out—she can do nothing for them.

She has no control over them; the master is even more than

the mother, in all matters touching the fate of her child. Why,

then, should she give herself any concern? She has no re-

sponsibility. Such is the reasoning, and such the practice.

The iron rule of the plantation, always passionately and vio-

lently enforced in that neighborhood, makes flogging the

penalty of failing to be in the field before sunrise in the morn-

ing, unless special permission be given to the absenting slave.

“I went to see my child,” is no excuse to the ear or heart of

the overseer.

One of the visits of my mother to me, while at Col. Lloyd’s,

I remember very vividly, as affording a bright gleam of a

mother’s love, and the earnestness of a mother’s care.

“I had on that day offended “Aunt Katy,” (called “Aunt” by

way of respect,) the cook of old master’s establishment. I do

not now remember the nature of my offense in this instance,

for my offenses were numerous in that quarter, greatly de-

pending, however, upon the mood of Aunt Katy, as to their

heinousness; but she had adopted, that day, her favorite mode

of punishing me, namely, making me go without food all day—

that is, from after breakfast. The first hour or two after dinner,

I succeeded pretty well in keeping up my spirits; but though I

made an excellent stand against the foe, and fought bravely

during the afternoon, I knew I must be conquered at last,

unless I got the accustomed reenforcement of a slice of corn

bread, at sundown. Sundown came, but no bread, and, in its

stead, their came the threat, with a scowl well suited to its

terrible import, that she “meant to starve the life out of me!”

Brandishing her knife, she chopped off the heavy slices for the

other children, and put the loaf away, muttering, all the while,

her savage designs upon myself. Against this disappointment,

for I was expecting that her heart would relent at last, I made

My Bondage and My Freedom

an extra effort to maintain my dignity; but when I saw all the

other children around me with merry and satisfied faces, I

could stand it no longer. I went out behind the house, and

cried like a fine fellow! When tired of this, I returned to the

kitchen, sat by the fire, and brooded over my hard lot. I was

too hungry to sleep. While I sat in the corner, I caught sight of

an ear of Indian corn on an upper shelf of the kitchen. I watched

my chance, and got it, and, shelling off a few grains, I put it

back again. The grains in my hand, I quickly put in some

ashes, and covered them with embers, to roast them. All this I

did at the risk of getting a brutual thumping, for Aunt Katy

could beat, as well as starve me. My corn was not long in

roasting, and, with my keen appetite, it did not matter even if

the grains were not exactly done. I eagerly pulled them out,

and placed them on my stool, in a clever little pile. Just as I

began to help myself to my very dry meal, in came my dear

mother. And now, dear reader, a scene occurred which was

altogether worth beholding, and to me it was instructive as

well as interesting. The friendless and hungry boy, in his

extremest need—and when he did not dare to look for suc-

cor—found himself in the strong, protecting arms of a mother;

a mother who was, at the moment (being endowed with high

powers of manner as well as matter) more than a match for all

his enemies. I shall never forget the indescribable expression

of her countenance, when I told her that I had had no food

since morning; and that Aunt Katy said she “meant to starve

the life out of me.” There was pity in her glance at me, and a

fiery indignation at Aunt Katy at the same time; and, while

she took the corn from me, and gave me a large ginger cake, in

its stead, she read Aunt Katy a lecture which she never forgot.

My mother threatened her with complaining to old master in

my behalf; for the latter, though harsh and cruel himself, at

times, did not sanction the meanness, injustice, partiality and

oppressions enacted by Aunt Katy in the kitchen. That night

I learned the fact, that I was, not only a child, but somebody’s

child. The “sweet cake” my mother gave me was in the shape

of a heart, with a rich, dark ring glazed upon the edge of it. I

was victorious, and well off for the moment; prouder, on my

mother’s knee, than a king upon his throne. But my triumph

was short. I dropped off to sleep, and waked in the morning

only to find my mother gone, and myself left at the mercy of

the sable virago, dominant in my old master’s kitchen, whose

Frederick Douglas

fiery wrath was my constant dread.

I do not remember to have seen my mother after this oc-

currence. Death soon ended the little communication that

had existed between us; and with it, I believe, a life judging

from her weary, sad, down-cast countenance and mute de-

meanor—full of heartfelt sorrow. I was not allowed to visit

her during any part of her long illness; nor did I see her for a

long time before she was taken ill and died. The heartless

and ghastly form of slavery rises between mother and child,

even at the bed of death. The mother, at the verge of the

grave, may not gather her children, to impart to them her

holy admonitions, and invoke for them her dying benedic-

tion. The bond-woman lives as a slave, and is left to die as a

beast; often with fewer attentions than are paid to a favorite

horse. Scenes of sacred tenderness, around the death-bed,

never forgotten, and which often arrest the vicious and con-

firm the virtuous during life, must be looked for among the

free, though they sometimes occur among the slaves. It has

been a life-long, standing grief to me, that I knew so little of

my mother; and that I was so early separated from her. The

counsels of her love must have been beneficial to me. The

side view of her face is imaged on my memory, and I take

few steps in life, without feeling her presence; but the image

is mute, and I have no striking words of her’s treasured up.

I learned, after my mother’s death, that she could read,

and that she was the only one of all the slaves and colored

people in Tuckahoe who enjoyed that advantage. How she

acquired this knowledge, I know not, for Tuckahoe is the

last place in the world where she would be apt to find facili-

ties for learning. I can, therefore, fondly and proudly ascribe

to her an earnest love of knowledge. That a “field hand”

should learn to read, in any slave state, is remarkable; but

the achievement of my mother, considering the place, was

very extraordinary; and, in view of that fact, I am quite will-

ing, and even happy, to attribute any love of letters I possess,

and for which I have got—despite of prejudices only too

much credit, not to my admitted Anglo-Saxon paternity, but

to the native genius of my sable, unprotected, and unculti-

vated mother—a woman, who belonged to a race whose

mental endowments it is, at present, fashionable to hold in

disparagement and contempt.

Summoned away to her account, with the impassable gulf

My Bondage and My Freedom

of slavery between us during her entire illness, my mother

died without leaving me a single intimation of who my fa-

ther was. There was a whisper, that my master was my fa-

ther; yet it was only a whisper, and I cannot say that I ever

gave it credence. Indeed, I now have reason to think he was

not; nevertheless, the fact remains, in all its glaring odious-

ness, that, by the laws of slavery, children, in all cases, are

reduced to the condition of their mothers. This arrangement

admits of the greatest license to brutal slaveholders, and their

profligate sons, brothers, relations and friends, and gives to

the pleasure of sin, the additional attraction of profit. A whole

volume might be written on this single feature of slavery, as

I have observed it.

One might imagine, that the children of such connections,

would fare better, in the hands of their masters, than other

slaves. The rule is quite the other way; and a very little reflec-

tion will satisfy the reader that such is the case. A man who

will enslave his own blood, may not be safely relied on for

magnanimity. Men do not love those who remind them of

their sins unless they have a mind to repent—and the mulatto

child’s face is a standing accusation against him who is master

and father to the child. What is still worse, perhaps, such a

child is a constant offense to the wife. She hates its very pres-

ence, and when a slaveholding woman hates, she wants not

means to give that hate telling effect. Women—white women,

I mean—are IDOLS at the south, not WIVES, for the slave

women are preferred in many instances; and if these idols but

nod, or lift a finger, woe to the poor victim: kicks, cuffs and

stripes are sure to follow. Masters are frequently compelled to

sell this class of their slaves, out of deference to the feelings of

their white wives; and shocking and scandalous as it may seem

for a man to sell his own blood to the traffickers in human

flesh, it is often an act of humanity toward the slave-child to

be thus removed from his merciless tormentors.

It is not within the scope of the design of my simple story,

to comment upon every phase of slavery not within my ex-

perience as a slave.

But, I may remark, that, if the lineal descendants of Ham

are only to be enslaved, according to the scriptures, slavery

in this country will soon become an unscriptural institution;

for thousands are ushered into the world, annually, who—

like myself—owe their existence to white fathers, and, most

Frederick Douglas

frequently, to their masters, and master’s sons. The slave-

woman is at the mercy of the fathers, sons or brothers of her

master. The thoughtful know the rest.

After what I have now said of the circumstances of my

mother, and my relations to her, the reader will not be sur-

prised, nor be disposed to censure me, when I tell but the

simple truth, viz: that I received the tidings of her death with

no strong emotions of sorrow for her, and with very little

regret for myself on account of her loss. I had to learn the

value of my mother long after her death, and by witnessing

the devotion of other mothers to their children.

There is not, beneath the sky, an enemy to filial affection

so destructive as slavery. It had made my brothers and sisters

strangers to me; it converted the mother that bore me, into a

myth; it shrouded my father in mystery, and left me without

an intelligible beginning in the world.

My mother died when I could not have been more than eight

or nine years old, on one of old master’s farms in Tuckahoe, in

the neighborhood of Hillsborough. Her grave is, as the grave of

the dead at sea, unmarked, and without stone or stake.

CHAPTER IVCHAPTER IVCHAPTER IVCHAPTER IVCHAPTER IV A GA GA GA GA Generenerenerenereneral Sal Sal Sal Sal Surururururvvvvvey of the Sey of the Sey of the Sey of the Sey of the Slavlavlavlavlave Pe Pe Pe Pe Plantationlantationlantationlantationlantation

ISOLATION OF LLOYD S PLANTATION—PUBLIC

OPINION THERE NO PROTECTION TO THE

SLAVE—ABSOLUTE POWER OF THE OVERSEER—

NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL CHARMS OF THE

PLACE—ITS BUSINESS-LIKE APPEARANCE—SU-

PERSTITION ABOUT THE BURIAL GROUND—

GREAT IDEAS OF COL. LLOYD—ETIQUETTE

AMONG SLAVES—THE COMIC SLAVE DOCTOR—

PRAYING AND FLOGGING—OLD MASTER LOSING

ITS TERRORS—HIS BUSINESS—CHARACTER OF

AUNT KATY—SUFFERINGS FROM HUNGER—OLD

MASTER’S HOME—JARGON OF THE PLANTA-

TION—GUINEA SLAVES—MASTER DANIEL—FAM-

ILY OF COL. LLOYD—FAMILY OF CAPT. AN-

THONY—HIS SOCIAL POSITION—NOTIONS OF

RANK AND STATION.

IT IS GENERALLY SUPPOSED that slavery, in the state of Mary-

My Bondage and My Freedom

land, exists in its mildest form, and that it is totally divested

of those harsh and terrible peculiarities, which mark and

characterize the slave system, in the southern and south-west-

ern states of the American union. The argument in favor of

this opinion, is the contiguity of the free states, and the ex-

posed condition of slavery in Maryland to the moral, reli-

gious and humane sentiment of the free states.

I am not about to refute this argument, so far as it relates

to slavery in that state, generally; on the contrary, I am will-

ing to admit that, to this general point, the arguments is well

grounded. Public opinion is, indeed, an unfailing restraint

upon the cruelty and barbarity of masters, overseers, and slave-

drivers, whenever and wherever it can reach them; but there

are certain secluded and out-of-the-way places, even in the

state of Maryland, seldom visited by a single ray of healthy

public sentiment—where slavery, wrapt in its own conge-

nial, midnight darkness, can, and does, develop all its malign

and shocking characteristics; where it can be indecent with-

out shame, cruel without shuddering, and murderous with-

out apprehension or fear of exposure.

Just such a secluded, dark, and out-of-the-way place, is the

“home plantation” of Col. Edward Lloyd, on the Eastern

Shore, Maryland. It is far away from all the great thorough-

fares, and is proximate to no town or village. There is neither

school-house, nor town-house in its neighborhood. The

school-house is unnecessary, for there are no children to go

to school. The children and grand-children of Col. Lloyd

were taught in the house, by a private tutor—a Mr. Page a

tall, gaunt sapling of a man, who did not speak a dozen words

to a slave in a whole year. The overseers’ children go off some-

where to school; and they, therefore, bring no foreign or dan-

gerous influence from abroad, to embarrass the natural op-

eration of the slave system of the place. Not even the me-

chanics—through whom there is an occasional out-burst of

honest and telling indignation, at cruelty and wrong on other

plantations—are white men, on this plantation. Its whole

public is made up of, and divided into, three classes—

SLAVEHOLDERS, SLAVES and OVERSEERS. Its black-

smiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers, and coopers, are

slaves. Not even commerce, selfish and iron-hearted at it is,

and ready, as it ever is, to side with the strong against the

weak—the rich against the poor—is trusted or permitted

Frederick Douglas

within its secluded precincts. Whether with a view of guard-

ing against the escape of its secrets, I know not, but it is a

fact, the every leaf and grain of the produce of this planta-

tion, and those of the neighboring farms belonging to Col.

Lloyd, are transported to Baltimore in Col. Lloyd’s own ves-

sels; every man and boy on board of which—except the cap-

tain—are owned by him. In return, everything brought to

the plantation, comes through the same channel. Thus, even

the glimmering and unsteady light of trade, which some-

times exerts a civilizing influence, is excluded from this “ta-

booed” spot.

Nearly all the plantations or farms in the vicinity of the

“home plantation” of Col. Lloyd, belong to him; and those

which do not, are owned by personal friends of his, as deeply

interested in maintaining the slave system, in all its rigor, as

Col. Lloyd himself. Some of his neighbors are said to be

even more stringent than he. The Skinners, the Peakers, the

Tilgmans, the Lockermans, and the Gipsons, are in the same

boat; being slaveholding neighbors, they may have strength-

ened each other in their iron rule. They are on intimate terms,

and their interests and tastes are identical.

Public opinion in such a quarter, the reader will see, is not

likely to very efficient in protecting the slave from cruelty.

On the contrary, it must increase and intensify his wrongs.

Public opinion seldom differs very widely from public prac-

tice. To be a restraint upon cruelty and vice, public opinion

must emanate from a humane and virtuous community. To

no such humane and virtuous community, is Col. Lloyd’s

plantation exposed. That plantation is a little nation of its

own, having its own language, its own rules, regulations and

customs. The laws and institutions of the state, apparently

touch it nowhere. The troubles arising here, are not settled

by the civil power of the state. The overseer is generally ac-

cuser, judge, jury, advocate and executioner. The criminal is

always dumb. The overseer attends to all sides of a case.

There are no conflicting rights of property, for all the people

are owned by one man; and they can themselves own no

property. Religion and politics are alike excluded. One class

of the population is too high to be reached by the preacher;

and the other class is too low to be cared for by the preacher.

The poor have the gospel preached to them, in this neigh-

borhood, only when they are able to pay for it. The slaves,

My Bondage and My Freedom

having no money, get no gospel. The politician keeps away,

because the people have no votes, and the preacher keeps

away, because the people have no money. The rich planter

can afford to learn politics in the parlor, and to dispense

with religion altogether.

In its isolation, seclusion, and self-reliant independence,

Col. Lloyd’s plantation resembles what the baronial domains

were during the middle ages in Europe. Grim, cold, and un-

approachable by all genial influences from communities with-

out, there it stands; full three hundred years behind the age,

in all that relates to humanity and morals.

This, however, is not the only view that the place presents.

Civilization is shut out, but nature cannot be. Though sepa-

rated from the rest of the world; though public opinion, as I

have said, seldom gets a chance to penetrate its dark do-

main; though the whole place is stamped with its own pecu-

liar, ironlike individuality; and though crimes, high-handed

and atrocious, may there be committed, with almost as much

impunity as upon the deck of a pirate ship—it is, neverthe-

less, altogether, to outward seeming, a most strikingly inter-

esting place, full of life, activity, and spirit; and presents a

very favorable contrast to the indolent monotony and lan-

guor of Tuckahoe. Keen as was my regret and great as was

my sorrow at leaving the latter, I was not long in adapting

myself to this, my new home. A man’s troubles are always

half disposed of, when he finds endurance his only remedy. I

found myself here; there was no getting away; and what re-

mained for me, but to make the best of it? Here were plenty

of children to play with, and plenty of places of pleasant

resort for boys of my age, and boys older. The little tendrils

of affection, so rudely and treacherously broken from around

the darling objects of my grandmother’s hut, gradually be-

gan to extend, and to entwine about the new objects by which

I now found myself surrounded.

There was a windmill (always a commanding object to a

child’s eye) on Long Point—a tract of land dividing Miles

river from the Wye a mile or more from my old master’s

house. There was a creek to swim in, at the bottom of an

open flat space, of twenty acres or more, called “the Long

Green”—a very beautiful play-ground for the children.

In the river, a short distance from the shore, lying quietly

at anchor, with her small boat dancing at her stern, was a

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large sloop—the Sally Lloyd; called by that name in honor

of a favorite daughter of the colonel. The sloop and the mill

were wondrous things, full of thoughts and ideas. A child

cannot well look at such objects without thinking.

Then here were a great many houses; human habitations,

full of the mysteries of life at every stage of it. There was the

little red house, up the road, occupied by Mr. Sevier, the

overseer. A little nearer to my old master’s, stood a very long,

rough, low building, literally alive with slaves, of all ages,

conditions and sizes. This was called “the Longe Quarter.”

Perched upon a hill, across the Long Green, was a very tall,

dilapidated, old brick building—the architectural dimensions

of which proclaimed its erection for a different purpose—

now occupied by slaves, in a similar manner to the Long

Quarter. Besides these, there were numerous other slave

houses and huts, scattered around in the neighborhood, ev-

ery nook and corner of which was completely occupied. Old

master’s house, a long, brick building, plain, but substantial,

stood in the center of the plantation life, and constituted

one independent establishment on the premises of Col. Lloyd.

Besides these dwellings, there were barns, stables, store-

houses, and tobacco-houses; blacksmiths’ shops, wheel-

wrights’ shops, coopers’ shops—all objects of interest; but,

above all, there stood the grandest building my eyes had then

ever beheld, called, by every one on the plantation, the “Great

House.” This was occupied by Col. Lloyd and his family.

They occupied it; I enjoyed it. The great house was sur-

rounded by numerous and variously shaped out-buildings.

There were kitchens, wash-houses, dairies, summer-house,

green-houses, hen-houses, turkey-houses, pigeon-houses, and

arbors, of many sizes and devices, all neatly painted, and

altogether interspersed with grand old trees, ornamental and

primitive, which afforded delightful shade in summer, and

imparted to the scene a high degree of stately beauty. The

great house itself was a large, white, wooden building, with

wings on three sides of it. In front, a large portico, extending

the entire length of the building, and supported by a long

range of columns, gave to the whole establishment an air of

solemn grandeur. It was a treat to my young and gradually

opening mind, to behold this elaborate exhibition of wealth,

power, and vanity. The carriage entrance to the house was a

large gate, more than a quarter of a mile distant from it; the

My Bondage and My Freedom

intermediate space was a beautiful lawn, very neatly trimmed,

and watched with the greatest care. It was dotted thickly

over with delightful trees, shrubbery, and flowers. The road,

or lane, from the gate to the great house, was richly paved

with white pebbles from the beach, and, in its course, formed

a complete circle around the beautiful lawn. Carriages going

in and retiring from the great house, made the circuit of the

lawn, and their passengers were permitted to behold a scene

of almost Eden-like beauty. Outside this select inclosure, were

parks, where as about the residences of the English nobil-

ity—rabbits, deer, and other wild game, might be seen, peer-

ing and playing about, with none to molest them or make

them afraid. The tops of the stately poplars were often cov-

ered with the red-winged black-birds, making all nature vo-

cal with the joyous life and beauty of their wild, warbling

notes. These all belonged to me, as well as to Col. Edward

Lloyd, and for a time I greatly enjoyed them.

A short distance from the great house, were the stately man-

sions of the dead, a place of somber aspect. Vast tombs,

embowered beneath the weeping willow and the fir tree, told

of the antiquities of the Lloyd family, as well as of their wealth.

Superstition was rife among the slaves about this family bury-

ing ground. Strange sights had been seen there by some of

the older slaves. Shrouded ghosts, riding on great black horses,

had been seen to enter; balls of fire had been seen to fly there

at midnight, and horrid sounds had been repeatedly heard.

Slaves know enough of the rudiments of theology to believe

that those go to hell who die slaveholders; and they often

fancy such persons wishing themselves back again, to wield

the lash. Tales of sights and sounds, strange and terrible, con-

nected with the huge black tombs, were a very great security

to the grounds about them, for few of the slaves felt like

approaching them even in the day time. It was a dark, gloomy

and forbidding place, and it was difficult to feel that the

spirits of the sleeping dust there deposited, reigned with the

blest in the realms of eternal peace.

The business of twenty or thirty farms was transacted at

this, called, by way of eminence, “great house farm.” These

farms all belonged to Col. Lloyd, as did, also, the slaves upon

them. Each farm was under the management of an overseer.

As I have said of the overseer of the home plantation, so I

may say of the overseers on the smaller ones; they stand be-

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tween the slave and all civil constitutions—their word is law,

and is implicitly obeyed.

The colonel, at this time, was reputed to be, and he appar-

ently was, very rich. His slaves, alone, were an immense for-

tune. These, small and great, could not have been fewer than

one thousand in number, and though scarcely a month passed

without the sale of one or more lots to the Georgia traders,

there was no apparent diminution in the number of his hu-

man stock: the home plantation merely groaned at a removal

of the young increase, or human crop, then proceeded as lively

as ever. Horse-shoeing, cart-mending, plow-repairing, cooper-

ing, grinding, and weaving, for all the neighboring farms, were

performed here, and slaves were employed in all these branches.

“Uncle Tony” was the blacksmith; “Uncle Harry” was the

cartwright; “Uncle Abel” was the shoemaker; and all these had

hands to assist them in their several departments.

These mechanics were called “uncles” by all the younger

slaves, not because they really sustained that relationship to

any, but according to plantation etiquette, as a mark of re-

spect, due from the younger to the older slaves. Strange, and

even ridiculous as it may seem, among a people so unculti-

vated, and with so many stern trials to look in the face, there

is not to be found, among any people, a more rigid enforce-

ment of the law of respect to elders, than they maintain. I set

this down as partly constitutional with my race, and partly

conventional. There is no better material in the world for

making a gentleman, than is furnished in the African. He

shows to others, and exacts for himself, all the tokens of re-

spect which he is compelled to manifest toward his master.

A young slave must approach the company of the older with

hat in hand, and woe betide him, if he fails to acknowledge

a favor, of any sort, with the accustomed “tank’ee,” &c. So

uniformly are good manners enforced among slaves, I can

easily detect a “bogus” fugitive by his manners.

Among other slave notabilities of the plantation, was one

called by everybody Uncle Isaac Copper. It is seldom that a

slave gets a surname from anybody in Maryland; and so com-

pletely has the south shaped the manners of the north, in this

respect, that even abolitionists make very little of the surname

of a Negro. The only improvement on the “Bills,” “Jacks,”

“Jims,” and “Neds” of the south, observable here is, that “Wil-

liam,” “John,” “James,” “Edward,” are substituted. It goes

My Bondage and My Freedom

against the grain to treat and address a Negro precisely as they

would treat and address a white man. But, once in a while, in

slavery as in the free states, by some extraordinary circum-

stance, the Negro has a surname fastened to him, and holds it

against all conventionalities. This was the case with Uncle Isaac

Copper. When the “uncle” was dropped, he generally had the

prefix “doctor,” in its stead. He was our doctor of medicine,

and doctor of divinity as well. Where he took his degree I am

unable to say, for he was not very communicative to inferiors,

and I was emphatically such, being but a boy seven or eight

years old. He was too well established in his profession to per-

mit questions as to his native skill, or his attainments. One

qualification he undoubtedly had—he was a confirmed cripple;

and he could neither work, nor would he bring anything if

offered for sale in the market. The old man, though lame, was

no sluggard. He was a man that made his crutches do him

good service. He was always on the alert, looking up the sick,

and all such as were supposed to need his counsel. His reme-

dial prescriptions embraced four articles. For diseases of the

body, Epsom salts and castor oil; for those of the soul, the Lord’s

Prayer, and hickory switches!

I was not long at Col. Lloyd’s before I was placed under

the care of Doctor Issac Copper. I was sent to him with twenty

or thirty other children, to learn the “Lord’s Prayer.” I found

the old gentleman seated on a huge three-legged oaken stool,

armed with several large hickory switches; and, from his po-

sition, he could reach—lame as he was—any boy in the room.

After standing awhile to learn what was expected of us, the

old gentleman, in any other than a devotional tone, com-

manded us to kneel down. This done, he commenced tell-

ing us to say everything he said. “Our Father”—this was re-

peated after him with promptness and uniformity; “Who

art in heaven”—was less promptly and uniformly repeated;

and the old gentleman paused in the prayer, to give us a

short lecture upon the consequences of inattention, both

immediate and future, and especially those more immedi-

ate. About these he was absolutely certain, for he held in his

right hand the means of bringing all his predictions and

warnings to pass. On he proceeded with the prayer; and we

with our thick tongues and unskilled ears, followed him to

the best of our ability. This, however, was not sufficient to

please the old gentleman. Everybody, in the south, wants

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the privilege of whipping somebody else. Uncle Isaac shared

the common passion of his country, and, therefore, seldom

found any means of keeping his disciples in order short of

flogging. “Say everything I say;” and bang would come the

switch on some poor boy’s undevotional head. “What you

looking at there”—“Stop that pushing”—and down again

would come the lash.

The whip is all in all. It is supposed to secure obedience to

the slaveholder, and is held as a sovereign remedy among the

slaves themselves, for every form of disobedience, temporal

or spiritual. Slaves, as well as slaveholders, use it with an

unsparing hand. Our devotions at Uncle Isaac’s combined

too much of the tragic and comic, to make them very salu-

tary in a spiritual point of view; and it is due to truth to say,

I was often a truant when the time for attending the praying

and flogging of Doctor Isaac Copper came on.

The windmill under the care of Mr. Kinney, a kind hearted

old Englishman, was to me a source of infinite interest and

pleasure. The old man always seemed pleased when he saw a

troop of darkey little urchins, with their tow-linen shirts flut-

tering in the breeze, approaching to view and admire the

whirling wings of his wondrous machine. From the mill we

could see other objects of deep interest. These were, the ves-

sels from St. Michael’s, on their way to Baltimore. It was a

source of much amusement to view the flowing sails and

complicated rigging, as the little crafts dashed by, and to

speculate upon Baltimore, as to the kind and quality of the

place. With so many sources of interest around me, the reader

may be prepared to learn that I began to think very highly of

Col. L.’s plantation. It was just a place to my boyish taste.

There were fish to be caught in the creek, if one only had a

hook and line; and crabs, clams and oysters were to be caught

by wading, digging and raking for them. Here was a field for

industry and enterprise, strongly inviting; and the reader may

be assured that I entered upon it with spirit.

Even the much dreaded old master, whose merciless fiat

had brought me from Tuckahoe, gradually, to my mind,

parted with his terrors. Strange enough, his reverence seemed

to take no particular notice of me, nor of my coming. In-

stead of leaping out and devouring me, he scarcely seemed

conscious of my presence. The fact is, he was occupied with

matters more weighty and important than either looking af-

My Bondage and My Freedom

ter or vexing me. He probably thought as little of my ad-

vent, as he would have thought of the addition of a single

pig to his stock!

As the chief butler on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, his duties

were numerous and perplexing. In almost all important mat-

ters he answered in Col. Lloyd’s stead. The overseers of all

the farms were in some sort under him, and received the law

from his mouth. The colonel himself seldom addressed an

overseer, or allowed an overseer to address him. Old master

carried the keys of all store houses; measured out the allow-

ance for each slave at the end of every month; superintended

the storing of all goods brought to the plantation; dealt out

the raw material to all the handicraftsmen; shipped the grain,

tobacco, and all saleable produce of the plantation to mar-

ket, and had the general oversight of the coopers’ shop, wheel-

wrights’ shop, blacksmiths’ shop, and shoemakers’ shop.

Besides the care of these, he often had business for the plan-

tation which required him to be absent two and three days.

Thus largely employed, he had little time, and perhaps as

little disposition, to interfere with the children individually.

What he was to Col. Lloyd, he made Aunt Katy to him.

When he had anything to say or do about us, it was said or

done in a wholesale manner; disposing of us in classes or

sizes, leaving all minor details to Aunt Katy, a person of whom

the reader has already received no very favorable impression.

Aunt Katy was a woman who never allowed herself to act

greatly within the margin of power granted to her, no matter

how broad that authority might be. Ambitious, ill-tempered

and cruel, she found in her present position an ample field

for the exercise of her ill-omened qualities. She had a strong

hold on old master she was considered a first rate cook, and

she really was very industrious. She was, therefore, greatly

favored by old master, and as one mark of his favor, she was

the only mother who was permitted to retain her children

around her. Even to these children she was often fiendish in

her brutality. She pursued her son Phil, one day, in my pres-

ence, with a huge butcher knife, and dealt a blow with its

edge which left a shocking gash on his arm, near the wrist.

For this, old master did sharply rebuke her, and threatened

that if she ever should do the like again, he would take the

skin off her back. Cruel, however, as Aunt Katy was to her

own children, at times she was not destitute of maternal feel-

Frederick Douglas

ing, as I often had occasion to know, in the bitter pinches of

hunger I had to endure. Differing from the practice of Col.

Lloyd, old master, instead of allowing so much for each slave,

committed the allowance for all to the care of Aunt Katy, to

be divided after cooking it, amongst us. The allowance, con-

sisting of coarse corn-meal, was not very abundant—indeed,

it was very slender; and in passing through Aunt Katy’s hands,

it was made more slender still, for some of us. William, Phil

and Jerry were her children, and it is not to accuse her too

severely, to allege that she was often guilty of starving myself

and the other children, while she was literally cramming her

own. Want of food was my chief trouble the first summer at

my old master’s. Oysters and clams would do very well, with

an occasional supply of bread, but they soon failed in the

absence of bread. I speak but the simple truth, when I say, I

have often been so pinched with hunger, that I have fought

with the dog—“Old Nep”—for the smallest crumbs that fell

from the kitchen table, and have been glad when I won a

single crumb in the combat. Many times have I followed,

with eager step, the waiting-girl when she went out to shake

the table cloth, to get the crumbs and small bones flung out

for the cats. The water, in which meat had been boiled, was

as eagerly sought for by me. It was a great thing to get the

privilege of dipping a piece of bread in such water; and the

skin taken from rusty bacon, was a positive luxury. Never-

theless, I sometimes got full meals and kind words from sym-

pathizing old slaves, who knew my sufferings, and received

the comforting assurance that I should be a man some day.

“Never mind, honey—better day comin’,” was even then a

solace, a cheering consolation to me in my troubles. Nor

were all the kind words I received from slaves. I had a friend

in the parlor, as well, and one to whom I shall be glad to do

justice, before I have finished this part of my story.

I was not long at old master’s, before I learned that his

surname was Anthony, and that he was generally called “Cap-

tain Anthony”—a title which he probably acquired by sail-

ing a craft in the Chesapeake Bay. Col. Lloyd’s slaves never

called Capt. Anthony “old master,” but always Capt. An-

thony; and me they called “Captain Anthony Fred.” There is

not, probably, in the whole south, a plantation where the

English language is more imperfectly spoken than on Col.

Lloyd’s. It is a mixture of Guinea and everything else you

My Bondage and My Freedom

please. At the time of which I am now writing, there were

slaves there who had been brought from the coast of Africa.

They never used the “s” in indication of the possessive case.

“Cap’n Ant’ney Tom,” “Lloyd Bill,” “Aunt Rose Harry,”

means “Captain Anthony’s Tom,” “Lloyd’s Bill,” &c. “Oo

you dem long to?” means, “Whom do you belong to?” “Oo

dem got any peachy?” means, “Have you got any peaches?” I

could scarcely understand them when I first went among

them, so broken was their speech; and I am persuaded that I

could not have been dropped anywhere on the globe, where

I could reap less, in the way of knowledge, from my imme-

diate associates, than on this plantation. Even “MAS’

DANIEL,” by his association with his father’s slaves, had

measurably adopted their dialect and their ideas, so far as

they had ideas to be adopted. The equality of nature is strongly

asserted in childhood, and childhood requires children for as-

sociates. Color makes no difference with a child. Are you a

child with wants, tastes and pursuits common to children, not

put on, but natural? then, were you black as ebony you would

be welcome to the child of alabaster whiteness. The law of

compensation holds here, as well as elsewhere. Mas’ Daniel

could not associate with ignorance without sharing its shade;

and he could not give his black playmates his company, with-

out giving them his intelligence, as well. Without knowing

this, or caring about it, at the time, I, for some cause or other,

spent much of my time with Mas’ Daniel, in preference to

spending it with most of the other boys.

Mas’ Daniel was the youngest son of Col. Lloyd; his older

brothers were Edward and Murray—both grown up, and

fine looking men. Edward was especially esteemed by the

children, and by me among the rest; not that he ever said

anything to us or for us, which could be called especially

kind; it was enough for us, that he never looked nor acted

scornfully toward us. There were also three sisters, all mar-

ried; one to Edward Winder; a second to Edward Nicholson;

a third to Mr. Lownes.

The family of old master consisted of two sons, Andrew

and Richard; his daughter, Lucretia, and her newly married

husband, Capt. Auld. This was the house family. The kitchen

family consisted of Aunt Katy, Aunt Esther, and ten or a

dozen children, most of them older than myself. Capt. An-

thony was not considered a rich slaveholder, but was pretty

Frederick Douglas

well off in the world. He owned about thirty “head” of slaves,

and three farms in Tuckahoe. The most valuable part of his

property was his slaves, of whom he could afford to sell one

every year. This crop, therefore, brought him seven or eight

hundred dollars a year, besides his yearly salary, and other

revenue from his farms.

The idea of rank and station was rigidly maintained on

Col. Lloyd’s plantation. Our family never visited the great

house, and the Lloyds never came to our home. Equal non-

intercourse was observed between Capt. Anthony’s family

and that of Mr. Sevier, the overseer.

Such, kind reader, was the community, and such the place,

in which my earliest and most lasting impressions of slavery,

and of slave-life, were received; of which impressions you

will learn more in the coming chapters of this book.

CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER VVVVV GGGGGrrrrradual Iadual Iadual Iadual Iadual Initiation to the Mnitiation to the Mnitiation to the Mnitiation to the Mnitiation to the Mysteries of Systeries of Systeries of Systeries of Systeries of Slavlavlavlavlaverererereryyyyy

GROWING ACQUAINTANCE WITH OLD MAS-

TER—HIS CHARACTER—EVILS OF UNRE-

STRAINED PASSION—APPARENT TENDERNESS—

OLD MASTER A MAN OF TROUBLE—CUSTOM OF

MUTTERING TO HIMSELF—NECESSITY OF BEING

AWARE OF HIS WORDS—THE SUPPOSED OBTUSE-

NESS OF SLAVE-CHILDREN—BRUTAL OUTRAGE—

DRUNKEN OVERSEER—SLAVEHOLDER’S IMPA-

TIENCE—WISDOM OF APPEALING TO SUPERI-

ORS—THE SLAVEHOLDER S WRATH BAD AS THAT

OF THE OVERSEER—A BASE AND SELFISH AT-

TEMPT TO BREAK UP A COURTSHIP—A HARROW-

ING SCENE.

ALTHOUGH MY OLD MASTER—Capt. Anthony—gave me at

first, (as the reader will have already seen) very little atten-

tion, and although that little was of a remarkably mild and

gentle description, a few months only were sufficient to con-

My Bondage and My Freedom

vince me that mildness and gentleness were not the prevail-

ing or governing traits of his character. These excellent quali-

ties were displayed only occasionally. He could, when it suited

him, appear to be literally insensible to the claims of hu-

manity, when appealed to by the helpless against an aggres-

sor, and he could himself commit outrages, deep, dark and

nameless. Yet he was not by nature worse than other men.

Had he been brought up in a free state, surrounded by the

just restraints of free society—restraints which are necessary

to the freedom of all its members, alike and equally—Capt.

Anthony might have been as humane a man, and every way

as respectable, as many who now oppose the slave system;

certainly as humane and respectable as are members of soci-

ety generally. The slaveholder, as well as the slave, is the vic-

tim of the slave system. A man’s character greatly takes its

hue and shape from the form and color of things about him.

Under the whole heavens there is no relation more unfavor-

able to the development of honorable character, than that

sustained by the slaveholder to the slave. Reason is impris-

oned here, and passions run wild. Like the fires of the prai-

rie, once lighted, they are at the mercy of every wind, and

must burn, till they have consumed all that is combustible

within their remorseless grasp. Capt. Anthony could be kind,

and, at times, he even showed an affectionate disposition.

Could the reader have seen him gently leading me by the

hand—as he sometimes did—patting me on the head, speak-

ing to me in soft, caressing tones and calling me his “little

Indian boy,” he would have deemed him a kind old man,

and really, almost fatherly. But the pleasant moods of a

slaveholder are remarkably brittle; they are easily snapped;

they neither come often, nor remain long. His temper is sub-

jected to perpetual trials; but, since these trials are never borne

patiently, they add nothing to his natural stock of patience.

Old master very early impressed me with the idea that he

was an unhappy man. Even to my child’s eye, he wore a

troubled, and at times, a haggard aspect. His strange move-

ments excited my curiosity, and awakened my compassion.

He seldom walked alone without muttering to himself; and

he occasionally stormed about, as if defying an army of in-

visible foes. “He would do this, that, and the other; he’d be

d—d if he did not,”—was the usual form of his threats. Most

of his leisure was spent in walking, cursing and gesticulat-

Frederick Douglas

ing, like one possessed by a demon. Most evidently, he was a

wretched man, at war with his own soul, and with all the

world around him. To be overheard by the children, dis-

turbed him very little. He made no more of our presence,

than of that of the ducks and geese which he met on the

green. He little thought that the little black urchins around

him, could see, through those vocal crevices, the very secrets

of his heart. Slaveholders ever underrate the intelligence with

which they have to grapple. I really understood the old man’s

mutterings, attitudes and gestures, about as well as he did

himself. But slaveholders never encourage that kind of com-

munication, with the slaves, by which they might learn to

measure the depths of his knowledge. Ignorance is a high

virtue in a human chattel; and as the master studies to keep

the slave ignorant, the slave is cunning enough to make the

master think he succeeds. The slave fully appreciates the say-

ing, “where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” When

old master’s gestures were violent, ending with a threatening

shake of the head, and a sharp snap of his middle finger and

thumb, I deemed it wise to keep at a respectable distance

from him; for, at such times, trifling faults stood, in his eyes,

as momentous offenses; and, having both the power and the

disposition, the victim had only to be near him to catch the

punishment, deserved or undeserved.

One of the first circumstances that opened my eyes to the

cruelty and wickedness of slavery, and the heartlessness of

my old master, was the refusal of the latter to interpose his

authority, to protect and shield a young woman, who had

been most cruelly abused and beaten by his overseer in Tuc-

kahoe. This overseer—a Mr. Plummer—was a man like most

of his class, little better than a human brute; and, in addi-

tion to his general profligacy and repulsive coarseness, the

creature was a miserable drunkard. He was, probably, em-

ployed by my old master, less on account of the excellence of

his services, than for the cheap rate at which they could be

obtained. He was not fit to have the management of a drove

of mules. In a fit of drunken madness, he committed the

outrage which brought the young woman in question down

to my old master’s for protection. This young woman was

the daughter of Milly, an own aunt of mine. The poor girl,

on arriving at our house, presented a pitiable appearance.

She had left in haste, and without preparation; and, prob-

My Bondage and My Freedom

ably, without the knowledge of Mr. Plummer. She had trav-

eled twelve miles, bare-footed, bare-necked and bare-headed.

Her neck and shoulders were covered with scars, newly made;

and not content with marring her neck and shoulders, with

the cowhide, the cowardly brute had dealt her a blow on the

head with a hickory club, which cut a horrible gash, and left

her face literally covered with blood. In this condition, the

poor young woman came down, to implore protection at

the hands of my old master. I expected to see him boil over

with rage at the revolting deed, and to hear him fill the air

with curses upon the brutual Plummer; but I was disap-

pointed. He sternly told her, in an angry tone, he “believed

she deserved every bit of it,” and, if she did not go home

instantly, he would himself take the remaining skin from her

neck and back. Thus was the poor girl compelled to return,

without redress, and perhaps to receive an additional flog-

ging for daring to appeal to old master against the overseer.

Old master seemed furious at the thought of being troubled

by such complaints. I did not, at that time, understand the

philosophy of his treatment of my cousin. It was stern, un-

natural, violent. Had the man no bowels of compassion? Was

he dead to all sense of humanity? No. I think I now under-

stand it. This treatment is a part of the system, rather than a

part of the man. Were slaveholders to listen to complaints of

this sort against the overseers, the luxury of owning large

numbers of slaves, would be impossible. It would do away

with the office of overseer, entirely; or, in other words, it

would convert the master himself into an overseer. It would

occasion great loss of time and labor, leaving the overseer in

fetters, and without the necessary power to secure obedience

to his orders. A privilege so dangerous as that of appeal, is,

therefore, strictly prohibited; and any one exercising it, runs

a fearful hazard. Nevertheless, when a slave has nerve enough

to exercise it, and boldly approaches his master, with a well-

founded complaint against an overseer, though he may be

repulsed, and may even have that of which he complains

repeated at the time, and, though he may be beaten by his

master, as well as by the overseer, for his temerity, in the end

the policy of complaining is, generally, vindicated by the re-

laxed rigor of the overseer’s treatment. The latter becomes

more careful, and less disposed to use the lash upon such

slaves thereafter. It is with this final result in view, rather

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than with any expectation of immediate good, that the out-

raged slave is induced to meet his master with a complaint.

The overseer very naturally dislikes to have the ear of the

master disturbed by complaints; and, either upon this con-

sideration, or upon advice and warning privately given him

by his employers, he generally modifies the rigor of his rule,

after an outbreak of the kind to which I have been referring.

Howsoever the slaveholder may allow himself to act toward

his slave, and, whatever cruelty he may deem it wise, for

example’s sake, or for the gratification of his humor, to inflict,

he cannot, in the absence of all provocation, look with plea-

sure upon the bleeding wounds of a defenseless slave-woman.

When he drives her from his presence without redress, or the

hope of redress, he acts, generally, from motives of policy, rather

than from a hardened nature, or from innate brutality. Yet, let

but his own temper be stirred, his own passions get loose, and

the slave-owner will go far beyond the overseer in cruelty. He

will convince the slave that his wrath is far more terrible and

boundless, and vastly more to be dreaded, than that of the

underling overseer. What may have been mechanically and

heartlessly done by the overseer, is now done with a will. The

man who now wields the lash is irresponsible. He may, if he

pleases, cripple or kill, without fear of consequences; except in

so far as it may concern profit or loss. To a man of violent

temper—as my old master was—this was but a very slender

and inefficient restraint. I have seen him in a tempest of pas-

sion, such as I have just described—a passion into which en-

tered all the bitter ingredients of pride, hatred, envy, jealousy,

and the thrist{sic} for revenge.

The circumstances which I am about to narrate, and which

gave rise to this fearful tempest of passion, are not singular

nor isolated in slave life, but are common in every

slaveholding community in which I have lived. They are in-

cidental to the relation of master and slave, and exist in all

sections of slave-holding countries.

The reader will have noticed that, in enumerating the names

of the slaves who lived with my old master, Esther is men-

tioned. This was a young woman who possessed that which

is ever a curse to the slave-girl; namely—personal beauty.

She was tall, well formed, and made a fine appearance. The

daughters of Col. Lloyd could scarcely surpass her in per-

sonal charms. Esther was courted by Ned Roberts, and he

My Bondage and My Freedom

was as fine looking a young man, as she was a woman. He

was the son of a favorite slave of Col. Lloyd. Some slaveholders

would have been glad to promote the marriage of two such

persons; but, for some reason or other, my old master took it

upon him to break up the growing intimacy between Esther

and Edward. He strictly ordered her to quit the company of

said Roberts, telling her that he would punish her severely if

he ever found her again in Edward’s company. This unnatu-

ral and heartless order was, of course, broken. A woman’s

love is not to be annihilated by the peremptory command of

any one, whose breath is in his nostrils. It was impossible to

keep Edward and Esther apart. Meet they would, and meet

they did. Had old master been a man of honor and purity,

his motives, in this matter, might have been viewed more

favorably. As it was, his motives were as abhorrent, as his

methods were foolish and contemptible. It was too evident

that he was not concerned for the girl’s welfare. It is one of

the damning characteristics of the slave system, that it robs

its victims of every earthly incentive to a holy life. The fear

of God, and the hope of heaven, are found sufficient to sus-

tain many slave-women, amidst the snares and dangers of

their strange lot; but, this side of God and heaven, a slave-

woman is at the mercy of the power, caprice and passion of

her owner. Slavery provides no means for the honorable con-

tinuance of the race. Marriage as imposing obligations on

the parties to it—has no existence here, except in such hearts

as are purer and higher than the standard morality around

them. It is one of the consolations of my life, that I know of

many honorable instances of persons who maintained their

honor, where all around was corrupt.

Esther was evidently much attached to Edward, and ab-

horred—as she had reason to do—the tyrannical and base

behavior of old master. Edward was young, and fine look-

ing, and he loved and courted her. He might have been her

husband, in the high sense just alluded to; but WHO and

what was this old master? His attentions were plainly brutal

and selfish, and it was as natural that Esther should loathe

him, as that she should love Edward. Abhorred and circum-

vented as he was, old master, having the power, very easily

took revenge. I happened to see this exhibition of his rage

and cruelty toward Esther. The time selected was singular. It

was early in the morning, when all besides was still, and be-

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fore any of the family, in the house or kitchen, had left their

beds. I saw but few of the shocking preliminaries, for the

cruel work had begun before I awoke. I was probably awak-

ened by the shrieks and piteous cries of poor Esther. My

sleeping place was on the floor of a little, rough closet, which

opened into the kitchen; and through the cracks of its

unplaned boards, I could distinctly see and hear what was

going on, without being seen by old master. Esther’s wrists

were firmly tied, and the twisted rope was fastened to a strong

staple in a heavy wooden joist above, near the fireplace. Here

she stood, on a bench, her arms tightly drawn over her breast.

Her back and shoulders were bare to the waist. Behind her

stood old master, with cowskin in hand, preparing his bar-

barous work with all manner of harsh, coarse, and tantaliz-

ing epithets. The screams of his victim were most piercing.

He was cruelly deliberate, and protracted the torture, as one

who was delighted with the scene. Again and again he drew

the hateful whip through his hand, adjusting it with a view

of dealing the most pain-giving blow. Poor Esther had never

yet been severely whipped, and her shoulders were plump

and tender. Each blow, vigorously laid on, brought screams

as well as blood. “Have mercy; Oh! have mercy” she cried; “I

won’t do so no more;” but her piercing cries seemed only to

increase his fury. His answers to them are too coarse and

blasphemous to be produced here. The whole scene, with all

its attendants, was revolting and shocking, to the last degree;

and when the motives of this brutal castigation are consid-

ered,—language has no power to convey a just sense of its

awful criminality. After laying on some thirty or forty stripes,

old master untied his suffering victim, and let her get down.

She could scarcely stand, when untied. From my heart I pit-

ied her, and—child though I was—the outrage kindled in

me a feeling far from peaceful; but I was hushed, terrified,

stunned, and could do nothing, and the fate of Esther might

be mine next. The scene here described was often repeated

in the case of poor Esther, and her life, as I knew it, was one

of wretchedness.

My Bondage and My Freedom

CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER VIVIVIVIVI TTTTTrrrrreatment of Seatment of Seatment of Seatment of Seatment of Slavlavlavlavlaves on Les on Les on Les on Les on Llololololoyyyyyddddd’’’’’s Ps Ps Ps Ps Plantationlantationlantationlantationlantation

EARLY REFLECTIONS ON SLAVERY—PRESENTI-

MENT OF ONE DAY BEING A FREEMAN—COMBAT

BETWEEN AN OVERSEER AND A SLAVEWOMAN—

THE ADVANTAGES OF RESISTANCE—ALLOW-

ANCE DAY ON THE HOME PLANTATION—THE

SINGING OF SLAVES—AN EXPLANATION—THE

SLAVES FOOD AND CLOTHING—NAKED CHIL-

DREN—LIFE IN THE QUARTER—DEPRIVATION

OF SLEEP—NURSING CHILDREN CARRIED TO

THE FIELD—DESCRIPTION OF THE COWSKIN—

THE ASH-CAKE—MANNER OF MAKING IT—THE

DINNER HOUR—THE CONTRAST.

THE HEART-RENDING INCIDENTS, related in the foregoing chap-

ter, led me, thus early, to inquire into the nature and history

of slavery. Why am I a slave? Why are some people slaves, and

others masters? Was there ever a time this was not so? How did

the relation commence? These were the perplexing questions

which began now to claim my thoughts, and to exercise the

weak powers of my mind, for I was still but a child, and

knew less than children of the same age in the free states. As

my questions concerning these things were only put to chil-

dren a little older, and little better informed than myself, I

was not rapid in reaching a solid footing. By some means I

learned from these inquiries that “God, up in the sky,” made

every body; and that he made white people to be masters

and mistresses, and black people to be slaves. This did not

satisfy me, nor lessen my interest in the subject. I was told,

too, that God was good, and that He knew what was best for

me, and best for everybody. This was less satisfactory than

the first statement; because it came, point blank, against all

my notions of goodness. It was not good to let old master

cut the flesh off Esther, and make her cry so. Besides, how

did people know that God made black people to be slaves?

Did they go up in the sky and learn it? or, did He come

down and tell them so? All was dark here. It was some relief

to my hard notions of the goodness of God, that, although

he made white men to be slaveholders, he did not make them

to be bad slaveholders, and that, in due time, he would pun-

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ish the bad slaveholders; that he would, when they died, send

them to the bad place, where they would be “burnt up.”

Nevertheless, I could not reconcile the relation of slavery

with my crude notions of goodness.

Then, too, I found that there were puzzling exceptions to

this theory of slavery on both sides, and in the middle. I

knew of blacks who were not slaves; I knew of whites who

were not slaveholders; and I knew of persons who were nearly

white, who were slaves. Color, therefore, was a very unsatis-

factory basis for slavery.

Once, however, engaged in the inquiry, I was not very long

in finding out the true solution of the matter. It was not

color, but crime, not God, but man, that afforded the true

explanation of the existence of slavery; nor was I long in

finding out another important truth, viz: what man can make,

man can unmake. The appalling darkness faded away, and I

was master of the subject. There were slaves here, direct from

Guinea; and there were many who could say that their fa-

thers and mothers were stolen from Africa—forced from their

homes, and compelled to serve as slaves. This, to me, was

knowledge; but it was a kind of knowledge which filled me

with a burning hatred of slavery, increased my suffering, and

left me without the means of breaking away from my bond-

age. Yet it was knowledge quite worth possessing. I could

not have been more than seven or eight years old, when I

began to make this subject my study. It was with me in the

woods and fields; along the shore of the river, and wherever

my boyish wanderings led me; and though I was, at that

time, quite ignorant of the existence of the free states, I dis-

tinctly remember being, even then, most strongly impressed

with the idea of being a freeman some day. This cheering

assurance was an inborn dream of my human nature a con-

stant menace to slavery—and one which all the powers of

slavery were unable to silence or extinguish.

Up to the time of the brutal flogging of my Aunt Esther—

for she was my own aunt—and the horrid plight in which I

had seen my cousin from Tuckahoe, who had been so badly

beaten by the cruel Mr. Plummer, my attention had not been

called, especially, to the gross features of slavery. I had, of

course, heard of whippings and of savage rencontres between

overseers and slaves, but I had always been out of the way at

the times and places of their occurrence. My plays and sports,

My Bondage and My Freedom

most of the time, took me from the corn and tobacco fields,

where the great body of the hands were at work, and where

scenes of cruelty were enacted and witnessed. But, after the

whipping of Aunt Esther, I saw many cases of the same shock-

ing nature, not only in my master’s house, but on Col. Lloyd’s

plantation. One of the first which I saw, and which greatly

agitated me, was the whipping of a woman belonging to Col.

Lloyd, named Nelly. The offense alleged against Nelly, was

one of the commonest and most indefinite in the whole cata-

logue of offenses usually laid to the charge of slaves, viz: “im-

pudence.” This may mean almost anything, or nothing at

all, just according to the caprice of the master or overseer, at

the moment. But, whatever it is, or is not, if it gets the name

of “impudence,” the party charged with it is sure of a flog-

ging. This offense may be committed in various ways; in the

tone of an answer; in answering at all; in not answering; in

the expression of countenance; in the motion of the head; in

the gait, manner and bearing of the slave. In the case under

consideration, I can easily believe that, according to all

slaveholding standards, here was a genuine instance of im-

pudence. In Nelly there were all the necessary conditions for

committing the offense. She was a bright mulatto, the rec-

ognized wife of a favorite “hand” on board Col. Lloyd’s sloop,

and the mother of five sprightly children. She was a vigorous

and spirited woman, and one of the most likely, on the plan-

tation, to be guilty of impudence. My attention was called

to the scene, by the noise, curses and screams that proceeded

from it; and, on going a little in that direction, I came upon

the parties engaged in the skirmish. Mr. Siever, the overseer,

had hold of Nelly, when I caught sight of them; he was en-

deavoring to drag her toward a tree, which endeavor Nelly

was sternly resisting; but to no purpose, except to retard the

progress of the overseer’s plans. Nelly—as I have said—was

the mother of five children; three of them were present, and

though quite small (from seven to ten years old, I should

think) they gallantly came to their mother’s defense, and gave

the overseer an excellent pelting with stones. One of the little

fellows ran up, seized the overseer by the leg and bit him;

but the monster was too busily engaged with Nelly, to pay

any attention to the assaults of the children. There were nu-

merous bloody marks on Mr. Sevier’s face, when I first saw

him, and they increased as the struggle went on. The im-

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prints of Nelly’s fingers were visible, and I was glad to see

them. Amidst the wild screams of the children— “Let my

mammy go”—“let my mammy go”—there escaped, from be-

tween the teeth of the bullet-headed overseer, a few bitter

curses, mingled with threats, that “he would teach the d—d

b—h how to give a white man impudence.” There is no doubt

that Nelly felt herself superior, in some respects, to the slaves

around her. She was a wife and a mother; her husband was a

valued and favorite slave. Besides, he was one of the first

hands on board of the sloop, and the sloop hands—since

they had to represent the plantation abroad—were generally

treated tenderly. The overseer never was allowed to whip

Harry; why then should he be allowed to whip Harry’s wife?

Thoughts of this kind, no doubt, influenced her; but, for

whatever reason, she nobly resisted, and, unlike most of the

slaves, seemed determined to make her whipping cost Mr.

Sevier as much as possible. The blood on his (and her) face,

attested her skill, as well as her courage and dexterity in us-

ing her nails. Maddened by her resistance, I expected to see

Mr. Sevier level her to the ground by a stunning blow; but

no; like a savage bull-dog—which he resembled both in tem-

per and appearance—he maintained his grip, and steadily

dragged his victim toward the tree, disregarding alike her

blows, and the cries of the children for their mother’s release.

He would, doubtless, have knocked her down with his

hickory stick, but that such act might have cost him his place.

It is often deemed advisable to knock a man slave down, in

order to tie him, but it is considered cowardly and inexcus-

able, in an overseer, thus to deal with a woman. He is ex-

pected to tie her up, and to give her what is called, in south-

ern parlance, a “genteel flogging,” without any very great

outlay of strength or skill. I watched, with palpitating inter-

est, the course of the preliminary struggle, and was saddened

by every new advantage gained over her by the ruffian. There

were times when she seemed likely to get the better of the

brute, but he finally overpowered her, and succeeded in get-

ting his rope around her arms, and in firmly tying her to the

tree, at which he had been aiming. This done, and Nelly was

at the mercy of his merciless lash; and now, what followed, I

have no heart to describe. The cowardly creature made good

his every threat; and wielded the lash with all the hot zest of

furious revenge. The cries of the woman, while undergoing

My Bondage and My Freedom

the terrible infliction, were mingled with those of the chil-

dren, sounds which I hope the reader may never be called

upon to hear. When Nelly was untied, her back was covered

with blood. The red stripes were all over her shoulders. She

was whipped—severely whipped; but she was not subdued,

for she continued to denounce the overseer, and to call him

every vile name. He had bruised her flesh, but had left her

invincible spirit undaunted. Such floggings are seldom re-

peated by the same overseer. They prefer to whip those who

are most easily whipped. The old doctrine that submission is

the very best cure for outrage and wrong, does not hold good

on the slave plantation. He is whipped oftenest, who is

whipped easiest; and that slave who has the courage to stand

up for himself against the overseer, although he may have

many hard stripes at the first, becomes, in the end, a free-

man, even though he sustain the formal relation of a slave.

“You can shoot me but you can’t whip me,” said a slave to

Rigby Hopkins; and the result was that he was neither

whipped nor shot. If the latter had been his fate, it would

have been less deplorable than the living and lingering death

to which cowardly and slavish souls are subjected. I do not

know that Mr. Sevier ever undertook to whip Nelly again.

He probably never did, for it was not long after his attempt

to subdue her, that he was taken sick, and died. The wretched

man died as he had lived, unrepentant; and it was said—

with how much truth I know not—that in the very last hours

of his life, his ruling passion showed itself, and that when

wrestling with death, he was uttering horrid oaths, and flour-

ishing the cowskin, as though he was tearing the flesh off

some helpless slave. One thing is certain, that when he was

in health, it was enough to chill the blood, and to stiffen the

hair of an ordinary man, to hear Mr. Sevier talk. Nature, or

his cruel habits, had given to his face an expression of un-

usual savageness, even for a slave-driver. Tobacco and rage

had worn his teeth short, and nearly every sentence that es-

caped their compressed grating, was commenced or con-

cluded with some outburst of profanity. His presence made

the field alike the field of blood, and of blasphemy. Hated

for his cruelty, despised for his cowardice, his death was de-

plored by no one outside his own house—if indeed it was

deplored there; it was regarded by the slaves as a merciful

interposition of Providence. Never went there a man to the

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grave loaded with heavier curses. Mr. Sevier’s place was

promptly taken by a Mr. Hopkins, and the change was quite

a relief, he being a very different man. He was, in all re-

spects, a better man than his predecessor; as good as any

man can be, and yet be an overseer. His course was charac-

terized by no extraordinary cruelty; and when he whipped a

slave, as he sometimes did, he seemed to take no especial

pleasure in it, but, on the contrary, acted as though he felt it

to be a mean business. Mr. Hopkins stayed but a short time;

his place much to the regret of the slaves generally—was taken

by a Mr. Gore, of whom more will be said hereafter. It is

enough, for the present, to say, that he was no improvement

on Mr. Sevier, except that he was less noisy and less profane.

I have already referred to the business-like aspect of Col.

Lloyd’s plantation. This business-like appearance was much

increased on the two days at the end of each month, when

the slaves from the different farms came to get their monthly

allowance of meal and meat. These were gala days for the

slaves, and there was much rivalry among them as to who

should be elected to go up to the great house farm for the

allowance, and, indeed, to attend to any business at this (for

them) the capital. The beauty and grandeur of the place, its

numerous slave population, and the fact that Harry, Peter

and Jake the sailors of the sloop—almost always kept, pri-

vately, little trinkets which they bought at Baltimore, to sell,

made it a privilege to come to the great house farm. Being

selected, too, for this office, was deemed a high honor. It was

taken as a proof of confidence and favor; but, probably, the

chief motive of the competitors for the place, was, a desire to

break the dull monotony of the field, and to get beyond the

overseer’s eye and lash. Once on the road with an ox team,

and seated on the tongue of his cart, with no overseer to

look after him, the slave was comparatively free; and, if

thoughtful, he had time to think. Slaves are generally ex-

pected to sing as well as to work. A silent slave is not liked by

masters or overseers. “Make a noise,” “make a noise,” and “bear

a hand,” are the words usually addressed to the slaves when

there is silence amongst them. This may account for the al-

most constant singing heard in the southern states. There

was, generally, more or less singing among the teamsters, as

it was one means of letting the overseer know where they

were, and that they were moving on with the work. But, on

My Bondage and My Freedom

allowance day, those who visited the great house farm were

peculiarly excited and noisy. While on their way, they would

make the dense old woods, for miles around, reverberate with

their wild notes. These were not always merry because they

were wild. On the contrary, they were mostly of a plaintive

cast, and told a tale of grief and sorrow. In the most boister-

ous outbursts of rapturous sentiment, there was ever a tinge

of deep melancholy. I have never heard any songs like those

anywhere since I left slavery, except when in Ireland. There I

heard the same wailing notes, and was much affected by them.

It was during the famine of 1845-6. In all the songs of the

slaves, there was ever some expression in praise of the great

house farm; something which would flatter the pride of the

owner, and, possibly, draw a favorable glance from him.

I am going away to the great house farm,

O yea! O yea! O yea!

My old master is a good old master,

O yea! O yea! O yea!

This they would sing, with other words of their own im-

provising—jargon to others, but full of meaning to them-

selves. I have sometimes thought, that the mere hearing of

those songs would do more to impress truly spiritual-minded

men and women with the soul-crushing and death-dealing

character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of its

mere physical cruelties. They speak to the heart and to the

soul of the thoughtful. I cannot better express my sense of

them now, than ten years ago, when, in sketching my life, I

thus spoke of this feature of my plantation experience:

I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meanings of

those rude, and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself

within the circle, so that I neither saw or heard as those with-

out might see and hear. They told a tale which was then

altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones,

loud, long and deep, breathing the prayer and complaint of

souls boiling over with the bitterest anguish. Every tone was

a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliver-

ance from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always

depressed my spirits, and filled my heart with ineffable sad-

ness. The mere recurrence, even now, afflicts my spirit, and

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while I am writing these lines, my tears are falling. To those

songs I trace my first glimmering conceptions of the dehu-

manizing character of slavery. I can never get rid of that con-

ception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of

slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds.

If any one wishes to be impressed with a sense of the soul-

killing power of slavery, let him go to Col. Lloyd’s planta-

tion, and, on allowance day, place himself in the deep, pine

woods, and there let him, in silence, thoughtfully analyze

the sounds that shall pass through the chambers of his soul,

and if he is not thus impressed, it will only be because “there

is no flesh in his obdurate heart.”

The remark is not unfrequently made, that slaves are the

most contended and happy laborers in the world. They dance

and sing, and make all manner of joyful noises—so they do;

but it is a great mistake to suppose them happy because they

sing. The songs of the slave represent the sorrows, rather than

the joys, of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an

aching heart is relieved by its tears. Such is the constitution

of the human mind, that, when pressed to extremes, it often

avails itself of the most opposite methods. Extremes meet in

mind as in matter. When the slaves on board of the “Pearl”

were overtaken, arrested, and carried to prison—their hopes

for freedom blasted—as they marched in chains they sang,

and found (as Emily Edmunson tells us) a melancholy relief

in singing. The singing of a man cast away on a desolate

island, might be as appropriately considered an evidence of

his contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave.

Sorrow and desolation have their songs, as well as joy and

peace. Slaves sing more to make themselves happy, than to

express their happiness.

It is the boast of slaveholders, that their slaves enjoy more

of the physical comforts of life than the peasantry of any

country in the world. My experience contradicts this. The

men and the women slaves on Col. Lloyd’s farm, received, as

their monthly allowance of food, eight pounds of pickled

pork, or their equivalent in fish. The pork was often tainted,

and the fish was of the poorest quality—herrings, which

would bring very little if offered for sale in any northern

market. With their pork or fish, they had one bushel of In-

dian meal—unbolted—of which quite fifteen per cent was

My Bondage and My Freedom

fit only to feed pigs. With this, one pint of salt was given;

and this was the entire monthly allowance of a full grown

slave, working constantly in the open field, from morning

until night, every day in the month except Sunday, and liv-

ing on a fraction more than a quarter of a pound of meat per

day, and less than a peck of corn-meal per week. There is no

kind of work that a man can do which requires a better sup-

ply of food to prevent physical exhaustion, than the field-

work of a slave. So much for the slave’s allowance of food;

now for his raiment. The yearly allowance of clothing for

the slaves on this plantation, consisted of two tow-linen

shirts—such linen as the coarsest crash towels are made of;

one pair of trowsers of the same material, for summer, and a

pair of trowsers and a jacket of woolen, most slazily put to-

gether, for winter; one pair of yarn stockings, and one pair of

shoes of the coarsest description. The slave’s entire apparel

could not have cost more than eight dollars per year. The

allowance of food and clothing for the little children, was

committed to their mothers, or to the older slavewomen

having the care of them. Children who were unable to work

in the field, had neither shoes, stockings, jackets nor trowsers

given them. Their clothing consisted of two coarse tow-linen

shirts—already described—per year; and when these failed

them, as they often did, they went naked until the next al-

lowance day. Flocks of little children from five to ten years

old, might be seen on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, as destitute of

clothing as any little heathen on the west coast of Africa; and

this, not merely during the summer months, but during the

frosty weather of March. The little girls were no better off

than the boys; all were nearly in a state of nudity.

As to beds to sleep on, they were known to none of the

field hands; nothing but a coarse blanket—not so good as

those used in the north to cover horses—was given them,

and this only to the men and women. The children stuck

themselves in holes and corners, about the quarters; often in

the corner of the huge chimneys, with their feet in the ashes

to keep them warm. The want of beds, however, was not

considered a very great privation. Time to sleep was of far

greater importance, for, when the day’s work is done, most

of the slaves have their washing, mending and cooking to

do; and, having few or none of the ordinary facilities for

doing such things, very many of their sleeping hours are con-

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sumed in necessary preparations for the duties of the com-

ing day.

The sleeping apartments—if they may be called such—have

little regard to comfort or decency. Old and young, male and

female, married and single, drop down upon the common

clay floor, each covering up with his or her blanket,—the only

protection they have from cold or exposure. The night, how-

ever, is shortened at both ends. The slaves work often as long

as they can see, and are late in cooking and mending for the

coming day; and, at the first gray streak of morning, they are

summoned to the field by the driver’s horn.

More slaves are whipped for oversleeping than for any other

fault. Neither age nor sex finds any favor. The overseer stands

at the quarter door, armed with stick and cowskin, ready to

whip any who may be a few minutes behind time. When the

horn is blown, there is a rush for the door, and the hinder-

most one is sure to get a blow from the overseer. Young moth-

ers who worked in the field, were allowed an hour, about ten

o’clock in the morning, to go home to nurse their children.

Sometimes they were compelled to take their children with

them, and to leave them in the corner of the fences, to pre-

vent loss of time in nursing them. The overseer generally

rides about the field on horseback. A cowskin and a hickory

stick are his constant companions. The cowskin is a kind of

whip seldom seen in the northern states. It is made entirely

of untanned, but dried, ox hide, and is about as hard as a

piece of well-seasoned live oak. It is made of various sizes,

but the usual length is about three feet. The part held in the

hand is nearly an inch in thickness; and, from the extreme

end of the butt or handle, the cowskin tapers its whole length

to a point. This makes it quite elastic and springy. A blow

with it, on the hardest back, will gash the flesh, and make

the blood start. Cowskins are painted red, blue and green,

and are the favorite slave whip. I think this whip worse than

the “cat-o’nine-tails.” It condenses the whole strength of the

arm to a single point, and comes with a spring that makes

the air whistle. It is a terrible instrument, and is so handy,

that the overseer can always have it on his person, and ready

for use. The temptation to use it is ever strong; and an over-

seer can, if disposed, always have cause for using it. With

him, it is literally a word and a blow, and, in most cases, the

blow comes first.

My Bondage and My Freedom

As a general rule, slaves do not come to the quarters for

either breakfast or dinner, but take their “ash cake” with them,

and eat it in the field. This was so on the home plantation;

probably, because the distance from the quarter to the field,

was sometimes two, and even three miles.

The dinner of the slaves consisted of a huge piece of ash

cake, and a small piece of pork, or two salt herrings. Not

having ovens, nor any suitable cooking utensils, the slaves

mixed their meal with a little water, to such thickness that a

spoon would stand erect in it; and, after the wood had burned

away to coals and ashes, they would place the dough be-

tween oak leaves and lay it carefully in the ashes, completely

covering it; hence, the bread is called ash cake. The surface

of this peculiar bread is covered with ashes, to the depth of a

sixteenth part of an inch, and the ashes, certainly, do not

make it very grateful to the teeth, nor render it very palat-

able. The bran, or coarse part of the meal, is baked with the

fine, and bright scales run through the bread. This bread,

with its ashes and bran, would disgust and choke a northern

man, but it is quite liked by the slaves. They eat it with avid-

ity, and are more concerned about the quantity than about

the quality. They are far too scantily provided for, and are

worked too steadily, to be much concerned for the quality of

their food. The few minutes allowed them at dinner time,

after partaking of their coarse repast, are variously spent. Some

lie down on the “turning row,” and go to sleep; others draw

together, and talk; and others are at work with needle and

thread, mending their tattered garments. Sometimes you may

hear a wild, hoarse laugh arise from a circle, and often a

song. Soon, however, the overseer comes dashing through

the field. “Tumble up! Tumble up, and to work, work,” is the

cry; and, now, from twelve o’clock (mid-day) till dark, the

human cattle are in motion, wielding their clumsy hoes;

hurried on by no hope of reward, no sense of gratitude, no

love of children, no prospect of bettering their condition;

nothing, save the dread and terror of the slave-driver’s lash.

So goes one day, and so comes and goes another.

But, let us now leave the rough usage of the field, where

vulgar coarseness and brutal cruelty spread themselves and

flourish, rank as weeds in the tropics; where a vile wretch, in

the shape of a man, rides, walks, or struts about, dealing

blows, and leaving gashes on broken-spirited men and help-

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less women, for thirty dollars per month—a business so hor-

rible, hardening and disgraceful, that, rather, than engage in

it, a decent man would blow his own brains out—and let

the reader view with me the equally wicked, but less repul-

sive aspects of slave life; where pride and pomp roll luxuri-

ously at ease; where the toil of a thousand men supports a

single family in easy idleness and sin. This is the great house;

it is the home of the LLOYDS! Some idea of its splendor has

already been given—and, it is here that we shall find that

height of luxury which is the opposite of that depth of pov-

erty and physical wretchedness that we have just now been

contemplating. But, there is this difference in the two ex-

tremes; viz: that in the case of the slave, the miseries and

hardships of his lot are imposed by others, and, in the master’s

case, they are imposed by himself. The slave is a subject,

subjected by others; the slaveholder is a subject, but he is the

author of his own subjection. There is more truth in the

saying, that slavery is a greater evil to the master than to the

slave, than many, who utter it, suppose. The self-executing

laws of eternal justice follow close on the heels of the evil-

doer here, as well as elsewhere; making escape from all its

penalties impossible. But, let others philosophize; it is my

province here to relate and describe; only allowing myself a

word or two, occasionally, to assist the reader in the proper

understanding of the facts narrated.

My Bondage and My Freedom

CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER VIIVIIVIIVIIVII LLLLLife in the Gife in the Gife in the Gife in the Gife in the Grrrrreat Heat Heat Heat Heat Houseouseouseouseouse

COMFORTS AND LUXURIES—ELABORATE EXPEN-

DITURE—HOUSE SERVANTS—MEN SERVANTS

AND MAID SERVANTS—APPEARANCES—SLAVE

ARISTOCRACY—STABLE AND CARRIAGE

HOUSE—BOUNDLESS HOSPITALITY—FRA-

GRANCE OF RICH DISHES—THE DECEPTIVE

CHARACTER OF SLAVERY—SLAVES SEEM HAPPY—

SL AVES AND SLAVEHOLDERS ALIKE

WRETCHED—FRETFUL DISCONTENT OF

S L AV E H O L D E R S — F A U LT- F I N D I N G — O L D

BARNEY—HIS PROFESSION—WHIPPING—HU-

MILIATING SPECTACLE—CASE EXCEPTIONAL—

WILLIAM WILKS—SUPPOSED SON OF COL.

LLOYD—CURIOUS INCIDENT—SLAVES PREFER

RICH MASTERS TO POOR ONES.

THE CLOSE-FISTED STINGINESS that fed the poor slave on coarse

corn-meal and tainted meat; that clothed him in crashy tow-

linen, and hurried him to toil through the field, in all weath-

ers, with wind and rain beating through his tattered gar-

ments; that scarcely gave even the young slave-mother time

to nurse her hungry infant in the fence corner; wholly van-

ishes on approaching the sacred precincts of the great house,

the home of the Lloyds. There the scriptural phrase finds an

exact illustration; the highly favored inmates of this man-

sion are literally arrayed “in purple and fine linen,” and fare

sumptuously every day! The table groans under the heavy

and blood-bought luxuries gathered with painstaking care,

at home and abroad. Fields, forests, rivers and seas, are made

tributary here. Immense wealth, and its lavish expenditure,

fill the great house with all that can please the eye, or tempt

the taste. Here, appetite, not food, is the great desideratum.

Fish, flesh and fowl, are here in profusion. Chickens, of all

breeds; ducks, of all kinds, wild and tame, the common, and

the huge Muscovite; Guinea fowls, turkeys, geese, and pea

fowls, are in their several pens, fat and fatting for the des-

tined vortex. The graceful swan, the mongrels, the black-

necked wild goose; partridges, quails, pheasants and pigeons;

choice water fowl, with all their strange varieties, are caught

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in this huge family net. Beef, veal, mutton and venison, of

the most select kinds and quality, roll bounteously to this

grand consumer. The teeming riches of the Chesapeake bay,

its rock, perch, drums, crocus, trout, oysters, crabs, and ter-

rapin, are drawn hither to adorn the glittering table of the

great house. The dairy, too, probably the finest on the East-

ern Shore of Maryland—supplied by cattle of the best En-

glish stock, imported for the purpose, pours its rich dona-

tions of fragant cheese, golden butter, and delicious cream,

to heighten the attraction of the gorgeous, unending round

of feasting. Nor are the fruits of the earth forgotten or ne-

glected. The fertile garden, many acres in size, constituting a

separate establishment, distinct from the common farm—

with its scientific gardener, imported from Scotland (a Mr.

McDermott) with four men under his direction, was not

behind, either in the abundance or in the delicacy of its con-

tributions to the same full board. The tender asparagus, the

succulent celery, and the delicate cauliflower; egg plants, beets,

lettuce, parsnips, peas, and French beans, early and late; rad-

ishes, cantelopes, melons of all kinds; the fruits and flowers of

all climes and of all descriptions, from the hardy apple of the

north, to the lemon and orange of the south, culminated at

this point. Baltimore gathered figs, raisins, almonds and juicy

grapes from Spain. Wines and brandies from France; teas of

various flavor, from China; and rich, aromatic coffee from Java,

all conspired to swell the tide of high life, where pride and

indolence rolled and lounged in magnificence and satiety.

Behind the tall-backed and elaborately wrought chairs,

stand the servants, men and maidens—fifteen in number—

discriminately selected, not only with a view to their indus-

try and faithfulness, but with special regard to their personal

appearance, their graceful agility and captivating address.

Some of these are armed with fans, and are fanning reviving

breezes toward the over-heated brows of the alabaster ladies;

others watch with eager eye, and with fawn-like step antici-

pate and supply wants before they are sufficiently formed to

be announced by word or sign.

These servants constituted a sort of black aristocracy on

Col. Lloyd’s plantation. They resembled the field hands in

nothing, except in color, and in this they held the advantage

of a velvet-like glossiness, rich and beautiful. The hair, too,

showed the same advantage. The delicate colored maid rustled

My Bondage and My Freedom

in the scarcely worn silk of her young mistress, while the

servant men were equally well attired from the over-flowing

wardrobe of their young masters; so that, in dress, as well as

in form and feature, in manner and speech, in tastes and

habits, the distance between these favored few, and the sor-

row and hunger-smitten multitudes of the quarter and the

field, was immense; and this is seldom passed over.

Let us now glance at the stables and the carriage house,

and we shall find the same evidences of pride and luxurious

extravagance. Here are three splendid coaches, soft within

and lustrous without. Here, too, are gigs, phaetons,

barouches, sulkeys and sleighs. Here are saddles and har-

nesses—beautifully wrought and silver mounted—kept with

every care. In the stable you will find, kept only for pleasure,

full thirty-five horses, of the most approved blood for speed

and beauty. There are two men here constantly employed in

taking care of these horses. One of these men must be al-

ways in the stable, to answer every call from the great house.

Over the way from the stable, is a house built expressly for

the hounds—a pack of twenty-five or thirty—whose fare

would have made glad the heart of a dozen slaves. Horses

and hounds are not the only consumers of the slave’s toil.

There was practiced, at the Lloyd’s, a hospitality which would

have astonished and charmed any health-seeking northern

divine or merchant, who might have chanced to share it.

Viewed from his own table, and not from the field, the colo-

nel was a model of generous hospitality. His house was, liter-

ally, a hotel, for weeks during the summer months. At these

times, especially, the air was freighted with the rich fumes of

baking, boiling, roasting and broiling. The odors I shared

with the winds; but the meats were under a more stringent

monopoly except that, occasionally, I got a cake from Mas’

Daniel. In Mas’ Daniel I had a friend at court, from whom I

learned many things which my eager curiosity was excited to

know. I always knew when company was expected, and who

they were, although I was an outsider, being the property,

not of Col. Lloyd, but of a servant of the wealthy colonel.

On these occasions, all that pride, taste and money could

do, to dazzle and charm, was done.

Who could say that the servants of Col. Lloyd were not

well clad and cared for, after witnessing one of his magnifi-

cent entertainments? Who could say that they did not seem

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to glory in being the slaves of such a master? Who, but a

fanatic, could get up any sympathy for persons whose every

movement was agile, easy and graceful, and who evinced a

consciousness of high superiority? And who would ever ven-

ture to suspect that Col. Lloyd was subject to the troubles of

ordinary mortals? Master and slave seem alike in their glory

here? Can it all be seeming? Alas! it may only be a sham at

last! This immense wealth; this gilded splendor; this profu-

sion of luxury; this exemption from toil; this life of ease; this

sea of plenty; aye, what of it all? Are the pearly gates of hap-

piness and sweet content flung open to such suitors? far from

it! The poor slave, on his hard, pine plank, but scantily cov-

ered with his thin blanket, sleeps more soundly than the fe-

verish voluptuary who reclines upon his feather bed and

downy pillow. Food, to the indolent lounger, is poison, not

sustenance. Lurking beneath all their dishes, are invisible

spirits of evil, ready to feed the self-deluded gormandizers

which aches, pains, fierce temper, uncontrolled passions, dys-

pepsia, rheumatism, lumbago and gout; and of these the

Lloyds got their full share. To the pampered love of ease,

there is no resting place. What is pleasant today, is repulsive

tomorrow; what is soft now, is hard at another time; what is

sweet in the morning, is bitter in the evening. Neither to the

wicked, nor to the idler, is there any solid peace: “Troubled,

like the restless sea.”

I had excellent opportunities of witnessing the restless dis-

content and the capricious irritation of the Lloyds. My fond-

ness for horses—not peculiar to me more than to other boys

attracted me, much of the time, to the stables. This estab-

lishment was especially under the care of “old” and “young”

Barney—father and son. Old Barney was a fine looking old

man, of a brownish complexion, who was quite portly, and

wore a dignified aspect for a slave. He was, evidently, much

devoted to his profession, and held his office an honorable

one. He was a farrier as well as an ostler; he could bleed,

remove lampers from the mouths of the horses, and was well

instructed in horse medicines. No one on the farm knew, so

well as Old Barney, what to do with a sick horse. But his

gifts and acquirements were of little advantage to him. His

office was by no means an enviable one. He often got pre-

sents, but he got stripes as well; for in nothing was Col. Lloyd

more unreasonable and exacting, than in respect to the man-

My Bondage and My Freedom

agement of his pleasure horses. Any supposed inattention to

these animals were sure to be visited with degrading punish-

ment. His horses and dogs fared better than his men. Their

beds must be softer and cleaner than those of his human

cattle. No excuse could shield Old Barney, if the colonel only

suspected something wrong about his horses; and, conse-

quently, he was often punished when faultless. It was abso-

lutely painful to listen to the many unreasonable and fretful

scoldings, poured out at the stable, by Col. Lloyd, his sons

and sons-in-law. Of the latter, he had three—Messrs.

Nicholson, Winder and Lownes. These all lived at the great

house a portion of the year, and enjoyed the luxury of whip-

ping the servants when they pleased, which was by no means

unfrequently. A horse was seldom brought out of the stable

to which no objection could be raised. “There was dust in

his hair;” “there was a twist in his reins;” “his mane did not

lie straight;” “he had not been properly grained;” “his head

did not look well;” “his fore-top was not combed out;” “his

fetlocks had not been properly trimmed;” something was

always wrong. Listening to complaints, however groundless,

Barney must stand, hat in hand, lips sealed, never answering

a word. He must make no reply, no explanation; the judg-

ment of the master must be deemed infallible, for his power

is absolute and irresponsible. In a free state, a master, thus

complaining without cause, of his ostler, might be told—

“Sir, I am sorry I cannot please you, but, since I have done

the best I can, your remedy is to dismiss me.” Here, how-

ever, the ostler must stand, listen and tremble. One of the

most heart-saddening and humiliating scenes I ever witnessed,

was the whipping of Old Barney, by Col. Lloyd himself. Here

were two men, both advanced in years; there were the silvery

locks of Col. L., and there was the bald and toil-worn brow

of Old Barney; master and slave; superior and inferior here,

but equals at the bar of God; and, in the common course of

events, they must both soon meet in another world, in a

world where all distinctions, except those based on obedi-

ence and disobedience, are blotted out forever. “Uncover your

head!” said the imperious master; he was obeyed. “Take off

your jacket, you old rascal!” and off came Barney’s jacket.

“Down on your knees!” down knelt the old man, his shoul-

ders bare, his bald head glistening in the sun, and his aged

knees on the cold, damp ground. In his humble and debas-

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ing attitude, the master—that master to whom he had given

the best years and the best strength of his life—came for-

ward, and laid on thirty lashes, with his horse whip. The old

man bore it patiently, to the last, answering each blow with a

slight shrug of the shoulders, and a groan. I cannot think

that Col. Lloyd succeeded in marring the flesh of Old Barney

very seriously, for the whip was a light, riding whip; but the

spectacle of an aged man—a husband and a father—hum-

bly kneeling before a worm of the dust, surprised and shocked

me at the time; and since I have grown old enough to think

on the wickedness of slavery, few facts have been of more

value to me than this, to which I was a witness. It reveals

slavery in its true color, and in its maturity of repulsive hate-

fulness. I owe it to truth, however, to say, that this was the

first and the last time I ever saw Old Barney, or any other

slave, compelled to kneel to receive a whipping.

I saw, at the stable, another incident, which I will relate, as

it is illustrative of a phase of slavery to which I have already

referred in another connection. Besides two other coachmen,

Col. Lloyd owned one named William, who, strangely

enough, was often called by his surname, Wilks, by white

and colored people on the home plantation. Wilks was a

very fine looking man. He was about as white as anybody on

the plantation; and in manliness of form, and comeliness of

features, he bore a very striking resemblance to Mr. Murray

Lloyd. It was whispered, and pretty generally admitted as a

fact, that William Wilks was a son of Col. Lloyd, by a highly

favored slave-woman, who was still on the plantation. There

were many reasons for believing this whisper, not only in

William’s appearance, but in the undeniable freedom which

he enjoyed over all others, and his apparent consciousness of

being something more than a slave to his master. It was no-

torious, too, that William had a deadly enemy in Murray

Lloyd, whom he so much resembled, and that the latter

greatly worried his father with importunities to sell William.

Indeed, he gave his father no rest until he did sell him, to

Austin Woldfolk, the great slave-trader at that time. Before

selling him, however, Mr. L. tried what giving William a

whipping would do, toward making things smooth; but this

was a failure. It was a compromise, and defeated itself; for,

immediately after the infliction, the heart-sickened colonel

atoned to William for the abuse, by giving him a gold watch

My Bondage and My Freedom

and chain. Another fact, somewhat curious, is, that though

sold to the remorseless Woldfolk, taken in irons to Baltimore

and cast into prison, with a view to being driven to the south,

William, by some means—always a mystery to me—outbid

all his purchasers, paid for himself, and now resides in Balti-

more, a FREEMAN. Is there not room to suspect, that, as

the gold watch was presented to atone for the whipping, a

purse of gold was given him by the same hand, with which

to effect his purchase, as an atonement for the indignity in-

volved in selling his own flesh and blood. All the circum-

stances of William, on the great house farm, show him to

have occupied a different position from the other slaves, and,

certainly, there is nothing in the supposed hostility of

slaveholders to amalgamation, to forbid the supposition that

William Wilks was the son of Edward Lloyd. Practical amal-

gamation is common in every neighborhood where I have

been in slavery.

Col. Lloyd was not in the way of knowing much of the

real opinions and feelings of his slaves respecting him. The

distance between him and them was far too great to admit of

such knowledge. His slaves were so numerous, that he did

not know them when he saw them. Nor, indeed, did all his

slaves know him. In this respect, he was inconveniently rich.

It is reported of him, that, while riding along the road one

day, he met a colored man, and addressed him in the usual

way of speaking to colored people on the public highways of

the south: “Well, boy, who do you belong to?” “To Col.

Lloyd,” replied the slave. “Well, does the colonel treat you

well?” “No, sir,” was the ready reply. “What? does he work

you too hard?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, don’t he give enough to eat?”

“Yes, sir, he gives me enough, such as it is.” The colonel,

after ascertaining where the slave belonged, rode on; the slave

also went on about his business, not dreaming that he had

been conversing with his master. He thought, said and heard

nothing more of the matter, until two or three weeks after-

wards. The poor man was then informed by his overseer,

that, for having found fault with his master, he was now to

be sold to a Georgia trader. He was immediately chained

and handcuffed; and thus, without a moment’s warning he

was snatched away, and forever sundered from his family

and friends, by a hand more unrelenting than that of death.

This is the penalty of telling the simple truth, in answer to a

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series of plain questions. It is partly in consequence of such

facts, that slaves, when inquired of as to their condition and

the character of their masters, almost invariably say they are

contented, and that their masters are kind. Slaveholders have

been known to send spies among their slaves, to ascertain, if

possible, their views and feelings in regard to their condi-

tion. The frequency of this had the effect to establish among

the slaves the maxim, that a still tongue makes a wise head.

They suppress the truth rather than take the consequence of

telling it, and, in so doing, they prove themselves a part of

the human family. If they have anything to say of their mas-

ter, it is, generally, something in his favor, especially when

speaking to strangers. I was frequently asked, while a slave, if

I had a kind master, and I do not remember ever to have

given a negative reply. Nor did I, when pursuing this course,

consider myself as uttering what was utterly false; for I al-

ways measured the kindness of my master by the standard of

kindness set up by slaveholders around us. However, slaves

are like other people, and imbibe similar prejudices. They

are apt to think their condition better than that of others.

Many, under the influence of this prejudice, think their own

masters are better than the masters of other slaves; and this,

too, in some cases, when the very reverse is true. Indeed, it is

not uncommon for slaves even to fall out and quarrel among

themselves about the relative kindness of their masters, con-

tending for the superior goodness of his own over that of

others. At the very same time, they mutually execrate their

masters, when viewed separately. It was so on our planta-

tion. When Col. Lloyd’s slaves met those of Jacob Jepson,

they seldom parted without a quarrel about their masters;

Col. Lloyd’s slaves contending that he was the richest, and

Mr. Jepson’s slaves that he was the smartest, man of the two.

Col. Lloyd’s slaves would boost his ability to buy and sell

Jacob Jepson; Mr. Jepson’s slaves would boast his ability to

whip Col. Lloyd. These quarrels would almost always end in

a fight between the parties; those that beat were supposed to

have gained the point at issue. They seemed to think that

the greatness of their masters was transferable to themselves.

To be a SLAVE, was thought to be bad enough; but to be a

poor man’s slave, was deemed a disgrace, indeed.

My Bondage and My Freedom

CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER VIIIVIIIVIIIVIIIVIII A Chapter of HA Chapter of HA Chapter of HA Chapter of HA Chapter of Horrorrorrorrorrorsorsorsorsors

AUSTIN GORE—A SKETCH OF HIS CHARACTER—

OVERSEERS AS A CLASS—THEIR PECULIAR CHAR-

ACTERISTICS—THE MARKED INDIVIDUALITY OF

AUSTIN GORE—HIS SENSE OF DUTY—HOW HE

WHIPPED—MURDER OF POOR DENBY—HOW IT

OCCURRED—SENSATION—HOW GORE MADE

PEACE WITH COL. LLOYD—THE MURDER UN-

PUNISHED—ANOTHER DREADFUL MURDER

NARRATED—NO LAWS FOR THE PROTECTION OF

SLAVES CAN BE ENFORCED IN THE SOUTHERN

STATES.

AS I HAVE ALREADY INTIMATED elsewhere, the slaves on Col.

Lloyd’s plantation, whose hard lot, under Mr. Sevier, the

reader has already noticed and deplored, were not permitted

to enjoy the comparatively moderate rule of Mr. Hopkins.

The latter was succeeded by a very different man. The name

of the new overseer was Austin Gore. Upon this individual I

would fix particular attention; for under his rule there was

more suffering from violence and bloodshed than had—ac-

cording to the older slaves ever been experienced before on

this plantation. I confess, I hardly know how to bring this

man fitly before the reader. He was, it is true, an overseer,

and possessed, to a large extent, the peculiar characteristics

of his class; yet, to call him merely an overseer, would not

give the reader a fair notion of the man. I speak of overseers

as a class. They are such. They are as distinct from the

slaveholding gentry of the south, as are the fishwomen of

Paris, and the coal-heavers of London, distinct from other

members of society. They constitute a separate fraternity at

the south, not less marked than is the fraternity of Park Lane

bullies in New York. They have been arranged and classified

by that great law of attraction, which determines the spheres

and affinities of men; which ordains, that men, whose ma-

lign and brutal propensities predominate over their moral

and intellectual endowments, shall, naturally, fall into those

employments which promise the largest gratification to those

predominating instincts or propensities. The office of over-

seer takes this raw material of vulgarity and brutality, and

Frederick Douglas

stamps it as a distinct class of southern society. But, in this

class, as in all other classes, there are characters of marked

individuality, even while they bear a general resemblance to

the mass. Mr. Gore was one of those, to whom a general

characterization would do no manner of justice. He was an

overseer; but he was something more. With the malign and

tyrannical qualities of an overseer, he combined something

of the lawful master. He had the artfulness and the mean

ambition of his class; but he was wholly free from the dis-

gusting swagger and noisy bravado of his fraternity. There

was an easy air of independence about him; a calm self-pos-

session, and a sternness of glance, which might well daunt

hearts less timid than those of poor slaves, accustomed from

childhood and through life to cower before a driver’s lash.

The home plantation of Col. Lloyd afforded an ample field

for the exercise of the qualifications for overseership, which

he possessed in such an eminent degree.

Mr. Gore was one of those overseers, who could torture

the slightest word or look into impudence; he had the nerve,

not only to resent, but to punish, promptly and severely. He

never allowed himself to be answered back, by a slave. In

this, he was as lordly and as imperious as Col. Edward Lloyd,

himself; acting always up to the maxim, practically main-

tained by slaveholders, that it is better that a dozen slaves

suffer under the lash, without fault, than that the master or

the overseer should seem to have been wrong in the presence

of the slave. Everything must be absolute here. Guilty or not

guilty, it is enough to be accused, to be sure of a flogging.

The very presence of this man Gore was painful, and I

shunned him as I would have shunned a rattlesnake. His

piercing, black eyes, and sharp, shrill voice, ever awakened

sensations of terror among the slaves. For so young a man (I

describe him as he was, twenty-five or thirty years ago) Mr.

Gore was singularly reserved and grave in the presence of

slaves. He indulged in no jokes, said no funny things, and

kept his own counsels. Other overseers, how brutal soever

they might be, were, at times, inclined to gain favor with the

slaves, by indulging a little pleasantry; but Gore was never

known to be guilty of any such weakness. He was always the

cold, distant, unapproachable overseer of Col. Edward Lloyd’s

plantation, and needed no higher pleasure than was involved

in a faithful discharge of the duties of his office. When he

My Bondage and My Freedom

whipped, he seemed to do so from a sense of duty, and feared

no consequences. What Hopkins did reluctantly, Gore did

with alacrity. There was a stern will, an iron-like reality, about

this Gore, which would have easily made him the chief of a

band of pirates, had his environments been favorable to such

a course of life. All the coolness, savage barbarity and free-

dom from moral restraint, which are necessary in the char-

acter of a pirate-chief, centered, I think, in this man Gore.

Among many other deeds of shocking cruelty which he per-

petrated, while I was at Mr. Lloyd’s, was the murder of a

young colored man, named Denby. He was sometimes called

Bill Denby, or Demby; (I write from sound, and the sounds

on Lloyd’s plantation are not very certain.) I knew him well.

He was a powerful young man, full of animal spirits, and, so

far as I know, he was among the most valuable of Col. Lloyd’s

slaves. In something—I know not what—he offended this

Mr. Austin Gore, and, in accordance with the custom of the

latter, he under took to flog him. He gave Denby but few

stripes; the latter broke away from him and plunged into the

creek, and, standing there to the depth of his neck in water,

he refused to come out at the order of the overseer; where-

upon, for this refusal, Gore shot him dead! It is said that Gore

gave Denby three calls, telling him that if he did not obey

the last call, he would shoot him. When the third call was

given, Denby stood his ground firmly; and this raised the

question, in the minds of the by-standing slaves—”Will he

dare to shoot?” Mr. Gore, without further parley, and with-

out making any further effort to induce Denby to come out

of the water, raised his gun deliberately to his face, took deadly

aim at his standing victim, and, in an instant, poor Denby

was numbered with the dead. His mangled body sank out of

sight, and only his warm, red blood marked the place where

he had stood.

This devilish outrage, this fiendish murder, produced, as it

was well calculated to do, a tremendous sensation. A thrill of

horror flashed through every soul on the plantation, if I may

except the guilty wretch who had committed the hell-black

deed. While the slaves generally were panic-struck, and howl-

ing with alarm, the murderer himself was calm and collected,

and appeared as though nothing unusual had happened. The

atrocity roused my old master, and he spoke out, in reproba-

tion of it; but the whole thing proved to be less than a nine

Frederick Douglas

days’ wonder. Both Col. Lloyd and my old master arraigned

Gore for his cruelty in the matter, but this amounted to noth-

ing. His reply, or explanation—as I remember to have heard

it at the time was, that the extraordinary expedient was de-

manded by necessity; that Denby had become unmanage-

able; that he had set a dangerous example to the other slaves;

and that, without some such prompt measure as that to which

he had resorted, were adopted, there would be an end to all

rule and order on the plantation. That very convenient co-

vert for all manner of cruelty and outrage that cowardly alarm-

cry, that the slaves would “take the place,” was pleaded, in

extenuation of this revolting crime, just as it had been cited

in defense of a thousand similar ones. He argued, that if one

slave refused to be corrected, and was allowed to escape with

his life, when he had been told that he should lose it if he

persisted in his course, the other slaves would soon copy his

example; the result of which would be, the freedom of the

slaves, and the enslavement of the whites. I have every rea-

son to believe that Mr. Gore’s defense, or explanation, was

deemed satisfactory—at least to Col. Lloyd. He was contin-

ued in his office on the plantation. His fame as an overseer

went abroad, and his horrid crime was not even submitted

to judicial investigation. The murder was committed in the

presence of slaves, and they, of course, could neither insti-

tute a suit, nor testify against the murderer. His bare word

would go further in a court of law, than the united testi-

mony of ten thousand black witnesses.

All that Mr. Gore had to do, was to make his peace with

Col. Lloyd. This done, and the guilty perpetrator of one of

the most foul murders goes unwhipped of justice, and un-

censured by the community in which he lives. Mr. Gore lived

in St. Michael’s, Talbot county, when I left Maryland; if he is

still alive he probably yet resides there; and I have no reason

to doubt that he is now as highly esteemed, and as greatly

respected, as though his guilty soul had never been stained

with innocent blood. I am well aware that what I have now

written will by some be branded as false and malicious. It

will be denied, not only that such a thing ever did transpire,

as I have now narrated, but that such a thing could happen

in Maryland. I can only say—believe it or not—that I have

said nothing but the literal truth, gainsay it who may.

I speak advisedly when I say this,—that killing a slave, or

My Bondage and My Freedom

any colored person, in Talbot county, Maryland, is not treated

as a crime, either by the courts or the community. Mr. Tho-

mas Lanman, ship carpenter, of St. Michael’s, killed two

slaves, one of whom he butchered with a hatchet, by knock-

ing his brains out. He used to boast of the commission of

the awful and bloody deed. I have heard him do so, laugh-

ingly, saying, among other things, that he was the only bene-

factor of his country in the company, and that when “others

would do as much as he had done, we should be relieved of

the d—d niggers.”

As an evidence of the reckless disregard of human life where

the life is that of a slave I may state the notorious fact, that

the wife of Mr. Giles Hicks, who lived but a short distance

from Col. Lloyd’s, with her own hands murdered my wife’s

cousin, a young girl between fifteen and sixteen years of age—

mutilating her person in a most shocking manner. The atro-

cious woman, in the paroxysm of her wrath, not content

with murdering her victim, literally mangled her face, and

broke her breast bone. Wild, however, and infuriated as she

was, she took the precaution to cause the slave-girl to be

buried; but the facts of the case coming abroad, very speed-

ily led to the disinterment of the remains of the murdered

slave-girl. A coroner’s jury was assembled, who decided that

the girl had come to her death by severe beating. It was as-

certained that the offense for which this girl was thus hur-

ried out of the world, was this: she had been set that night,

and several preceding nights, to mind Mrs. Hicks’s baby, and

having fallen into a sound sleep, the baby cried, waking Mrs.

Hicks, but not the slave-girl. Mrs. Hicks, becoming infuri-

ated at the girl’s tardiness, after calling several times, jumped

from her bed and seized a piece of fire-wood from the fire-

place; and then, as she lay fast asleep, she deliberately pounded

in her skull and breast-bone, and thus ended her life. I will

not say that this most horrid murder produced no sensation

in the community. It did produce a sensation; but, incred-

ible to tell, the moral sense of the community was blunted

too entirely by the ordinary nature of slavery horrors, to bring

the murderess to punishment. A warrant was issued for her

arrest, but, for some reason or other, that warrant was never

served. Thus did Mrs. Hicks not only escape condign pun-

ishment, but even the pain and mortification of being ar-

raigned before a court of justice.

Frederick Douglas

Whilst I am detailing the bloody deeds that took place

during my stay on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, I will briefly nar-

rate another dark transaction, which occurred about the same

time as the murder of Denby by Mr. Gore.

On the side of the river Wye, opposite from Col. Lloyd’s,

there lived a Mr. Beal Bondley, a wealthy slaveholder. In the

direction of his land, and near the shore, there was an excel-

lent oyster fishing ground, and to this, some of the slaves of

Col. Lloyd occasionally resorted in their little canoes, at night,

with a view to make up the deficiency of their scanty allow-

ance of food, by the oysters that they could easily get there.

This, Mr. Bondley took it into his head to regard as a tres-

pass, and while an old man belonging to Col. Lloyd was

engaged in catching a few of the many millions of oysters

that lined the bottom of that creek, to satisfy his hunger, the

villainous Mr. Bondley, lying in ambush, without the slight-

est ceremony, discharged the contents of his musket into the

back and shoulders of the poor old man. As good fortune

would have it, the shot did not prove mortal, and Mr. Bondley

came over, the next day, to see Col. Lloyd—whether to pay

him for his property, or to justify himself for what he had

done, I know not; but this I can say, the cruel and dastardly

transaction was speedily hushed up; there was very little said

about it at all, and nothing was publicly done which looked

like the application of the principle of justice to the man

whom chance, only, saved from being an actual murderer.

One of the commonest sayings to which my ears early be-

came accustomed, on Col. Lloyd’s plantation and elsewhere

in Maryland, was, that it was “worth but half a cent to kill a

nigger, and a half a cent to bury him;” and the facts of my

experience go far to justify the practical truth of this strange

proverb. Laws for the protection of the lives of the slaves,

are, as they must needs be, utterly incapable of being en-

forced, where the very parties who are nominally protected,

are not permitted to give evidence, in courts of law, against

the only class of persons from whom abuse, outrage and

murder might be reasonably apprehended. While I heard of

numerous murders committed by slaveholders on the East-

ern Shores of Maryland, I never knew a solitary instance in

which a slaveholder was either hung or imprisoned for hav-

ing murdered a slave. The usual pretext for killing a slave is,

that the slave has offered resistance. Should a slave, when

My Bondage and My Freedom

assaulted, but raise his hand in self defense, the white as-

saulting party is fully justified by southern, or Maryland,

public opinion, in shooting the slave down. Sometimes this

is done, simply because it is alleged that the slave has been

saucy. But here I leave this phase of the society of my early

childhood, and will relieve the kind reader of these heart-

sickening details.

CHAPTER IXCHAPTER IXCHAPTER IXCHAPTER IXCHAPTER IX PPPPPersonal ersonal ersonal ersonal ersonal TTTTTrrrrreatmenteatmenteatmenteatmenteatment

MISS LUCRETIA—HER KINDNESS—HOW IT WAS

MANIFESTED— “IKE”—A BATTLE WITH HIM—

THE CONSEQUENCES THEREOF—MISS

LUCRETIA’S BALSAM—BREAD—HOW I OBTAINED

IT—BEAMS OF SUNLIGHT AMIDST THE GENERAL

DARKNESS—SUFFERING FROM COLD—HOW WE

TOOK OUR MEALS—ORDERS TO PREPARE FOR

BALTIMORE—OVERJOYED AT THE THOUGHT OF

QUITTING THE PLANTATION—EXTRAORDINARY

CLEANSING—COUSIN TOM’S VERSION OF BALTI-

MORE—ARRIVAL THERE—KIND RECEPTION

GIVEN ME BY MRS. SOPHIA AULD—LIT TLE

TOMMY—MY NEW POSITION—MY NEW DU-

TIES—A TURNING POINT IN MY HISTORY.

I HAVE NOTHING CRUEL or shocking to relate of my own per-

sonal experience, while I remained on Col. Lloyd’s planta-

tion, at the home of my old master. An occasional cuff from

Frederick Douglas

Aunt Katy, and a regular whipping from old master, such as

any heedless and mischievous boy might get from his father,

is all that I can mention of this sort. I was not old enough to

work in the field, and, there being little else than field work

to perform, I had much leisure. The most I had to do, was,

to drive up the cows in the evening, to keep the front yard

clean, and to perform small errands for my young mistress,

Lucretia Auld. I have reasons for thinking this lady was very

kindly disposed toward me, and, although I was not often

the object of her attention, I constantly regarded her as my

friend, and was always glad when it was my privilege to do

her a service. In a family where there was so much that was

harsh, cold and indifferent, the slightest word or look of kind-

ness passed, with me, for its full value. Miss Lucretia—as we

all continued to call her long after her marriage—had be-

stowed upon me such words and looks as taught me that she

pitied me, if she did not love me. In addition to words and

looks, she sometimes gave me a piece of bread and butter; a

thing not set down in the bill of fare, and which must have

been an extra ration, planned aside from either Aunt Katy or

old master, solely out of the tender regard and friendship she

had for me. Then, too, I one day got into the wars with

Uncle Able’s son, “Ike,” and had got sadly worsted; in fact,

the little rascal had struck me directly in the forehead with a

sharp piece of cinder, fused with iron, from the old

blacksmith’s forge, which made a cross in my forehead very

plainly to be seen now. The gash bled very freely, and I roared

very loudly and betook myself home. The coldhearted Aunt

Katy paid no attention either to my wound or my roaring,

except to tell me it served me right; I had no business with

Ike; it was good for me; I would now keep away “from dem

Lloyd niggers.” Miss Lucretia, in this state of the case, came

forward; and, in quite a different spirit from that manifested

by Aunt Katy, she called me into the parlor (an extra privi-

lege of itself ) and, without using toward me any of the hard-

hearted and reproachful epithets of my kitchen tormentor,

she quietly acted the good Samaritan. With her own soft

hand she washed the blood from my head and face, fetched

her own balsam bottle, and with the balsam wetted a nice

piece of white linen, and bound up my head. The balsam

was not more healing to the wound in my head, than her

kindness was healing to the wounds in my spirit, made by

My Bondage and My Freedom

the unfeeling words of Aunt Katy. After this, Miss Lucretia

was my friend. I felt her to be such; and I have no doubt that

the simple act of binding up my head, did much to awaken

in her mind an interest in my welfare. It is quite true, that

this interest was never very marked, and it seldom showed

itself in anything more than in giving me a piece of bread

when I was hungry; but this was a great favor on a slave

plantation, and I was the only one of the children to whom

such attention was paid. When very hungry, I would go into

the back yard and play under Miss Lucretia’s window. When

pretty severely pinched by hunger, I had a habit of singing,

which the good lady very soon came to understand as a peti-

tion for a piece of bread. When I sung under Miss Lucretia’s

window, I was very apt to get well paid for my music. The

reader will see that I now had two friends, both at important

points—Mas’ Daniel at the great house, and Miss Lucretia

at home. From Mas’ Daniel I got protection from the bigger

boys; and from Miss Lucretia I got bread, by singing when I

was hungry, and sympathy when I was abused by that ter-

magant, who had the reins of government in the kitchen.

For such friendship I felt deeply grateful, and bitter as are

my recollections of slavery, I love to recall any instances of

kindness, any sunbeams of humane treatment, which found

way to my soul through the iron grating of my house of

bondage. Such beams seem all the brighter from the general

darkness into which they penetrate, and the impression they

make is vividly distinct and beautiful.

As I have before intimated, I was seldom whipped—and

never severely—by my old master. I suffered little from the

treatment I received, except from hunger and cold. These

were my two great physical troubles. I could neither get a

sufficiency of food nor of clothing; but I suffered less from

hunger than from cold. In hottest summer and coldest win-

ter, I was kept almost in a state of nudity; no shoes, no stock-

ings, no jacket, no trowsers; nothing but coarse sackcloth or

tow-linen, made into a sort of shirt, reaching down to my

knees. This I wore night and day, changing it once a week.

In the day time I could protect myself pretty well, by keep-

ing on the sunny side of the house; and in bad weather, in

the corner of the kitchen chimney. The great difficulty was,

to keep warm during the night. I had no bed. The pigs in the

pen had leaves, and the horses in the stable had straw, but

Frederick Douglas

the children had no beds. They lodged anywhere in the ample

kitchen. I slept, generally, in a little closet, without even a

blanket to cover me. In very cold weather. I sometimes got

down the bag in which cornmeal was usually carried to the

mill, and crawled into that. Sleeping there, with my head in

and feet out, I was partly protected, though not comfort-

able. My feet have been so cracked with the frost, that the

pen with which I am writing might be laid in the gashes.

The manner of taking our meals at old master’s, indicated

but little refinement. Our corn-meal mush, when sufficiently

cooled, was placed in a large wooden tray, or trough, like

those used in making maple sugar here in the north. This

tray was set down, either on the floor of the kitchen, or out

of doors on the ground; and the children were called, like so

many pigs; and like so many pigs they would come, and

literally devour the mush—some with oyster shells, some

with pieces of shingles, and none with spoons. He that eat

fastest got most, and he that was strongest got the best place;

and few left the trough really satisfied. I was the most un-

lucky of any, for Aunt Katy had no good feeling for me; and

if I pushed any of the other children, or if they told her

anything unfavorable of me, she always believed the worst,

and was sure to whip me.

As I grew older and more thoughtful, I was more and more

filled with a sense of my wretchedness. The cruelty of Aunt

Katy, the hunger and cold I suffered, and the terrible reports

of wrong and outrage which came to my ear, together with

what I almost daily witnessed, led me, when yet but eight or

nine years old, to wish I had never been born. I used to con-

trast my condition with the black-birds, in whose wild and

sweet songs I fancied them so happy! Their apparent joy only

deepened the shades of my sorrow. There are thoughtful days

in the lives of children—at least there were in mine when

they grapple with all the great, primary subjects of knowl-

edge, and reach, in a moment, conclusions which no subse-

quent experience can shake. I was just as well aware of the

unjust, unnatural and murderous character of slavery, when

nine years old, as I am now. Without any appeal to books, to

laws, or to authorities of any kind, it was enough to accept

God as a father, to regard slavery as a crime.

I was not ten years old when I left Col. Lloyd’s plantation

for Balitmore{sic}. I left that plantation with inexpressible

My Bondage and My Freedom

joy. I never shall forget the ecstacy with which I received the

intelligence from my friend, Miss Lucretia, that my old mas-

ter had determined to let me go to Baltimore to live with

Mr. Hugh Auld, a brother to Mr. Thomas Auld, my old

master’s son-in-law. I received this information about three

days before my departure. They were three of the happiest

days of my childhood. I spent the largest part of these three

days in the creek, washing off the plantation scurf, and pre-

paring for my new home. Mrs. Lucretia took a lively interest

in getting me ready. She told me I must get all the dead skin

off my feet and knees, before I could go to Baltimore, for the

people there were very cleanly, and would laugh at me if I

looked dirty; and, besides, she was intending to give me a

pair of trowsers, which I should not put on unless I got all

the dirt off. This was a warning to which I was bound to

take heed; for the thought of owning a pair of trowsers, was

great, indeed. It was almost a sufficient motive, not only to

induce me to scrub off the mange (as pig drovers would call

it) but the skin as well. So I went at it in good earnest, work-

ing for the first time in the hope of reward. I was greatly

excited, and could hardly consent to sleep, lest I should be

left. The ties that, ordinarily, bind children to their homes,

were all severed, or they never had any existence in my case,

at least so far as the home plantation of Col. L. was con-

cerned. I therefore found no severe trail at the moment of

my departure, such as I had experienced when separated from

my home in Tuckahoe. My home at my old master’s was

charmless to me; it was not home, but a prison to me; on

parting from it, I could not feel that I was leaving anything

which I could have enjoyed by staying. My mother was now

long dead; my grandmother was far away, so that I seldom

saw her; Aunt Katy was my unrelenting tormentor; and my

two sisters and brothers, owing to our early separation in

life, and the family-destroying power of slavery, were, com-

paratively, strangers to me. The fact of our relationship was

almost blotted out. I looked for home elsewhere, and was

confident of finding none which I should relish less than the

one I was leaving. If, however, I found in my new home to

which I was going with such blissful anticipations—hard-

ship, whipping and nakedness, I had the questionable con-

solation that I should not have escaped any one of these evils

by remaining under the management of Aunt Katy. Then,

Frederick Douglas

too, I thought, since I had endured much in this line on

Lloyd’s plantation, I could endure as much elsewhere, and

especially at Baltimore; for I had something of the feeling

about that city which is expressed in the saying, that being

“hanged in England, is better than dying a natural death in

Ireland.” I had the strongest desire to see Baltimore. My

cousin Tom—a boy two or three years older than I—had

been there, and though not fluent (he stuttered immoder-

ately) in speech, he had inspired me with that desire, by his

eloquent description of the place. Tom was, sometimes, Capt.

Auld’s cabin boy; and when he came from Baltimore, he was

always a sort of hero amongst us, at least till his Baltimore

trip was forgotten. I could never tell him of anything, or

point out anything that struck me as beautiful or powerful,

but that he had seen something in Baltimore far surpassing

it. Even the great house itself, with all its pictures within,

and pillars without, he had the hardihood to say “was noth-

ing to Baltimore.” He bought a trumpet (worth six pence)

and brought it home; told what he had seen in the windows

of stores; that he had heard shooting crackers, and seen sol-

diers; that he had seen a steamboat; that there were ships in

Baltimore that could carry four such sloops as the “Sally

Lloyd.” He said a great deal about the market-house; he spoke

of the bells ringing; and of many other things which roused

my curiosity very much; and, indeed, which heightened my

hopes of happiness in my new home.

We sailed out of Miles river for Baltimore early on a Satur-

day morning. I remember only the day of the week; for, at

that time, I had no knowledge of the days of the month, nor,

indeed, of the months of the year. On setting sail, I walked

aft, and gave to Col. Lloyd’s plantation what I hoped would

be the last look I should ever give to it, or to any place like it.

My strong aversion to the great farm, was not owing to my

own personal suffering, but the daily suffering of others, and

to the certainty that I must, sooner or later, be placed under

the barbarous rule of an overseer, such as the accomplished

Gore, or the brutal and drunken Plummer. After taking this

last view, I quitted the quarter deck, made my way to the

bow of the sloop, and spent the remainder of the day in

looking ahead; interesting myself in what was in the dis-

tance, rather than what was near by or behind. The vessels,

sweeping along the bay, were very interesting objects. The

My Bondage and My Freedom

broad bay opened like a shoreless ocean on my boyish vi-

sion, filling me with wonder and admiration.

Late in the afternoon, we reached Annapolis, the capital of

the state, stopping there not long enough to admit of my

going ashore. It was the first large town I had ever seen; and

though it was inferior to many a factory village in New En-

gland, my feelings, on seeing it, were excited to a pitch very

little below that reached by travelers at the first view of Rome.

The dome of the state house was especially imposing, and

surpassed in grandeur the appearance of the great house. The

great world was opening upon me very rapidly, and I was

eagerly acquainting myself with its multifarious lessons.

We arrived in Baltimore on Sunday morning, and landed

at Smith’s wharf, not far from Bowly’s wharf. We had on

board the sloop a large flock of sheep, for the Baltimore

market; and, after assisting in driving them to the slaughter

house of Mr. Curtis, on Loudon Slater’s Hill, I was speedily

conducted by Rich—one of the hands belonging to the

sloop—to my new home in Alliciana street, near Gardiner’s

ship-yard, on Fell’s Point. Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Auld, my new

mistress and master, were both at home, and met me at the

door with their rosy cheeked little son, Thomas, to take care

of whom was to constitute my future occupation.

In fact, it was to “little Tommy,” rather than to his parents,

that old master made a present of me; and though there was

no legal form or arrangement entered into, I have no doubt

that Mr. and Mrs. Auld felt that, in due time, I should be

the legal property of their bright-eyed and beloved boy,

Tommy. I was struck with the appearance, especially, of my

new mistress. Her face was lighted with the kindliest emo-

tions; and the reflex influence of her countenance, as well as

the tenderness with which she seemed to regard me, while

asking me sundry little questions, greatly delighted me, and

lit up, to my fancy, the pathway of my future. Miss Lucretia

was kind; but my new mistress, “Miss Sophy,” surpassed her

in kindness of manner. Little Thomas was affectionately told

by his mother, that “there was his Freddy,” and that “Freddy

would take care of him;” and I was told to “be kind to little

Tommy”—an injunction I scarcely needed, for I had already

fallen in love with the dear boy; and with these little ceremo-

nies I was initiated into my new home, and entered upon

my peculiar duties, with not a cloud above the horizon.

Frederick Douglas

I may say here, that I regard my removal from Col. Lloyd’s

plantation as one of the most interesting and fortunate events

of my life. Viewing it in the light of human likelihoods, it is

quite probable that, but for the mere circumstance of being

thus removed before the rigors of slavery had fastened upon

me; before my young spirit had been crushed under the iron

control of the slave-driver, instead of being, today, a FREE-

MAN, I might have been wearing the galling chains of sla-

very. I have sometimes felt, however, that there was some-

thing more intelligent than chance, and something more cer-

tain than luck, to be seen in the circumstance. If I have made

any progress in knowledge; if I have cherished any honor-

able aspirations, or have, in any manner, worthily discharged

the duties of a member of an oppressed people; this little

circumstance must be allowed its due weight in giving my

life that direction. I have ever regarded it as the first plain

manifestation of that

Divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough hew them as we will.

I was not the only boy on the plantation that might have

been sent to live in Baltimore. There was a wide margin from

which to select. There were boys younger, boys older, and

boys of the same age, belonging to my old master some at

his own house, and some at his farm—but the high privilege

fell to my lot.

I may be deemed superstitious and egotistical, in regard-

ing this event as a special interposition of Divine Providence

in my favor; but the thought is a part of my history, and I

should be false to the earliest and most cherished sentiments

of my soul, if I suppressed, or hesitated to avow that opin-

ion, although it may be characterized as irrational by the

wise, and ridiculous by the scoffer. From my earliest recol-

lections of serious matters, I date the entertainment of some-

thing like an ineffaceable conviction, that slavery would not

always be able to hold me within its foul embrace; and this

conviction, like a word of living faith, strengthened me

through the darkest trials of my lot. This good spirit was

from God; and to him I offer thanksgiving and praise.

My Bondage and My Freedom

CHAPTER XCHAPTER XCHAPTER XCHAPTER XCHAPTER X LLLLLife in Bife in Bife in Bife in Bife in Baltimoraltimoraltimoraltimoraltimoreeeee

CITY ANNOYANCES—PLANTATION REGRETS—

MY MISTRESS, MISS SOPHA—HER HISTORY—HER

KINDNESS TO ME—MY MASTER, HUGH AULD—

HIS SOURNESS—MY INCREASED SENSITIVE-

NESS—MY COMFORTS—MY OCCUPATION—THE

BANEFUL EFFECTS OF SLAVEHOLDING ON MY

DEAR AND GOOD MISTRESS—HOW SHE COM-

MENCED TEACHING ME TO READ—WHY SHE

CEASED TEACHING ME—CLOUDS GATHERING

OVER MY BRIGHT PROSPECTS—MASTER AULD’S

EXPOSITION OF THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY OF SLA-

VERY—CITY SLAVES—PLANTATION SLAVES—THE

CONTRAST—EXCEPTIONS—MR. HAMILTON’S

TWO SLAVES, HENRIETTA AND MARY—MRS.

HAMILTON’S CRUEL TREATMENT OF THEM—

THE PITEOUS ASPECT THEY PRESENTED—NO

POWER MUST COME BETWEEN THE SLAVE AND

THE SLAVEHOLDER.

ONCE IN BALTIMORE, with hard brick pavements under my

feet, which almost raised blisters, by their very heat, for it

was in the height of summer; walled in on all sides by tower-

ing brick buildings; with troops of hostile boys ready to

pounce upon me at every street corner; with new and strange

objects glaring upon me at every step, and with startling

sounds reaching my ears from all directions, I for a time

thought that, after all, the home plantation was a more de-

sirable place of residence than my home on Alliciana street,

in Baltimore. My country eyes and ears were confused and

bewildered here; but the boys were my chief trouble. They

chased me, and called me “Eastern Shore man,” till really I

almost wished myself back on the Eastern Shore. I had to

undergo a sort of moral acclimation, and when that was over,

I did much better. My new mistress happily proved to be all

she seemed to be, when, with her husband, she met me at the

door, with a most beaming, benignant countenance. She was,

naturally, of an excellent disposition, kind, gentle and cheer-

ful. The supercilious contempt for the rights and feelings of

the slave, and the petulance and bad humor which generally

Frederick Douglas

characterize slaveholding ladies, were all quite absent from

kind “Miss” Sophia’s manner and bearing toward me. She

had, in truth, never been a slaveholder, but had—a thing

quite unusual in the south—depended almost entirely upon

her own industry for a living. To this fact the dear lady, no

doubt, owed the excellent preservation of her natural good-

ness of heart, for slavery can change a saint into a sinner, and

an angel into a demon. I hardly knew how to behave toward

“Miss Sopha,” as I used to call Mrs. Hugh Auld. I had been

treated as a pig on the plantation; I was treated as a child

now. I could not even approach her as I had formerly ap-

proached Mrs. Thomas Auld. How could I hang down my

head, and speak with bated breath, when there was no pride

to scorn me, no coldness to repel me, and no hatred to in-

spire me with fear? I therefore soon learned to regard her as

something more akin to a mother, than a slaveholding mis-

tress. The crouching servility of a slave, usually so acceptable

a quality to the haughty slaveholder, was not understood nor

desired by this gentle woman. So far from deeming it impu-

dent in a slave to look her straight in the face, as some

slaveholding ladies do, she seemed ever to say, “look up, child;

don’t be afraid; see, I am full of kindness and good will to-

ward you.” The hands belonging to Col. Lloyd’s sloop, es-

teemed it a great privilege to be the bearers of parcels or

messages to my new mistress; for whenever they came, they

were sure of a most kind and pleasant reception. If little

Thomas was her son, and her most dearly beloved child,

she, for a time, at least, made me something like his half-

brother in her affections. If dear Tommy was exalted to a

place on his mother’s knee, “Feddy” was honored by a place

at his mother’s side. Nor did he lack the caressing strokes of

her gentle hand, to convince him that, though motherless, he

was not friendless. Mrs. Auld was not only a kind-hearted

woman, but she was remarkably pious; frequent in her at-

tendance of public worship, much given to reading the bible,

and to chanting hymns of praise, when alone. Mr. Hugh

Auld was altogether a different character. He cared very little

about religion, knew more of the world, and was more of the

world, than his wife. He set out, doubtless to be—as the

world goes—a respectable man, and to get on by becoming

a successful ship builder, in that city of ship building. This

was his ambition, and it fully occupied him. I was, of course,

My Bondage and My Freedom

of very little consequence to him, compared with what I was

to good Mrs. Auld; and, when he smiled upon me, as he

sometimes did, the smile was borrowed from his lovely wife,

and, like all borrowed light, was transient, and vanished with

the source whence it was derived. While I must characterize

Master Hugh as being a very sour man, and of forbidding

appearance, it is due to him to acknowledge, that he was

never very cruel to me, according to the notion of cruelty in

Maryland. The first year or two which I spent in his house,

he left me almost exclusively to the management of his wife.

She was my law-giver. In hands so tender as hers, and in the

absence of the cruelties of the plantation, I became, both

physically and mentally, much more sensitive to good and ill

treatment; and, perhaps, suffered more from a frown from

my mistress, than I formerly did from a cuff at the hands of

Aunt Katy. Instead of the cold, damp floor of my old master’s

kitchen, I found myself on carpets; for the corn bag in win-

ter, I now had a good straw bed, well furnished with covers;

for the coarse corn-meal in the morning, I now had good

bread, and mush occasionally; for my poor tow-lien shirt,

reaching to my knees, I had good, clean clothes. I was really

well off. My employment was to run errands, and to take

care of Tommy; to prevent his getting in the way of car-

riages, and to keep him out of harm’s way generally. Tommy,

and I, and his mother, got on swimmingly together, for a

time. I say for a time, because the fatal poison of irrespon-

sible power, and the natural influence of slavery customs,

were not long in making a suitable impression on the gentle

and loving disposition of my excellent mistress. At first, Mrs.

Auld evidently regarded me simply as a child, like any other

child; she had not come to regard me as property. This latter

thought was a thing of conventional growth. The first was

natural and spontaneous. A noble nature, like hers, could

not, instantly, be wholly perverted; and it took several years

to change the natural sweetness of her temper into fretful

bitterness. In her worst estate, however, there were, during

the first seven years I lived with her, occasional returns of her

former kindly disposition.

The frequent hearing of my mistress reading the bible for

she often read aloud when her husband was absent soon

awakened my curiosity in respect to this mystery of reading,

and roused in me the desire to learn. Having no fear of my

Frederick Douglas

kind mistress before my eyes, (she had then given me no

reason to fear,) I frankly asked her to teach me to read; and,

without hesitation, the dear woman began the task, and very

soon, by her assistance, I was master of the alphabet, and

could spell words of three or four letters. My mistress seemed

almost as proud of my progress, as if I had been her own

child; and, supposing that her husband would be as well

pleased, she made no secret of what she was doing for me.

Indeed, she exultingly told him of the aptness of her pupil,

of her intention to persevere in teaching me, and of the duty

which she felt it to teach me, at least to read the bible. Here

arose the first cloud over my Baltimore prospects, the pre-

cursor of drenching rains and chilling blasts.

Master Hugh was amazed at the simplicity of his spouse,

and, probably for the first time, he unfolded to her the true

philosophy of slavery, and the peculiar rules necessary to be

observed by masters and mistresses, in the management of

their human chattels. Mr. Auld promptly forbade continu-

ance of her instruction; telling her, in the first place, that the

thing itself was unlawful; that it was also unsafe, and could

only lead to mischief. To use his own words, further, he said,

“if you give a nigger an inch, he will take an ell;” “he should

know nothing but the will of his master, and learn to obey

it.” “if you teach that nigger—speaking of myself—how to

read the bible, there will be no keeping him;” “it would for-

ever unfit him for the duties of a slave;” and “as to himself,

learning would do him no good, but probably, a great deal

of harm—making him disconsolate and unhappy.” “If you

learn him now to read, he’ll want to know how to write; and,

this accomplished, he’ll be running away with himself.” Such

was the tenor of Master Hugh’s oracular exposition of the

true philosophy of training a human chattel; and it must be

confessed that he very clearly comprehended the nature and

the requirements of the relation of master and slave. His dis-

course was the first decidedly anti-slavery lecture to which it

had been my lot to listen. Mrs. Auld evidently felt the force

of his remarks; and, like an obedient wife, began to shape

her course in the direction indicated by her husband. The

effect of his words, on me, was neither slight nor transitory.

His iron sentences—cold and harsh—sunk deep into my

heart, and stirred up not only my feelings into a sort of re-

bellion, but awakened within me a slumbering train of vital

My Bondage and My Freedom

thought. It was a new and special revelation, dispelling a

painful mystery, against which my youthful understanding

had struggled, and struggled in vain, to wit: the white man’s

power to perpetuate the enslavement of the black man. “Very

well,” thought I; “knowledge unfits a child to be a slave.” I

instinctively assented to the proposition; and from that mo-

ment I understood the direct pathway from slavery to free-

dom. This was just what I needed; and I got it at a time, and

from a source, whence I least expected it. I was saddened at

the thought of losing the assistance of my kind mistress; but

the information, so instantly derived, to some extent com-

pensated me for the loss I had sustained in this direction.

Wise as Mr. Auld was, he evidently underrated my compre-

hension, and had little idea of the use to which I was capable

of putting the impressive lesson he was giving to his wife. He

wanted me to be a slave; I had already voted against that on

the home plantation of Col. Lloyd. That which he most loved

I most hated; and the very determination which he expressed

to keep me in ignorance, only rendered me the more reso-

lute in seeking intelligence. In learning to read, therefore, I

am not sure that I do not owe quite as much to the opposi-

tion of my master, as to the kindly assistance of my amiable

mistress. I acknowledge the benefit rendered me by the one,

and by the other; believing, that but for my mistress, I might

have grown up in ignorance.

I had resided but a short time in Baltimore, before I ob-

served a marked difference in the manner of treating slaves,

generally, from which I had witnessed in that isolated and

out-of-the-way part of the country where I began life. A city

slave is almost a free citizen, in Baltimore, compared with a

slave on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. He is much better fed and

clothed, is less dejected in his appearance, and enjoys privi-

leges altogether unknown to the whip-driven slave on the

plantation. Slavery dislikes a dense population, in which there

is a majority of non-slaveholders. The general sense of de-

cency that must pervade such a population, does much to

check and prevent those outbreaks of atrocious cruelty, and

those dark crimes without a name, almost openly perpetrated

on the plantation. He is a desperate slaveholder who will

shock the humanity of his non-slaveholding neighbors, by

the cries of the lacerated slaves; and very few in the city are

willing to incur the odium of being cruel masters. I found,

Frederick Douglas

in Baltimore, that no man was more odious to the white, as

well as to the colored people, than he, who had the reputation

of starving his slaves. Work them, flog them, if need be, but

don’t starve them. These are, however, some painful excep-

tions to this rule. While it is quite true that most of the

slaveholders in Baltimore feed and clothe their slaves well, there

are others who keep up their country cruelties in the city.

An instance of this sort is furnished in the case of a family

who lived directly opposite to our house, and were named

Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton owned two slaves. Their names

were Henrietta and Mary. They had always been house slaves.

One was aged about twenty-two, and the other about four-

teen. They were a fragile couple by nature, and the treat-

ment they received was enough to break down the constitu-

tion of a horse. Of all the dejected, emaciated, mangled and

excoriated creatures I ever saw, those two girls—in the re-

fined, church going and Christian city of Baltimore were the

most deplorable. Of stone must that heart be made, that

could look upon Henrietta and Mary, without being sick-

ened to the core with sadness. Especially was Mary a heart-

sickening object. Her head, neck and shoulders, were liter-

ally cut to pieces. I have frequently felt her head, and found

it nearly covered over with festering sores, caused by the lash

of her cruel mistress. I do not know that her master ever

whipped her, but I have often been an eye witness of the

revolting and brutal inflictions by Mrs. Hamilton; and what

lends a deeper shade to this woman’s conduct, is the fact,

that, almost in the very moments of her shocking outrages

of humanity and decency, she would charm you by the sweet-

ness of her voice and her seeming piety. She used to sit in a

large rocking chair, near the middle of the room, with a heavy

cowskin, such as I have elsewhere described; and I speak

within the truth when I say, that these girls seldom passed

that chair, during the day, without a blow from that cowskin,

either upon their bare arms, or upon their shoulders. As they

passed her, she would draw her cowskin and give them a

blow, saying, “move faster, you black jip!” and, again, “take

that, you black jip!” continuing, “if you don’t move faster, I

will give you more.” Then the lady would go on, singing her

sweet hymns, as though her righteous soul were sighing for

the holy realms of paradise.

Added to the cruel lashings to which these poor slave-girls

My Bondage and My Freedom

were subjected—enough in themselves to crush the spirit of

men—they were, really, kept nearly half starved; they sel-

dom knew what it was to eat a full meal, except when they

got it in the kitchens of neighbors, less mean and stingy than

the psalm-singing Mrs. Hamilton. I have seen poor Mary

contending for the offal, with the pigs in the street. So much

was the poor girl pinched, kicked, cut and pecked to pieces,

that the boys in the street knew her only by the name of

“pecked,” a name derived from the scars and blotches on her

neck, head and shoulders.

It is some relief to this picture of slavery in Baltimore, to

say—what is but the simple truth—that Mrs. Hamilton’s

treatment of her slaves was generally condemned, as disgrace-

ful and shocking; but while I say this, it must also be re-

membered, that the very parties who censured the cruelty of

Mrs. Hamilton, would have condemned and promptly pun-

ished any attempt to interfere with Mrs. Hamilton’s right to

cut and slash her slaves to pieces. There must be no force

between the slave and the slaveholder, to restrain the power

of the one, and protect the weakness of the other; and the

cruelty of Mrs. Hamilton is as justly chargeable to the up-

holders of the slave system, as drunkenness is chargeable on

those who, by precept and example, or by indifference, up-

hold the drinking system.

Frederick Douglas

CHAPTER XICHAPTER XICHAPTER XICHAPTER XICHAPTER XI “““““A Change CA Change CA Change CA Change CA Change Came Oame Oame Oame Oame O’er the S’er the S’er the S’er the S’er the Spirit of Mpirit of Mpirit of Mpirit of Mpirit of My Dry Dry Dry Dry Dreameameameameam”””””

HOW I LEARNED TO READ—MY MISTRESS—HER

SLAVEHOLDING DUTIES—THEIR DEPLORABLE

EFFECTS UPON HER ORIGINALLY NOBLE NA-

TURE—THE CONFLICT IN HER MIND—HER FI-

NAL OPPOSITION TO MY LEARNING TO READ—

TOO LATE—SHE HAD GIVEN ME THE INCH, I WAS

RESOLVED TO TAKE THE ELL—HOW I PURSUED

MY EDUCATION—MY TUTORS—HOW I COMPEN-

SATED THEM—WHAT PROGRESS I MADE—SLA-

VERY—WHAT I HEARD SAID ABOUT IT—THIR-

TEEN YEARS OLD—THE Columbian Orator—A RICH

SCENE—A DIALOGUE—SPEECHES OF CHATHAM,

SHERIDAN, PITT AND FOX—KNOWLEDGE EVER

INCREASING—MY EYES OPENED—LIBERTY—

HOW I PINED FOR IT—MY SADNESS—THE DIS-

SATISFACTION OF MY POOR MISTRESS—MY HA-

TRED OF SLAVERY—ONE UPAS TREE OVERSHAD-

OWED US BOTH.

I LIVED IN THE FAMILY of Master Hugh, at Baltimore, seven

years, during which time—as the almanac makers say of the

weather—my condition was variable. The most interesting

feature of my history here, was my learning to read and write,

under somewhat marked disadvantages. In attaining this

knowledge, I was compelled to resort to indirections by no

means congenial to my nature, and which were really hu-

miliating to me. My mistress—who, as the reader has al-

ready seen, had begun to teach me was suddenly checked in

her benevolent design, by the strong advice of her husband.

In faithful compliance with this advice, the good lady had

not only ceased to instruct me, herself, but had set her face

as a flint against my learning to read by any means. It is due,

however, to my mistress to say, that she did not adopt this

course in all its stringency at the first. She either thought it

unnecessary, or she lacked the depravity indispensable to

shutting me up in mental darkness. It was, at least, necessary

for her to have some training, and some hardening, in the

exercise of the slaveholder’s prerogative, to make her equal

to forgetting my human nature and character, and to treat-

100

My Bondage and My Freedom

ing me as a thing destitute of a moral or an intellectual na-

ture. Mrs. Auld—my mistress—was, as I have said, a most

kind and tender-hearted woman; and, in the humanity of

her heart, and the simplicity of her mind, she set out, when

I first went to live with her, to treat me as she supposed one

human being ought to treat another.

It is easy to see, that, in entering upon the duties of a

slaveholder, some little experience is needed. Nature has done

almost nothing to prepare men and women to be either slaves

or slaveholders. Nothing but rigid training, long persisted

in, can perfect the character of the one or the other. One

cannot easily forget to love freedom; and it is as hard to cease

to respect that natural love in our fellow creatures. On enter-

ing upon the career of a slaveholding mistress, Mrs. Auld

was singularly deficient; nature, which fits nobody for such

an office, had done less for her than any lady I had known. It

was no easy matter to induce her to think and to feel that the

curly-headed boy, who stood by her side, and even leaned

on her lap; who was loved by little Tommy, and who loved

little Tommy in turn; sustained to her only the relation of a

chattel. I was more than that, and she felt me to be more

than that. I could talk and sing; I could laugh and weep; I

could reason and remember; I could love and hate. I was hu-

man, and she, dear lady, knew and felt me to be so. How

could she, then, treat me as a brute, without a mighty struggle

with all the noble powers of her own soul. That struggle came,

and the will and power of the husband was victorious. Her

noble soul was overthrown; but, he that overthrew it did not,

himself, escape the consequences. He, not less than the other

parties, was injured in his domestic peace by the fall.

When I went into their family, it was the abode of happi-

ness and contentment. The mistress of the house was a model

of affection and tenderness. Her fervent piety and watchful

uprightness made it impossible to see her without thinking

and feeling—“that woman is a Christian.” There was no sor-

row nor suffering for which she had not a tear, and there was

no innocent joy for which she did not a smile. She had bread

for the hungry, clothes for the naked, and comfort for every

mourner that came within her reach. Slavery soon proved its

ability to divest her of these excellent qualities, and her home

of its early happiness. Conscience cannot stand much vio-

lence. Once thoroughly broken down, who is he that can

101

Frederick Douglas

repair the damage? It may be broken toward the slave, on

Sunday, and toward the master on Monday. It cannot en-

dure such shocks. It must stand entire, or it does not stand at

all. If my condition waxed bad, that of the family waxed not

better. The first step, in the wrong direction, was the vio-

lence done to nature and to conscience, in arresting the be-

nevolence that would have enlightened my young mind. In

ceasing to instruct me, she must begin to justify herself to

herself; and, once consenting to take sides in such a debate,

she was riveted to her position. One needs very little knowl-

edge of moral philosophy, to see where my mistress now

landed. She finally became even more violent in her opposi-

tion to my learning to read, than was her husband himself.

She was not satisfied with simply doing as well as her hus-

band had commanded her, but seemed resolved to better his

instruction. Nothing appeared to make my poor mistress—

after her turning toward the downward path—more angry,

than seeing me, seated in some nook or corner, quietly read-

ing a book or a newspaper. I have had her rush at me, with

the utmost fury, and snatch from my hand such newspaper

or book, with something of the wrath and consternation

which a traitor might be supposed to feel on being discov-

ered in a plot by some dangerous spy.

Mrs. Auld was an apt woman, and the advice of her hus-

band, and her own experience, soon demonstrated, to her

entire satisfaction, that education and slavery are incompat-

ible with each other. When this conviction was thoroughly

established, I was most narrowly watched in all my move-

ments. If I remained in a separate room from the family for

any considerable length of time, I was sure to be suspected

of having a book, and was at once called upon to give an

account of myself. All this, however, was entirely too late.

The first, and never to be retraced, step had been taken. In

teaching me the alphabet, in the days of her simplicity and

kindness, my mistress had given me the “inch,” and now, no

ordinary precaution could prevent me from taking the “ell.”

Seized with a determination to learn to read, at any cost, I

hit upon many expedients to accomplish the desired end.

The plea which I mainly adopted, and the one by which I

was most successful, was that of using my young white play-

mates, with whom I met in the streets as teachers. I used to

carry, almost constantly, a copy of Webster’s spelling book in

102

My Bondage and My Freedom

my pocket; and, when sent of errands, or when play time

was allowed me, I would step, with my young friends, aside,

and take a lesson in spelling. I generally paid my tuition fee

to the boys, with bread, which I also carried in my pocket.

For a single biscuit, any of my hungry little comrades would

give me a lesson more valuable to me than bread. Not every

one, however, demanded this consideration, for there were

those who took pleasure in teaching me, whenever I had a

chance to be taught by them. I am strongly tempted to give

the names of two or three of those little boys, as a slight

testimonial of the gratitude and affection I bear them, but

prudence forbids; not that it would injure me, but it might,

possibly, embarrass them; for it is almost an unpardonable

offense to do any thing, directly or indirectly, to promote a

slave’s freedom, in a slave state. It is enough to say, of my

warm-hearted little play fellows, that they lived on Philpot

street, very near Durgin & Bailey’s shipyard.

Although slavery was a delicate subject, and very cautiously

talked about among grown up people in Maryland, I frequently

talked about it—and that very freely—with the white boys. I

would, sometimes, say to them, while seated on a curb stone or

a cellar door, “I wish I could be free, as you will be when you get

to be men.” “You will be free, you know, as soon as you are

twenty-one, and can go where you like, but I am a slave for life.

Have I not as good a right to be free as you have?” Words like

these, I observed, always troubled them; and I had no small

satisfaction in wringing from the boys, occasionally, that fresh

and bitter condemnation of slavery, that springs from nature,

unseared and unperverted. Of all consciences let me have those

to deal with which have not been bewildered by the cares of life.

I do not remember ever to have met with a boy, while I was in

slavery, who defended the slave system; but I have often had

boys to console me, with the hope that something would yet

occur, by which I might be made free. Over and over again,

they have told me, that “they believed I had as good a right to be

free as they had;” and that “they did not believe God ever made

any one to be a slave.” The reader will easily see, that such little

conversations with my play fellows, had no tendency to weaken

my love of liberty, nor to render me contented with my condi-

tion as a slave.

When I was about thirteen years old, and had succeeded

in learning to read, every increase of knowledge, especially

103

Frederick Douglas

respecting the FREE STATES, added something to the al-

most intolerable burden of the thought—I AM A SLAVE

FOR LIFE. To my bondage I saw no end. It was a terrible

reality, and I shall never be able to tell how sadly that thought

chafed my young spirit. Fortunately, or unfortunately, about

this time in my life, I had made enough money to buy what

was then a very popular school book, viz: the Columbian

Orator. I bought this addition to my library, of Mr. Knight,

on Thames street, Fell’s Point, Baltimore, and paid him fifty

cents for it. I was first led to buy this book, by hearing some

little boys say they were going to learn some little pieces out

of it for the Exhibition. This volume was, indeed, a rich trea-

sure, and every opportunity afforded me, for a time, was

spent in diligently perusing it. Among much other interest-

ing matter, that which I had perused and reperused with

unflagging satisfaction, was a short dialogue between a mas-

ter and his slave. The slave is represented as having been

recaptured, in a second attempt to run away; and the master

opens the dialogue with an upbraiding speech, charging the

slave with ingratitude, and demanding to know what he has

to say in his own defense. Thus upbraided, and thus called

upon to reply, the slave rejoins, that he knows how little

anything that he can say will avail, seeing that he is com-

pletely in the hands of his owner; and with noble resolution,

calmly says, “I submit to my fate.” Touched by the slave’s

answer, the master insists upon his further speaking, and re-

capitulates the many acts of kindness which he has performed

toward the slave, and tells him he is permitted to speak for

himself. Thus invited to the debate, the quondam slave made

a spirited defense of himself, and thereafter the whole argu-

ment, for and against slavery, was brought out. The master

was vanquished at every turn in the argument; and seeing him-

self to be thus vanquished, he generously and meekly emanci-

pates the slave, with his best wishes for his prosperity. It is

scarcely neccessary{sic} to say, that a dialogue, with such an

origin, and such an ending—read when the fact of my being a

slave was a constant burden of grief—powerfully affected me;

and I could not help feeling that the day might come, when

the well-directed answers made by the slave to the master, in

this instance, would find their counterpart in myself.

This, however, was not all the fanaticism which I found in

this Columbian Orator. I met there one of Sheridan’s mighty

104

My Bondage and My Freedom

speeches, on the subject of Catholic Emancipation, Lord

Chatham’s speech on the American war, and speeches by the

great William Pitt and by Fox. These were all choice docu-

ments to me, and I read them, over and over again, with an

interest that was ever increasing, because it was ever gaining

in intelligence; for the more I read them, the better I under-

stood them. The reading of these speeches added much to

my limited stock of language, and enabled me to give tongue

to many interesting thoughts, which had frequently flashed

through my soul, and died away for want of utterance. The

mighty power and heart-searching directness of truth, pen-

etrating even the heart of a slaveholder, compelling him to

yield up his earthly interests to the claims of eternal justice,

were finely illustrated in the dialogue, just referred to; and

from the speeches of Sheridan, I got a bold and powerful

denunciation of oppression, and a most brilliant vindication

of the rights of man. Here was, indeed, a noble acquisition.

If I ever wavered under the consideration, that the Almighty,

in some way, ordained slavery, and willed my enslavement

for his own glory, I wavered no longer. I had now penetrated

the secret of all slavery and oppression, and had ascertained

their true foundation to be in the pride, the power and the

avarice of man. The dialogue and the speeches were all redo-

lent of the principles of liberty, and poured floods of light on

the nature and character of slavery. With a book of this kind

in my hand, my own human nature, and the facts of my

experience, to help me, I was equal to a contest with the

religious advocates of slavery, whether among the whites or

among the colored people, for blindness, in this matter, is

not confined to the former. I have met many religious col-

ored people, at the south, who are under the delusion that

God requires them to submit to slavery, and to wear their

chains with meekness and humility. I could entertain no such

nonsense as this; and I almost lost my patience when I found

any colored man weak enough to believe such stuff. Never-

theless, the increase of knowledge was attended with bitter,

as well as sweet results. The more I read, the more I was led

to abhor and detest slavery, and my enslavers. “Slaveholders,”

thought I, “are only a band of successful robbers, who left

their homes and went into Africa for the purpose of stealing

and reducing my people to slavery.” I loathed them as the

meanest and the most wicked of men. As I read, behold! the

105

Frederick Douglas

very discontent so graphically predicted by Master Hugh,

had already come upon me. I was no longer the light-hearted,

gleesome boy, full of mirth and play, as when I landed first at

Baltimore. Knowledge had come; light had penetrated the

moral dungeon where I dwelt; and, behold! there lay the

bloody whip, for my back, and here was the iron chain; and

my good, kind master, he was the author of my situation.

The revelation haunted me, stung me, and made me gloomy

and miserable. As I writhed under the sting and torment of

this knowledge, I almost envied my fellow slaves their stupid

contentment. This knowledge opened my eyes to the hor-

rible pit, and revealed the teeth of the frightful dragon that

was ready to pounce upon me, but it opened no way for my

escape. I have often wished myself a beast, or a bird—any-

thing, rather than a slave. I was wretched and gloomy, be-

yond my ability to describe. I was too thoughtful to be happy.

It was this everlasting thinking which distressed and tor-

mented me; and yet there was no getting rid of the subject of

my thoughts. All nature was redolent of it. Once awakened

by the silver trump of knowledge, my spirit was roused to

eternal wakefulness. Liberty! the inestimable birthright of

every man, had, for me, converted every object into an asserter

of this great right. It was heard in every sound, and beheld in

every object. It was ever present, to torment me with a sense

of my wretched condition. The more beautiful and charm-

ing were the smiles of nature, the more horrible and desolate

was my condition. I saw nothing without seeing it, and I

heard nothing without hearing it. I do not exaggerate, when

I say, that it looked from every star, smiled in every calm,

breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.

I have no doubt that my state of mind had something to do

with the change in the treatment adopted, by my once kind

mistress toward me. I can easily believe, that my leaden, down-

cast, and discontented look, was very offensive to her. Poor

lady! She did not know my trouble, and I dared not tell her.

Could I have freely made her acquainted with the real state of

my mind, and given her the reasons therefor, it might have

been well for both of us. Her abuse of me fell upon me like the

blows of the false prophet upon his ass; she did not know that

an angel stood in the way; and—such is the relation of master

and slave I could not tell her. Nature had made us friends;

slavery made us enemies. My interests were in a direction op-

106

My Bondage and My Freedom

posite to hers, and we both had our private thoughts and plans.

She aimed to keep me ignorant; and I resolved to know, al-

though knowledge only increased my discontent. My feelings

were not the result of any marked cruelty in the treatment I

received; they sprung from the consideration of my being a

slave at all. It was slavery—not its mere incidents—that I hated.

I had been cheated. I saw through the attempt to keep me in

ignorance; I saw that slaveholders would have gladly made me

believe that they were merely acting under the authority of

God, in making a slave of me, and in making slaves of others;

and I treated them as robbers and deceivers. The feeding and

clothing me well, could not atone for taking my liberty from

me. The smiles of my mistress could not remove the deep

sorrow that dwelt in my young bosom. Indeed, these, in time,

came only to deepen my sorrow. She had changed; and the

reader will see that I had changed, too. We were both victims

to the same overshadowing evil—she, as mistress, I, as slave. I

will not censure her harshly; she cannot censure me, for she

knows I speak but the truth, and have acted in my opposition

to slavery, just as she herself would have acted, in a reverse of

circumstances.

CHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XII RRRRReligious Neligious Neligious Neligious Neligious Naturaturaturaturature Ae Ae Ae Ae Awakenedwakenedwakenedwakenedwakened

ABOLITIONISTS SPOKEN OF—MY EAGERNESS TO

KNOW WHAT THIS WORD MEANT—MY CONSUL-

TATION OF THE DICTIONARY—INCENDIARY IN-

FORMATION—HOW AND WHERE DERIVED—

THE ENIGMA SOLVED—NATHANIEL TURNER’S

INSURRECTION—THE CHOLERA—RELIGION—

FIRST AWAKENED BY A METHODIST MINISTER

NAMED HANSON—MY DEAR AND GOOD OLD

COLORED FRIEND, LAWSON—HIS CHARACTER

AND OCCUPATION—HIS INFLUENCE OVER ME—

OUR MUTUAL ATTACHMENT—THE COMFORT I

DERIVED FROM HIS TEACHING—NEW HOPES

AND ASPIRATIONS—HEAVENLY LIGHT AMIDST

EARTHLY DARKNESS—THE TWO IRISHMEN ON

THE WHARF—THEIR CONVERSATION—HOW I

LEARNED TO WRITE—WHAT WERE MY AIMS.

WHILST IN THE PAINFUL STATE OF MIND described in the fore-

107

Frederick Douglas

going chapter, almost regretting my very existence, because

doomed to a life of bondage, so goaded and so wretched, at

times, that I was even tempted to destroy my own life, I was

keenly sensitive and eager to know any, and every thing that

transpired, having any relation to the subject of slavery. I

was all ears, all eyes, whenever the words slave, slavery, dropped

from the lips of any white person, and the occasions were

not unfrequent when these words became leading ones, in

high, social debate, at our house. Every little while, I could

hear Master Hugh, or some of his company, speaking with

much warmth and excitement about “abolitionists.” Of who

or what these were, I was totally ignorant. I found, however,

that whatever they might be, they were most cordially hated

and soundly abused by slaveholders, of every grade. I very

soon discovered, too, that slavery was, in some sort, under

consideration, whenever the abolitionists were alluded to.

This made the term a very interesting one to me. If a slave,

for instance, had made good his escape from slavery, it was

generally alleged, that he had been persuaded and assisted

by the abolitionists. If, also, a slave killed his master—as was

sometimes the case—or struck down his overseer, or set fire

to his master’s dwelling, or committed any violence or crime,

out of the common way, it was certain to be said, that such a

crime was the legitimate fruits of the abolition movement.

Hearing such charges often repeated, I, naturally enough,

received the impression that abolition—whatever else it might

be—could not be unfriendly to the slave, nor very friendly

to the slaveholder. I therefore set about finding out, if pos-

sible, who and what the abolitionists were, and why they were

so obnoxious to the slaveholders. The dictionary afforded

me very little help. It taught me that abolition was the “act

of abolishing;” but it left me in ignorance at the very point

where I most wanted information—and that was, as to the

thing to be abolished. A city newspaper, the Baltimore Ameri-

can, gave me the incendiary information denied me by the

dictionary. In its columns I found, that, on a certain day, a

vast number of petitions and memorials had been presented

to congress, praying for the abolition of slavery in the Dis-

trict of Columbia, and for the abolition of the slave trade

between the states of the Union. This was enough. The vin-

dictive bitterness, the marked caution, the studied reverse,

and the cumbrous ambiguity, practiced by our white folks,

108

My Bondage and My Freedom

when alluding to this subject, was now fully explained. Ever,

after that, when I heard the words “abolition,” or “abolition

movement,” mentioned, I felt the matter one of a personal

concern; and I drew near to listen, when I could do so, with-

out seeming too solicitous and prying. There was HOPE in

those words. Ever and anon, too, I could see some terrible

denunciation of slavery, in our papers—copied from aboli-

tion papers at the north—and the injustice of such denun-

ciation commented on. These I read with avidity. I had a

deep satisfaction in the thought, that the rascality of

slaveholders was not concealed from the eyes of the world,

and that I was not alone in abhorring the cruelty and brutal-

ity of slavery. A still deeper train of thought was stirred. I

saw that there was fear, as well as rage, in the manner of

speaking of the abolitionists. The latter, therefore, I was com-

pelled to regard as having some power in the country; and I

felt that they might, possibly, succeed in their designs. When

I met with a slave to whom I deemed it safe to talk on the

subject, I would impart to him so much of the mystery as I

had been able to penetrate. Thus, the light of this grand

movement broke in upon my mind, by degrees; and I must

say, that, ignorant as I then was of the philosophy of that

movement, I believe in it from the first—and I believed in

it, partly, because I saw that it alarmed the consciences of

slaveholders. The insurrection of Nathaniel Turner had been

quelled, but the alarm and terror had not subsided. The chol-

era was on its way, and the thought was present, that God

was angry with the white people because of their slaveholding

wickedness, and, therefore, his judgments were abroad in

the land. It was impossible for me not to hope much from

the abolition movement, when I saw it supported by the

Almighty, and armed with DEATH!

Previous to my contemplation of the anti-slavery move-

ment, and its probable results, my mind had been seriously

awakened to the subject of religion. I was not more than

thirteen years old, when I felt the need of God, as a father

and protector. My religious nature was awakened by the

preaching of a white Methodist minister, named Hanson.

He thought that all men, great and small, bond and free,

were sinners in the sight of God; that they were, by nature,

rebels against His government; and that they must repent of

their sins, and be reconciled to God, through Christ. I can-

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Frederick Douglas

not say that I had a very distinct notion of what was required

of me; but one thing I knew very well—I was wretched, and

had no means of making myself otherwise. Moreover, I knew

that I could pray for light. I consulted a good colored man,

named Charles Johnson; and, in tones of holy affection, he

told me to pray, and what to pray for. I was, for weeks, a

poor, brokenhearted mourner, traveling through the dark-

ness and misery of doubts and fears. I finally found that

change of heart which comes by “casting all one’s care” upon

God, and by having faith in Jesus Christ, as the Redeemer,

Friend, and Savior of those who diligently seek Him.

After this, I saw the world in a new light. I seemed to live

in a new world, surrounded by new objects, and to be ani-

mated by new hopes and desires. I loved all mankind—

slaveholders not excepted; though I abhorred slavery more

than ever. My great concern was, now, to have the world

converted. The desire for knowledge increased, and espe-

cially did I want a thorough acquaintance with the contents

of the bible. I have gathered scattered pages from this holy

book, from the filthy street gutters of Baltimore, and washed

and dried them, that in the moments of my leisure, I might

get a word or two of wisdom from them. While thus reli-

giously seeking knowledge, I became acquainted with a good

old colored man, named Lawson. A more devout man than

he, I never saw. He drove a dray for Mr. James Ramsey, the

owner of a rope-walk on Fell’s Point, Baltimore. This man

not only prayed three time a day, but he prayed as he walked

through the streets, at his work—on his dray everywhere.

His life was a life of prayer, and his words (when he spoke to

his friends,) were about a better world. Uncle Lawson lived

near Master Hugh’s house; and, becoming deeply attached

to the old man, I went often with him to prayer-meeting,

and spent much of my leisure time with him on Sunday.

The old man could read a little, and I was a great help to

him, in making out the hard words, for I was a better reader

than he. I could teach him “the letter,” but he could teach me

“the spirit;” and high, refreshing times we had together, in

singing, praying and glorifying God. These meetings with

Uncle Lawson went on for a long time, without the knowl-

edge of Master Hugh or my mistress. Both knew, however,

that I had become religious, and they seemed to respect my

conscientious piety. My mistress was still a professor of reli-

110

My Bondage and My Freedom

gion, and belonged to class. Her leader was no less a person

than the Rev. Beverly Waugh, the presiding elder, and now

one of the bishops of the Methodist Episcopal church. Mr.

Waugh was then stationed over Wilk street church. I am

careful to state these facts, that the reader may be able to

form an idea of the precise influences which had to do with

shaping and directing my mind.

In view of the cares and anxieties incident to the life she was

then leading, and, especially, in view of the separation from

religious associations to which she was subjected, my mistress

had, as I have before stated, become lukewarm, and needed to

be looked up by her leader. This brought Mr. Waugh to our

house, and gave me an opportunity to hear him exhort and

pray. But my chief instructor, in matters of religion, was Uncle

Lawson. He was my spiritual father; and I loved him intensely,

and was at his house every chance I got.

This pleasure was not long allowed me. Master Hugh be-

came averse to my going to Father Lawson’s, and threatened

to whip me if I ever went there again. I now felt myself per-

secuted by a wicked man; and I would go to Father Lawson’s,

notwithstanding the threat. The good old man had told me,

that the “Lord had a great work for me to do;” and I must

prepare to do it; and that he had been shown that I must

preach the gospel. His words made a deep impression on my

mind, and I verily felt that some such work was before me,

though I could not see how I should ever engage in its per-

formance. “The good Lord,” he said, “would bring it to pass

in his own good time,” and that I must go on reading and

studying the scriptures. The advice and the suggestions of

Uncle Lawson, were not without their influence upon my

character and destiny. He threw my thoughts into a channel

from which they have never entirely diverged. He fanned

my already intense love of knowledge into a flame, by assur-

ing me that I was to be a useful man in the world. When I

would say to him, “How can these things be and what can I

do?” his simple reply was, “Trust in the Lord.” When I told

him that “I was a slave, and a slave FOR LIFE,” he said, “the

Lord can make you free, my dear. All things are possible

with him, only have faith in God.” “Ask, and it shall be given.”

“If you want liberty,” said the good old man, “ask the Lord

for it, in faith, AND HE WILL GIVE IT TO YOU.”

Thus assured, and cheered on, under the inspiration of

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Frederick Douglas

hope, I worked and prayed with a light heart, believing that

my life was under the guidance of a wisdom higher than my

own. With all other blessings sought at the mercy seat, I

always prayed that God would, of His great mercy, and in

His own good time, deliver me from my bondage.

I went, one day, on the wharf of Mr. Waters; and seeing

two Irishmen unloading a large scow of stone, or ballast I

went on board, unasked, and helped them. When we had

finished the work, one of the men came to me, aside, and

asked me a number of questions, and among them, if I were

a slave. I told him “I was a slave, and a slave for life.” The

good Irishman gave his shoulders a shrug, and seemed deeply

affected by the statement. He said, “it was a pity so fine a

little fellow as myself should be a slave for life.” They both

had much to say about the matter, and expressed the deepest

sympathy with me, and the most decided hatred of slavery.

They went so far as to tell me that I ought to run away, and

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

would be as free as anybody. I, however, pretended not to be

interested in what they said, for I feared they might be treach-

erous. White men have been known to encourage slaves to

escape, and then—to get the reward—they have kidnapped

them, and returned them to their masters. And while I mainly

inclined to the notion that these men were honest and meant

me no ill, I feared it might be otherwise. I nevertheless re-

membered their words and their advice, and looked forward

to an escape to the north, as a possible means of gaining the

liberty for which my heart panted. It was not my enslave-

ment, at the then present time, that most affected me; the

being a slave for life, was the saddest thought. I was too young

to think of running away immediately; besides, I wished to

learn how to write, before going, as I might have occasion to

write my own pass. I now not only had the hope of freedom,

but a foreshadowing of the means by which I might, some

day, gain that inestimable boon. Meanwhile, I resolved to

add to my educational attainments the art of writing.

After this manner I began to learn to write: I was much in

the ship yard—Master Hugh’s, and that of Durgan &

Bailey—and I observed that the carpenters, after hewing and

getting a piece of timber ready for use, wrote on it the ini-

tials of the name of that part of the ship for which it was

intended. When, for instance, a piece of timber was ready

112

My Bondage and My Freedom

for the starboard side, it was marked with a capital “S.” A

piece for the larboard side was marked “L;” larboard for-

ward, “L. F.;” larboard aft, was marked “L. A.;” starboard

aft, “S. A.;” and starboard forward “S. F.” I soon learned

these letters, and for what they were placed on the timbers.

My work was now, to keep fire under the steam box, and

to watch the ship yard while the carpenters had gone to din-

ner. This interval gave me a fine opportunity for copying the

letters named. I soon astonished myself with the ease with

which I made the letters; and the thought was soon present,

“if I can make four, I can make more.” But having made

these easily, when I met boys about Bethel church, or any of

our play-grounds, I entered the lists with them in the art of

writing, and would make the letters which I had been so

fortunate as to learn, and ask them to “beat that if they could.”

With playmates for my teachers, fences and pavements for

my copy books, and chalk for my pen and ink, I learned the

art of writing. I, however, afterward adopted various meth-

ods of improving my hand. The most successful, was copy-

ing the italics in Webster’s spelling book, until I could make

them all without looking on the book. By this time, my little

“Master Tommy” had grown to be a big boy, and had writ-

ten over a number of copy books, and brought them home.

They had been shown to the neighbors, had elicited due

praise, and were now laid carefully away. Spending my time

between the ship yard and house, I was as often the lone

keeper of the latter as of the former. When my mistress left

me in charge of the house, I had a grand time; I got Master

Tommy’s copy books and a pen and ink, and, in the ample

spaces between the lines, I wrote other lines, as nearly like

his as possible. The process was a tedious one, and I ran the

risk of getting a flogging for marring the highly prized copy

books of the oldest son. In addition to those opportunities,

sleeping, as I did, in the kitchen loft—a room seldom visited

by any of the family—I got a flour barrel up there, and a

chair; and upon the head of that barrel I have written (or

endeavored to write) copying from the bible and the Meth-

odist hymn book, and other books which had accumulated

on my hands, till late at night, and when all the family were

in bed and asleep. I was supported in my endeavors by re-

newed advice, and by holy promises from the good Father

Lawson, with whom I continued to meet, and pray, and read

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Frederick Douglas

the scriptures. Although Master Hugh was aware of my go-

ing there, I must say, for his credit, that he never executed

his threat to whip me, for having thus, innocently, employed-

my leisure time.

CHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIII The The The The The VVVVVicissitudes of Sicissitudes of Sicissitudes of Sicissitudes of Sicissitudes of Slavlavlavlavlave Le Le Le Le Lifeifeifeifeife

DEATH OF OLD MASTER’S SON RICHARD, SPEED-

ILY FOLLOWED BY THAT OF OLD MASTER—VALU-

ATION AND DIVISION OF ALL THE PROPERTY,

INCLUDING THE SLAVES—MY PRESENCE RE-

QUIRED AT HILLSBOROUGH TO BE APPRAISED

AND ALLOTTED TO A NEW OWNER—MY SAD

PROSPECTS AND GRIEF—PARTING—THE UTTER

POWERLESSNESS OF THE SLAVES TO DECIDE

THEIR OWN DESTINY—A GENERAL DREAD OF

MASTER ANDREW—HIS WICKEDNESS AND CRU-

ELTY—MISS LUCRETIA MY NEW OWNER—MY

RETURN TO BALTIMORE—JOY UNDER THE ROOF

OF MASTER HUGH—DEATH OF MRS. LUCRETIA—

MY POOR OLD GRANDMOTHER—HER SAD

FATE—THE LONE COT IN THE WOODS—MASTER

THOMAS AULD’S SECOND MARRIAGE—AGAIN

REMOVED FROM MASTER HUGH’S—REASONS

FOR REGRETTING THE CHANGE—A PLAN OF ES-

114

My Bondage and My Freedom

CAPE ENTERTAINED.

I MUST NOW ASK the reader to go with me a little back in

point of time, in my humble story, and to notice another

circumstance that entered into my slavery experience, and

which, doubtless, has had a share in deepening my horror of

slavery, and increasing my hostility toward those men and

measures that practically uphold the slave system.

It has already been observed, that though I was, after my

removal from Col. Lloyd’s plantation, in form the slave of

Master Hugh, I was, in fact, and in law, the slave of my old

master, Capt. Anthony. Very well.

In a very short time after I went to Baltimore, my old

master’s youngest son, Richard, died; and, in three years and

six months after his death, my old master himself died, leav-

ing only his son, Andrew, and his daughter, Lucretia, to share

his estate. The old man died while on a visit to his daughter,

in Hillsborough, where Capt. Auld and Mrs. Lucretia now

lived. The former, having given up the command of Col.

Lloyd’s sloop, was now keeping a store in that town.

Cut off, thus unexpectedly, Capt. Anthony died intestate;

and his property must now be equally divided between his

two children, Andrew and Lucretia.

The valuation and the division of slaves, among contend-

ing heirs, is an important incident in slave life. The charac-

ter and tendencies of the heirs, are generally well understood

among the slaves who are to be divided, and all have their

aversions and preferences. But, neither their aversions nor

their preferences avail them anything.

On the death of old master, I was immediately sent for, to

be valued and divided with the other property. Personally,

my concern was, mainly, about my possible removal from

the home of Master Hugh, which, after that of my grand-

mother, was the most endeared to me. But, the whole thing,

as a feature of slavery, shocked me. It furnished me anew

insight into the unnatural power to which I was subjected.

My detestation of slavery, already great, rose with this new

conception of its enormity.

That was a sad day for me, a sad day for little Tommy, and

a sad day for my dear Baltimore mistress and teacher, when I

left for the Eastern Shore, to be valued and divided. We, all

three, wept bitterly that day; for we might be parting, and

115

Frederick Douglas

we feared we were parting, forever. No one could tell among

which pile of chattels I should be flung. Thus early, I got a

foretaste of that painful uncertainty which slavery brings to

the ordinary lot of mortals. Sickness, adversity and death

may interfere with the plans and purposes of all; but the

slave has the added danger of changing homes, changing

hands, and of having separations unknown to other men.

Then, too, there was the intensified degradation of the spec-

tacle. What an assemblage! Men and women, young and old,

married and single; moral and intellectual beings, in open

contempt of their humanity, level at a blow with horses, sheep,

horned cattle and swine! Horses and men—cattle and

women—pigs and children—all holding the same rank in

the scale of social existence; and all subjected to the same

narrow inspection, to ascertain their value in gold and sil-

ver—the only standard of worth applied by slaveholders to

slaves! How vividly, at that moment, did the brutalizing power

of slavery flash before me! Personality swallowed up in the

sordid idea of property! Manhood lost in chattelhood!

After the valuation, then came the division. This was an

hour of high excitement and distressing anxiety. Our destiny

was now to be fixed for life, and we had no more voice in the

decision of the question, than the oxen and cows that stood

chewing at the haymow. One word from the appraisers, against

all preferences or prayers, was enough to sunder all the ties of

friendship and affection, and even to separate husbands and

wives, parents and children. We were all appalled before that

power, which, to human seeming, could bless or blast us in a

moment. Added to the dread of separation, most painful to

the majority of the slaves, we all had a decided horror of the

thought of falling into the hands of Master Andrew. He was

distinguished for cruelty and intemperance.

Slaves generally dread to fall into the hands of drunken own-

ers. Master Andrew was almost a confirmed sot, and had al-

ready, by his reckless mismanagement and profligate dissipa-

tion, wasted a large portion of old master’s property. To fall

into his hands, was, therefore, considered merely as the first

step toward being sold away to the far south. He would spend

his fortune in a few years, and his farms and slaves would be

sold, we thought, at public outcry; and we should be hurried

away to the cotton fields, and rice swamps, of the sunny south.

This was the cause of deep consternation.

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My Bondage and My Freedom

The people of the north, and free people generally, I think,

have less attachment to the places where they are born and

brought up, than have the slaves. Their freedom to go and

come, to be here and there, as they list, prevents any extrava-

gant attachment to any one particular place, in their case.

On the other hand, the slave is a fixture; he has no choice,

no goal, no destination; but is pegged down to a single spot,

and must take root here, or nowhere. The idea of removal

elsewhere, comes, generally, in the shape of a threat, and in

punishment of crime. It is, therefore, attended with fear and

dread. A slave seldom thinks of bettering his condition by

being sold, and hence he looks upon separation from his

native place, with none of the enthusiasm which animates

the bosoms of young freemen, when they contemplate a life

in the far west, or in some distant country where they intend

to rise to wealth and distinction. Nor can those from whom

they separate, give them up with that cheerfulness with which

friends and relations yield each other up, when they feel that

it is for the good of the departing one that he is removed

from his native place. Then, too, there is correspondence,

and there is, at least, the hope of reunion, because reunion is

possible. But, with the slave, all these mitigating circumstances

are wanting. There is no improvement in his condition prob-

able,—no correspondence possible,—no reunion attainable. His

going out into the world, is like a living man going into the

tomb, who, with open eyes, sees himself buried out of sight

and hearing of wife, children and friends of kindred tie.

In contemplating the likelihoods and possibilities of our

circumstances, I probably suffered more than most of my

fellow servants. I had known what it was to experience kind,

and even tender treatment; they had known nothing of the

sort. Life, to them, had been rough and thorny, as well as

dark. They had—most of them—lived on my old master’s

farm in Tuckahoe, and had felt the reign of Mr. Plummer’s

rule. The overseer had written his character on the living

parchment of most of their backs, and left them callous; my

back (thanks to my early removal from the plantation to

Baltimore) was yet tender. I had left a kind mistress at Balti-

more, who was almost a mother to me. She was in tears when

we parted, and the probabilities of ever seeing her again, trem-

bling in the balance as they did, could not be viewed with-

out alarm and agony. The thought of leaving that kind mis-

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Frederick Douglas

tress forever, and, worse still, of being the slave of Andrew

Anthony—a man who, but a few days before the division of

the property, had, in my presence, seized my brother Perry

by the throat, dashed him on the ground, and with the heel

of his boot stamped him on the head, until the blood gushed

from his nose and ears—was terrible! This fiendish proceed-

ing had no better apology than the fact, that Perry had gone

to play, when Master Andrew wanted him for some trifling

service. This cruelty, too, was of a piece with his general char-

acter. After inflicting his heavy blows on my brother, on ob-

serving me looking at him with intense astonishment, he

said, “That is the way I will serve you, one of these days;”

meaning, no doubt, when I should come into his posses-

sion. This threat, the reader may well suppose, was not very

tranquilizing to my feelings. I could see that he really thirsted

to get hold of me. But I was there only for a few days. I had

not received any orders, and had violated none, and there

was, therefore, no excuse for flogging me.

At last, the anxiety and suspense were ended; and they

ended, thanks to a kind Providence, in accordance with my

wishes. I fell to the portion of Mrs. Lucretia—the dear lady

who bound up my head, when the savage Aunt Katy was

adding to my sufferings her bitterest maledictions.

Capt. Thomas Auld and Mrs. Lucretia at once decided on

my return to Baltimore. They knew how sincerely and warmly

Mrs. Hugh Auld was attached to me, and how delighted Mr.

Hugh’s son would be to have me back; and, withal, having

no immediate use for one so young, they willingly let me off

to Baltimore.

I need not stop here to narrate my joy on returning to

Baltimore, nor that of little Tommy; nor the tearful joy of

his mother; nor the evident saticfaction{sic} of Master Hugh.

I was just one month absent from Baltimore, before the matter

was decided; and the time really seemed full six months.

One trouble over, and on comes another. The slave’s life is

full of uncertainty. I had returned to Baltimore but a short

time, when the tidings reached me, that my friend, Mrs.

Lucretia, who was only second in my regard to Mrs. Hugh

Auld, was dead, leaving her husband and only one child—a

daughter, named Amanda.

Shortly after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, strange to say,

Master Andrew died, leaving his wife and one child. Thus,

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My Bondage and My Freedom

the whole family of Anthonys was swept away; only two chil-

dren remained. All this happened within five years of my

leaving Col. Lloyd’s.

No alteration took place in the condition of the slaves, in

consequence of these deaths, yet I could not help feeling less

secure, after the death of my friend, Mrs. Lucretia, than I

had done during her life. While she lived, I felt that I had a

strong friend to plead for me in any emergency. Ten years

ago, while speaking of the state of things in our family, after

the events just named, I used this language:

Now all the property of my old master, slaves included,

was in the hands of strangers—strangers who had nothing

to do in accumulating it. Not a slave was left free. All re-

mained slaves, from youngest to oldest. If any one thing in

my experience, more than another, served to deepen my con-

viction 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 ser-

vice. She had rocked him in infancy, attended him in child-

hood, served him through life, and at his death wiped from

his icy brow the cold death-sweat, and closed his eyes for-

ever. 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

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Frederick Douglas

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 chil-

dren, 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 hid-

eous 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 end-

ing of human existence meet, and helpless infancy and pain-

ful old age combine together—at this time, this most need-

ful time, the time for the exercise of that tenderness and af-

fection which children only can exercise toward a declining

parent—my poor old grandmother, the devoted mother of

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

few dim embers.

Two years after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, Master Tho-

mas married his second wife. Her name was Rowena

Hamilton, the eldest daughter of Mr. William Hamilton, a

rich slaveholder on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, who lived

about five miles from St. Michael’s, the then place of my

master’s residence.

Not long after his marriage, Master Thomas had a misun-

derstanding with Master Hugh, and, as a means of punish-

ing his brother, he ordered him to send me home.

As the ground of misunderstanding will serve to illustrate the

character of southern chivalry, and humanity, I will relate it.

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My Bondage and My Freedom

Among the children of my Aunt Milly, was a daughter,

named Henny. When quite a child, Henny had fallen into the

fire, and burnt her hands so bad that they were of very little

use to her. Her fingers were drawn almost into the palms of

her hands. She could make out to do something, but she was

considered hardly worth the having—of little more value than

a horse with a broken leg. This unprofitable piece of human

property, ill shapen, and disfigured, Capt. Auld sent off to

Baltimore, making his brother Hugh welcome to her services.

After giving poor Henny a fair trial, Master Hugh and his

wife came to the conclusion, that they had no use for the

crippled servant, and they sent her back to Master Thomas.

Thus, the latter took as an act of ingratitude, on the part of

his brother; and, as a mark of his displeasure, he required

him to send me immediately to St. Michael’s, saying, if he

cannot keep “Hen,” he shall not have “Fred.”

Here was another shock to my nerves, another breaking

up of my plans, and another severance of my religious and

social alliances. I was now a big boy. I had become quite

useful to several young colored men, who had made me their

teacher. I had taught some of them to read, and was accus-

tomed to spend many of my leisure hours with them. Our

attachment was strong, and I greatly dreaded the separation.

But regrets, especially in a slave, are unavailing. I was only a

slave; my wishes were nothing, and my happiness was the

sport of my masters.

My regrets at now leaving Baltimore, were not for the same

reasons as when I before left that city, to be valued and handed

over to my proper owner. My home was not now the pleas-

ant place it had formerly been. A change had taken place,

both in Master Hugh, and in his once pious and affectionate

wife. The influence of brandy and bad company on him,

and the influence of slavery and social isolation upon her,

had wrought disastrously upon the characters of both.

Thomas was no longer “little Tommy,” but was a big boy,

and had learned to assume the airs of his class toward me.

My condition, therefore, in the house of Master Hugh, was

not, by any means, so comfortable as in former years. My

attachments were now outside of our family. They were felt

to those to whom I imparted instruction, and to those little

white boys from whom I received instruction. There, too,

was my dear old father, the pious Lawson, who was, in

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Frederick Douglas

christian graces, the very counterpart of “Uncle” Tom. The

resemblance is so perfect, that he might have been the origi-

nal of Mrs. Stowe’s christian hero. The thought of leaving

these dear friends, greatly troubled me, for I was going with-

out the hope of ever returning to Baltimore again; the feud

between Master Hugh and his brother being bitter and ir-

reconcilable, or, at least, supposed to be so.

In addition to thoughts of friends from whom I was part-

ing, as I supposed, forever, I had the grief of neglected chances

of escape to brood over. I had put off running away, until

now I was to be placed where the opportunities for escaping

were much fewer than in a large city like Baltimore.

On my way from Baltimore to St. Michael’s, down the

Chesapeake bay, our sloop—the “Amanda”—was passed by

the steamers plying between that city and Philadelphia, and

I watched the course of those steamers, and, while going to

St. Michael’s, I formed a plan to escape from slavery; of which

plan, and matters connected therewith the kind reader shall

learn more hereafter.

CHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XIV EEEEExperience in Sxperience in Sxperience in Sxperience in Sxperience in St. Mt. Mt. Mt. Mt. Michaelichaelichaelichaelichael’’’’’sssss

THE VILLAGE—ITS INHABITANTS—THEIR OCCU-

PATION AND LOW PROPENSITIES CAPTAN{sic}

THOMAS AULD—HIS CHARACTER—HIS SECOND

WIFE, ROWENA—WELL MATCHED—SUFFERINGS

FROM HUNGER—OBLIGED TO TAKE FOOD—

MODE OF ARGUMENT IN VINDICATION

THEREOF—NO MORAL CODE OF FREE SOCIETY

CAN APPLY TO SLAVE SOCIETY—SOUTHERN

CAMP MEETING—WHAT MASTER THOMAS DID

THERE—HOPES—SUSPICIONS ABOUT HIS CON-

VERSION—THE RESULT—FAITH AND WORKS

ENTIRELY AT VARIANCE—HIS RISE AND

PROGRESS IN THE CHURCH—POOR COUSIN

“HENNY”—HIS TREATMENT OF HER—THE

METHODIST PREACHERS—THEIR UTTER DISRE-

GARD OF US—ONE EXCELLENT EXCEPTION—

REV. GEORGE COOKMAN—SABBATH SCHOOL—

HOW BROKEN UP AND BY WHOM—A FUNERAL

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My Bondage and My Freedom

PALL CAST OVER ALL MY PROSPECTS—COVEY

THE NEGRO-BREAKER.

ST. MICHAEL’S, the village in which was now my new home,

compared favorably with villages in slave states, generally.

There were a few comfortable dwellings in it, but the place,

as a whole, wore a dull, slovenly, enterprise-forsaken aspect.

The mass of the buildings were wood; they had never en-

joyed the artificial adornment of paint, and time and storms

had worn off the bright color of the wood, leaving them

almost as black as buildings charred by a conflagration.

St. Michael’s had, in former years, (previous to 1833, for

that was the year I went to reside there,) enjoyed some repu-

tation as a ship building community, but that business had

almost entirely given place to oyster fishing, for the Balti-

more and Philadelphia markets—a course of life highly un-

favorable to morals, industry, and manners. Miles river was

broad, and its oyster fishing grounds were extensive; and the

fishermen were out, often, all day, and a part of the night,

during autumn, winter and spring. This exposure was an

excuse for carrying with them, in considerable quanties{sic},

spirituous liquors, the then supposed best antidote for cold.

Each canoe was supplied with its jug of rum; and tippling,

among this class of the citizens of St. Michael’s, became gen-

eral. This drinking habit, in an ignorant population, fos-

tered coarseness, vulgarity and an indolent disregard for the

social improvement of the place, so that it was admitted, by

the few sober, thinking people who remained there, that St.

Michael’s had become a very unsaintly, as well as unsightly

place, before I went there to reside.

I left Baltimore for St. Michael’s in the month of March,

1833. I know the year, because it was the one succeeding the

first cholera in Baltimore, and was the year, also, of that

strange phenomenon, when the heavens seemed about to

part with its starry train. I witnessed this gorgeous spectacle,

and was awe-struck. The air seemed filled with bright, de-

scending messengers from the sky. It was about daybreak

when I saw this sublime scene. I was not without the sugges-

tion, at the moment, that it might be the harbinger of the

coming of the Son of Man; and, in my then state of mind, I

was prepared to hail Him as my friend and deliverer. I had

read, that the “stars shall fall from heaven”; and they were

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Frederick Douglas

now falling. I was suffering much in my mind. It did seem

that every time the young tendrils of my affection became

attached, they were rudely broken by some unnatural out-

side power; and I was beginning to look away to heaven for

the rest denied me on earth.

But, to my story. It was now more than seven years since I

had lived with Master Thomas Auld, in the family of my old

master, on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. We were almost entire

strangers to each other; for, when I knew him at the house of

my old master, it was not as a master, but simply as “Captain

Auld,” who had married old master’s daughter. All my les-

sons concerning his temper and disposition, and the best

methods of pleasing him, were yet to be learnt. Slaveholders,

however, are not very ceremonious in approaching a slave;

and my ignorance of the new material in shape of a master

was but transient. Nor was my mistress long in making known

her animus. She was not a “Miss Lucretia,” traces of whom I

yet remembered, and the more especially, as I saw them shin-

ing in the face of little Amanda, her daughter, now living

under a step-mother’s government. I had not forgotten the

soft hand, guided by a tender heart, that bound up with

healing balsam the gash made in my head by Ike, the son of

Abel. Thomas and Rowena, I found to be a well-matched

pair. He was stingy, and she was cruel; and—what was quite

natural in such cases—she possessed the ability to make him

as cruel as herself, while she could easily descend to the level

of his meanness. In the house of Master Thomas, I was

made—for the first time in seven years to feel the pinchings

of hunger, and this was not very easy to bear.

For, in all the changes of Master Hugh’s family, there was

no change in the bountifulness with which they supplied me

with food. Not to give a slave enough to eat, is meanness

intensified, and it is so recognized among slaveholders gen-

erally, in Maryland. The rule is, no matter how coarse the

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

in the part of Maryland I came from—the general practice

accords with this theory. Lloyd’s plantation was an excep-

tion, as was, also, the house of Master Thomas Auld.

All know the lightness of Indian corn-meal, as an article of

food, and can easily judge from the following facts whether

the statements I have made of the stinginess of Master Tho-

mas, are borne out. There were four slaves of us in the kitchen,

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My Bondage and My Freedom

and four whites in the great house Thomas Auld, Mrs. Auld,

Hadaway Auld (brother of Thomas Auld) and little Amanda.

The names of the slaves in the kitchen, were Eliza, my sister;

Priscilla, my aunt; Henny, my cousin; and myself. There were

eight persons in the family. There was, each week, one half

bushel of corn-meal brought from the mill; and in the

kitchen, corn-meal was almost our exclusive food, for very

little else was allowed us. Out of this bushel of corn-meal,

the family in the great house had a small loaf every morning;

thus leaving us, in the kitchen, with not quite a half a peck

per week, apiece. This allowance was less than half the al-

lowance of food on Lloyd’s plantation. It was not enough to

subsist upon; and we were, therefore, reduced to the wretched

necessity of living at the expense of our neighbors. We were

compelled either to beg, or to steal, and we did both. I frankly

confess, that while I hated everything like stealing, as such, I

nevertheless did not hesitate to take food, when I was hun-

gry, wherever I could find it. Nor was this practice the mere

result of an unreasoning instinct; it was, in my case, the re-

sult of a clear apprehension of the claims of morality. I

weighed and considered the matter closely, before I ventured

to satisfy my hunger by such means. Considering that my

labor and person were the property of Master Thomas, and

that I was by him deprived of the necessaries of life neces-

saries obtained by my own labor—it was easy to deduce the

right to supply myself with what was my own. It was simply

appropriating what was my own to the use of my master,

since the health and strength derived from such food were

exerted in his service. To be sure, this was stealing, according

to the law and gospel I heard from St. Michael’s pulpit; but I

had already begun to attach less importance to what dropped

from that quarter, on that point, while, as yet, I retained my

reverence for religion. It was not always convenient to steal

from master, and the same reason why I might, innocently,

steal from him, did not seem to justify me in stealing from

others. In the case of my master, it was only a question of

removal—the taking his meat out of one tub, and putting it

into another; the ownership of the meat was not affected by

the transaction. At first, he owned it in the tub, and last, he

owned it in me. His meat house was not always open. There

was a strict watch kept on that point, and the key was on a

large bunch in Rowena’s pocket. A great many times have

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Frederick Douglas

we, poor creatures, been severely pinched with hunger, when

meat and bread have been moulding under the lock, while

the key was in the pocket of our mistress. This had been so

when she knew we were nearly half starved; and yet, that

mistress, with saintly air, would kneel with her husband, and

pray each morning that a merciful God would bless them in

basket and in store, and save them, at last, in his kingdom.

But I proceed with the argument.

It was necessary that right to steal from others should be

established; and this could only rest upon a wider range of

generalization than that which supposed the right to steal

from my master.

It was sometime before I arrived at this clear right. The

reader will get some idea of my train of reasoning, by a brief

statement of the case. “I am,” thought I, “not only the slave

of Thomas, but I am the slave of society at large. Society at

large has bound itself, in form and in fact, to assist Master

Thomas in robbing me of my rightful liberty, and of the just

reward of my labor; therefore, whatever rights I have against

Master Thomas, I have, equally, against those confederated

with him in robbing me of liberty. As society has marked me

out as privileged plunder, on the principle of self-preserva-

tion I am justified in plundering in turn. Since each slave

belongs to all; all must, therefore, belong to each.”

I shall here make a profession of faith which may shock

some, offend others, and be dissented from by all. It is this:

Within the bounds of his just earnings, I hold that the slave is

fully justified in helping himself to the gold and silver, and the

best apparel of his master, or that of any other slaveholder; and

that such taking is not stealing in any just sense of that word.

The morality of free society can have no application to slave

society. Slaveholders have made it almost impossible for the

slave to commit any crime, known either to the laws of God

or to the laws of man. If he steals, he takes his own; if he kills

his master, he imitates only the heroes of the revolution.

Slaveholders I hold to be individually and collectively re-

sponsible for all the evils which grow out of the horrid rela-

tion, and I believe they will be so held at the judgment, in

the sight of a just God. Make a man a slave, and you rob him

of moral responsibility. Freedom of choice is the essence of

all accountability. But my kind readers are, probably, less

concerned about my opinions, than about that which more

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My Bondage and My Freedom

nearly touches my personal experience; albeit, my opinions

have, in some sort, been formed by that experience.

Bad as slaveholders are, I have seldom met with one so

entirely destitute of every element of character capable of

inspiring respect, as was my present master, Capt. Thomas

Auld.

When I lived with him, I thought him incapable of a noble

action. The leading trait in his character was intense selfish-

ness. I think he was fully aware of this fact himself, and of-

ten tried to conceal it. Capt. Auld was not a born

slaveholder—not a birthright member of the slaveholding

oligarchy. He was only a slaveholder by marriage-right; and,

of all slaveholders, these latter are, by far, the most exacting.

There was in him all the love of domination, the pride of

mastery, and the swagger of authority, but his rule lacked the

vital element of consistency. He could be cruel; but his meth-

ods of showing it were cowardly, and evinced his meanness

rather than his spirit. His commands were strong, his en-

forcement weak.

Slaves are not insensible to the whole-souled characteris-

tics of a generous, dashing slaveholder, who is fearless of con-

sequences; and they prefer a master of this bold and daring

kind—even with the risk of being shot down for impudence

to the fretful, little soul, who never uses the lash but at the

suggestion of a love of gain.

Slaves, too, readily distinguish between the birthright bear-

ing of the original slaveholder and the assumed attitudes of

the accidental slaveholder; and while they cannot respect ei-

ther, they certainly despise the latter more than the former.

The luxury of having slaves wait upon him was something

new to Master Thomas; and for it he was wholly unprepared.

He was a slaveholder, without the ability to hold or manage

his slaves. We seldom called him “master,” but generally ad-

dressed him by his “bay craft” title—Capt. Auld.” It is easy to

see that such conduct might do much to make him appear

awkward, and, consequently, fretful. His wife was especially

solicitous to have us call her husband “master.” Is your master

at the store?”—“Where is your master?”— “Go and tell your

master”—“I will make your master acquainted with your con-

duct”—she would say; but we were inapt scholars. Especially

were I and my sister Eliza inapt in this particular. Aunt Priscilla

was less stubborn and defiant in her spirit than Eliza and my-

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Frederick Douglas

self; and, I think, her road was less rough than ours.

In the month of August, 1833, when I had almost become

desperate under the treatment of Master Thomas, and when

I entertained more strongly than ever the oft-repeated deter-

mination to run away, a circumstance occurred which seemed

to promise brighter and better days for us all. At a Methodist

camp-meeting, held in the Bay Side (a famous place for

campmeetings) about eight miles from St. Michael’s, Master

Thomas came out with a profession of religion. He had long

been an object of interest to the church, and to the minis-

ters, as I had seen by the repeated visits and lengthy exhorta-

tions of the latter. He was a fish quite worth catching, for he

had money and standing. In the community of St. Michael’s

he was equal to the best citizen. He was strictly temperate;

perhaps, from principle, but most likely, from interest. There

was very little to do for him, to give him the appearance of

piety, and to make him a pillar in the church. Well, the camp-

meeting continued a week; people gathered from all parts of

the county, and two steamboat loads came from Baltimore.

The ground was happily chosen; seats were arranged; a stand

erected; a rude altar fenced in, fronting the preachers’ stand,

with straw in it for the accommodation of mourners. This

latter would hold at least one hundred persons. In front, and

on the sides of the preachers’ stand, and outside the long

rows of seats, rose the first class of stately tents, each vieing

with the other in strength, neatness, and capacity for accom-

modating its inmates. Behind this first circle of tents was

another, less imposing, which reached round the camp-

ground to the speakers’ stand. Outside this second class of

tents were covered wagons, ox carts, and vehicles of every

shape and size. These served as tents to their owners. Out-

side of these, huge fires were burning, in all directions, where

roasting, and boiling, and frying, were going on, for the ben-

efit of those who were attending to their own spiritual wel-

fare within the circle. Behind the preachers’ stand, a narrow

space was marked out for the use of the colored people. There

were no seats provided for this class of persons; the preachers

addressed them, “over the left,” if they addressed them at all.

After the preaching was over, at every service, an invitation

was given to mourners to come into the pen; and, in some

cases, ministers went out to persuade men and women to

come in. By one of these ministers, Master Thomas Auld

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My Bondage and My Freedom

was persuaded to go inside the pen. I was deeply interested

in that matter, and followed; and, though colored people

were not allowed either in the pen or in front of the preach-

ers’ stand, I ventured to take my stand at a sort of half-way

place between the blacks and whites, where I could distinctly

see the movements of mourners, and especially the progress

of Master Thomas.

“If he has got religion,” thought I, “he will emancipate his

slaves; and if he should not do so much as this, he will, at

any rate, behave toward us more kindly, and feed us more

generously than he has heretofore done.” Appealing to my

own religious experience, and judging my master by what

was true in my own case, I could not regard him as soundly

converted, unless some such good results followed his pro-

fession of religion.

But in my expectations I was doubly disappointed; Master

Thomas was Master Thomas still. The fruits of his righteous-

ness were to show themselves in no such way as I had antici-

pated. His conversion was not to change his relation toward

men—at any rate not toward BLACK men—but toward

God. My faith, I confess, was not great. There was some-

thing in his appearance that, in my mind, cast a doubt over

his conversion. Standing where I did, I could see his every

movement. I watched narrowly while he remained in the

little pen; and although I saw that his face was extremely

red, and his hair disheveled, and though I heard him groan,

and saw a stray tear halting on his cheek, as if inquiring “which

way shall I go?”—I could not wholly confide in the genuine-

ness of his conversion. The hesitating behavior of that tear-

drop and its loneliness, distressed me, and cast a doubt upon

the whole transaction, of which it was a part. But people

said, “Capt. Auld had come through,” and it was for me to

hope for the best. I was bound to do this, in charity, for I,

too, was religious, and had been in the church full three years,

although now I was not more than sixteen years old.

Slaveholders may, sometimes, have confidence in the piety

of some of their slaves; but the slaves seldom have confi-

dence in the piety of their masters. “He cant go to heaven

with our blood in his skirts,” is a settled point in the creed of

every slave; rising superior to all teaching to the contrary,

and standing forever as a fixed fact. The highest evidence the

slaveholder can give the slave of his acceptance with God, is

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Frederick Douglas

the emancipation of his slaves. This is proof that he is will-

ing to give up all to God, and for the sake of God. Not to do

this, was, in my estimation, and in the opinion of all the

slaves, an evidence of half-heartedness, and wholly inconsis-

tent with the idea of genuine conversion. I had read, also,

somewhere in the Methodist Discipline, the following ques-

tion and answer:

“Question. What shall be done for the extirpation of sla-

very?

“Answer. We declare that we are much as ever convinced of

the great evil of slavery; therefore, no slaveholder shall be

eligible to any official station in our church.”

These words sounded in my ears for a long time, and en-

couraged me to hope. But, as I have before said, I was doomed

to disappointment. Master Thomas seemed to be aware of

my hopes and expectations concerning him. I have thought,

before now, that he looked at me in answer to my glances, as

much as to say, “I will teach you, young man, that, though I

have parted with my sins, I have not parted with my sense. I

shall hold my slaves, and go to heaven too.”

Possibly, to convince us that we must not presume too much

upon his recent conversion, he became rather more rigid and

stringent in his exactions. There always was a scarcity of good

nature about the man; but now his whole countenance was

soured over with the seemings of piety. His religion, there-

fore, neither made him emancipate his slaves, nor caused

him to treat them with greater humanity. If religion had any

effect on his character at all, it made him more cruel and

hateful in all his ways. The natural wickedness of his heart

had not been removed, but only reinforced, by the profes-

sion of religion. Do I judge him harshly? God forbid. Facts

are facts. Capt. Auld made the greatest profession of piety.

His house was, literally, a house of prayer. In the morning,

and in the evening, loud prayers and hymns were heard there,

in which both himself and his wife joined; yet, no more meal

was brought from the mill, no more attention was paid to the

moral welfare of the kitchen; and nothing was done to make

us feel that the heart of Master Thomas was one whit better

than it was before he went into the little pen, opposite to the

preachers’ stand, on the camp ground.

Our hopes (founded on the discipline) soon vanished; for

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My Bondage and My Freedom

the authorities let him into the church at once, and before he

was out of his term of probation, I heard of his leading class!

He distinguished himself greatly among the brethren, and was

soon an exhorter. His progress was almost as rapid as the growth

of the fabled vine of Jack’s bean. No man was more active than

he, in revivals. He would go many miles to assist in carrying

them on, and in getting outsiders interested in religion. His

house being one of the holiest, if not the happiest in St.

Michael’s, became the “preachers’ home.” These preachers evi-

dently liked to share Master Thomas’s hospitality; for while he

starved us, he stuffed them. Three or four of these ambassadors

of the gospel—according to slavery—have been there at a time;

all living on the fat of the land, while we, in the kitchen, were

nearly starving. Not often did we get a smile of recognition

from these holy men. They seemed almost as unconcerned

about our getting to heaven, as they were about our getting

out of slavery. To this general charge there was one excep-

tion—the Rev. GEORGE COOKMAN. Unlike Rev. Messrs.

Storks, Ewry, Hickey, Humphrey and Cooper (all whom were

on the St. Michael’s circuit) he kindly took an interest in our

temporal and spiritual welfare. Our souls and our bodies were

all alike sacred in his sight; and he really had a good deal of

genuine anti-slavery feeling mingled with his colonization ideas.

There was not a slave in our neighborhood that did not love,

and almost venerate, Mr. Cookman. It was pretty generally

believed that he had been chiefly instrumental in bringing

one of the largest slaveholders—Mr. Samuel Harrison—in that

neighborhood, to emancipate all his slaves, and, indeed, the

general impression was, that Mr. Cookman had labored faith-

fully with slaveholders, whenever he met them, to induce them

to emancipate their bondmen, and that he did this as a reli-

gious duty. When this good man was at our house, we were all

sure to be called in to prayers in the morning; and he was not

slow in making inquiries as to the state of our minds, nor in

giving us a word of exhortation and of encouragement. Great

was the sorrow of all the slaves, when this faithful preacher of

the gospel was removed from the Talbot county circuit. He

was an eloquent preacher, and possessed what few ministers,

south of Mason Dixon’s line, possess, or dare to show, viz: a

warm and philanthropic heart. The Mr. Cookman, of whom

I speak, was an Englishman by birth, and perished while on

his way to England, on board the ill-fated “President”. Could

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Frederick Douglas

the thousands of slaves in Maryland know the fate of the good

man, to whose words of comfort they were so largely indebted,

they would thank me for dropping a tear on this page, in

memory of their favorite preacher, friend and benefactor.

But, let me return to Master Thomas, and to my experi-

ence, after his conversion. In Baltimore, I could, occasion-

ally, get into a Sabbath school, among the free children, and

receive lessons, with the rest; but, having already learned both

to read and to write, I was more of a teacher than a pupil,

even there. When, however, I went back to the Eastern Shore,

and was at the house of Master Thomas, I was neither al-

lowed to teach, nor to be taught. The whole community—

with but a single exception, among the whites—frowned

upon everything like imparting instruction either to slaves

or to free colored persons. That single exception, a pious

young man, named Wilson, asked me, one day, if I would

like to assist him in teaching a little Sabbath school, at the

house of a free colored man in St. Michael’s, named James

Mitchell. The idea was to me a delightful one, and I told

him I would gladly devote as much of my Sabbath as I could

command, to that most laudable work. Mr. Wilson soon

mustered up a dozen old spelling books, and a few testa-

ments; and we commenced operations, with some twenty

scholars, in our Sunday school. Here, thought I, is some-

thing worth living for; here is an excellent chance for useful-

ness; and I shall soon have a company of young friends, lov-

ers of knowledge, like some of my Baltimore friends, from

whom I now felt parted forever.

Our first Sabbath passed delightfully, and I spent the week

after very joyously. I could not go to Baltimore, but I could

make a little Baltimore here. At our second meeting, I learned

that there was some objection to the existence of the Sab-

bath school; and, sure enough, we had scarcely got at work—

good work, simply teaching a few colored children how to

read the gospel of the Son of God—when in rushed a mob,

headed by Mr. Wright Fairbanks and Mr. Garrison West—

two class-leaders—and Master Thomas; who, armed with

sticks and other missiles, drove us off, and commanded us

never to meet for such a purpose again. One of this pious

crew told me, that as for my part, I wanted to be another

Nat Turner; and if I did not look out, I should get as many

balls into me, as Nat did into him. Thus ended the infant

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My Bondage and My Freedom

Sabbath school, in the town of St. Michael’s. The reader will

not be surprised when I say, that the breaking up of my Sab-

bath school, by these class-leaders, and professedly holy men,

did not serve to strengthen my religious convictions. The

cloud over my St. Michael’s home grew heavier and blacker

than ever.

It was not merely the agency of Master Thomas, in break-

ing up and destroying my Sabbath school, that shook my

confidence in the power of southern religion to make men

wiser or better; but I saw in him all the cruelty and mean-

ness, after his conversion, which he had exhibited before he

made a profession of religion. His cruelty and meanness were

especially displayed in his treatment of my unfortunate

cousin, Henny, whose lameness made her a burden to him. I

have no extraordinary personal hard usage toward myself to

complain of, against him, but I have seen him tie up the

lame and maimed woman, and whip her in a manner most

brutal, and shocking; and then, with blood-chilling blas-

phemy, he would quote the passage of scripture, “That ser-

vant which knew his lord’s will, and prepared not himself,

neither did according to his will, shall be beaten with many

stripes.” Master would keep this lacerated woman tied up by

her wrists, to a bolt in the joist, three, four and five hours at

a time. He would tie her up early in the morning, whip her

with a cowskin before breakfast; leave her tied up; go to his

store, and, returning to his dinner, repeat the castigation;

laying on the rugged lash, on flesh already made raw by re-

peated blows. He seemed desirous to get the poor girl out of

existence, or, at any rate, off his hands. In proof of this, he

afterwards gave her away to his sister Sarah (Mrs. Cline) but,

as in the case of Master Hugh, Henny was soon returned on

his hands. Finally, upon a pretense that he could do nothing

with her (I use his own words) he “set her adrift, to take care

of herself.” Here was a recently converted man, holding, with

tight grasp, the well-framed, and able bodied slaves left him

by old master—the persons, who, in freedom, could have

taken care of themselves; yet, turning loose the only cripple

among them, virtually to starve and die.

No doubt, had Master Thomas been asked, by some pious

northern brother, why he continued to sustain the relation

of a slaveholder, to those whom he retained, his answer would

have been precisely the same as many other religious

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Frederick Douglas

slaveholders have returned to that inquiry, viz: “I hold my

slaves for their own good.”

Bad as my condition was when I lived with Master Tho-

mas, I was soon to experience a life far more goading and

bitter. The many differences springing up between myself

and Master Thomas, owing to the clear perception I had of

his character, and the boldness with which I defended my-

self against his capricious complaints, led him to declare that

I was unsuited to his wants; that my city life had affected me

perniciously; that, in fact, it had almost ruined me for every

good purpose, and had fitted me for everything that was

bad. One of my greatest faults, or offenses, was that of let-

ting his horse get away, and go down to the farm belonging

to his father-in-law. The animal had a liking for that farm,

with which I fully sympathized. Whenever I let it out, it

would go dashing down the road to Mr. Hamilton’s, as if

going on a grand frolic. My horse gone, of course I must go

after it. The explanation of our mutual attachment to the

place is the same; the horse found there good pasturage, and

I found there plenty of bread. Mr. Hamilton had his faults,

but starving his slaves was not among them. He gave food,

in abundance, and that, too, of an excellent quality. In Mr.

Hamilton’s cook—Aunt Mary—I found a most generous and

considerate friend. She never allowed me to go there with-

out giving me bread enough to make good the deficiencies of

a day or two. Master Thomas at last resolved to endure my

behavior no longer; he could neither keep me, nor his horse,

we liked so well to be at his father-in-law’s farm. I had now

lived with him nearly nine months, and he had given me a

number of severe whippings, without any visible improvement

in my character, or my conduct; and now he was resolved to

put me out—as he said—“to be broken.”

There was, in the Bay Side, very near the camp ground,

where my master got his religious impressions, a man named

Edward Covey, who enjoyed the execrated reputation, of

being a first rate hand at breaking young Negroes. This Covey

was a poor man, a farm renter; and this reputation (hateful

as it was to the slaves and to all good men) was, at the same

time, of immense advantage to him. It enabled him to get

his farm tilled with very little expense, compared with what

it would have cost him without this most extraordinary repu-

tation. Some slaveholders thought it an advantage to let Mr.

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My Bondage and My Freedom

Covey have the government of their slaves a year or two,

almost free of charge, for the sake of the excellent training

such slaves got under his happy management! Like some horse

breakers, noted for their skill, who ride the best horses in the

country without expense, Mr. Covey could have under him,

the most fiery bloods of the neighborhood, for the simple

reward of returning them to their owners, well broken. Added

to the natural fitness of Mr. Covey for the duties of his pro-

fession, he was said to “enjoy religion,” and was as strict in

the cultivation of piety, as he was in the cultivation of his

farm. I was made aware of his character by some who had

been under his hand; and while I could not look forward to

going to him with any pleasure, I was glad to get away from

St. Michael’s. I was sure of getting enough to eat at Covey’s,

even if I suffered in other respects. This, to a hungry man, is

not a prospect to be regarded with indifference.

CHAPTER XVCHAPTER XVCHAPTER XVCHAPTER XVCHAPTER XV CoCoCoCoCovvvvveyeyeyeyey, the N, the N, the N, the N, the Negregregregregro Bo Bo Bo Bo Brrrrreakereakereakereakereaker

JOURNEY TO MY NEW MASTER’S—MEDITATIONS

BY THE WAY—VIEW OF COVEY’S RESIDENCE—THE

FAMILY—MY AWKWARDNESS AS A FIELD HAND—

A CRUEL BEATING—WHY IT WAS GIVEN—DE-

SCRIPTION OF COVEY—FIRST ADVENTURE AT OX

DRIVING—HAIR BREADTH ESCAPES—OX AND

MAN ALIKE PROPERTY—COVEY’S MANNER OF

PROCEEDING TO WHIP—HARD LABOR BETTER

THAN THE WHIP FOR BREAKING DOWN THE

SPIRIT—CUNNING AND TRICKERY OF COVEY—

FAMILY WORSHIP—SHOCKING CONTEMPT FOR

CHASTITY—I AM BROKEN DOWN—GREAT MEN-

TAL AGITATION IN CONTRASTING THE FREEDOM

OF THE SHIPS WITH HIS OWN SLAVERY—ANGUISH

BEYOND DESCRIPTION.

THE MORNING OF THE FIRST OF JANUARY, 1834, with its chill-

ing wind and pinching frost, quite in harmony with the win-

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Frederick Douglas

ter in my own mind, found me, with my little bundle of

clothing on the end of a stick, swung across my shoulder, on

the main road, bending my way toward Covey’s, whither I

had been imperiously ordered by Master Thomas. The latter

had been as good as his word, and had committed me, with-

out reserve, to the mastery of Mr. Edward Covey. Eight or

ten years had now passed since I had been taken from my

grandmother’s cabin, in Tuckahoe; and these years, for the

most part, I had spent in Baltimore, where—as the reader

has already seen—I was treated with comparative tender-

ness. I was now about to sound profounder depths in slave

life. The rigors of a field, less tolerable than the field of battle,

awaited me. My new master was notorious for his fierce and

savage disposition, and my only consolation in going to live

with him was, the certainty of finding him precisely as rep-

resented by common fame. There was neither joy in my heart,

nor elasticity in my step, as I started in search of the tyrant’s

home. Starvation made me glad to leave Thomas Auld’s, and

the cruel lash made me dread to go to Covey’s. Escape was

impossible; so, heavy and sad, I paced the seven miles, which

separated Covey’s house from St. Michael’s—thinking much

by the solitary way—averse to my condition; but thinking

was all I could do. Like a fish in a net, allowed to play for a

time, I was now drawn rapidly to the shore, secured at all

points. “I am,” thought I, “but the sport of a power which

makes no account, either of my welfare or of my happiness.

By a law which I can clearly comprehend, but cannot evade

nor resist, I am ruthlessly snatched from the hearth of a fond

grandmother, and hurried away to the home of a mysterious

`old master;’ again I am removed from there, to a master in

Baltimore; thence am I snatched away to the Eastern Shore,

to be valued with the beasts of the field, and, with them,

divided and set apart for a possessor; then I am sent back to

Baltimore; and by the time I have formed new attachments,

and have begun to hope that no more rude shocks shall touch

me, a difference arises between brothers, and I am again bro-

ken up, and sent to St. Michael’s; and now, from the latter

place, I am footing my way to the home of a new master,

where, I am given to understand, that, like a wild young

working animal, I am to be broken to the yoke of a bitter

and life-long bondage.”

With thoughts and reflections like these, I came in sight of

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My Bondage and My Freedom

a small wood-colored building, about a mile from the main

road, which, from the description I had received, at starting,

I easily recognized as my new home. The Chesapeake bay—

upon the jutting banks of which the little wood-colored house

was standing—white with foam, raised by the heavy north-

west wind; Poplar Island, covered with a thick, black pine

forest, standing out amid this half ocean; and Kent Point,

stretching its sandy, desert-like shores out into the foam-

cested bay—were all in sight, and deepened the wild and

desolate aspect of my new home.

The good clothes I had brought with me from Baltimore

were now worn thin, and had not been replaced; for Master

Thomas was as little careful to provide us against cold, as

against hunger. Met here by a north wind, sweeping through

an open space of forty miles, I was glad to make any port;

and, therefore, I speedily pressed on to the little wood-col-

ored house. The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Covey;

Miss Kemp (a broken-backed woman) a sister of Mrs. Covey;

William Hughes, cousin to Edward Covey; Caroline, the

cook; Bill Smith, a hired man; and myself. Bill Smith, Bill

Hughes, and myself, were the working force of the farm,

which consisted of three or four hundred acres. I was now,

for the first time in my life, to be a field hand; and in my

new employment I found myself even more awkward than a

green country boy may be supposed to be, upon his first

entrance into the bewildering scenes of city life; and my

awkwardness gave me much trouble. Strange and unnatural

as it may seem, I had been at my new home but three days,

before Mr. Covey (my brother in the Methodist church) gave

me a bitter foretaste of what was in reserve for me. I presume

he thought, that since he had but a single year in which to

complete his work, the sooner he began, the better. Perhaps

he thought that by coming to blows at once, we should mu-

tually better understand our relations. But to whatever mo-

tive, direct or indirect, the cause may be referred, I had not

been in his possession three whole days, before he subjected

me to a most brutal chastisement. Under his heavy blows,

blood flowed freely, and wales were left on my back as large

as my little finger. The sores on my back, from this flogging,

continued for weeks, for they were kept open by the rough

and coarse cloth which I wore for shirting. The occasion and

details of this first chapter of my experience as a field hand,

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Frederick Douglas

must be told, that the reader may see how unreasonable, as

well as how cruel, my new master, Covey, was. The whole

thing I found to be characteristic of the man; and I was prob-

ably treated no worse by him than scores of lads who had

previously been committed to him, for reasons similar to

those which induced my master to place me with him. But,

here are the facts connected with the affair, precisely as they

occurred.

On one of the coldest days of the whole month of January,

1834, I was ordered, at day break, to get a load of wood,

from a forest about two miles from the house. In order to

perform this work, Mr. Covey gave me a pair of unbroken

oxen, for, it seems, his breaking abilities had not been turned

in this direction; and I may remark, in passing, that working

animals in the south, are seldom so well trained as in the

north. In due form, and with all proper ceremony, I was

introduced to this huge yoke of unbroken oxen, and was

carefully told which was “Buck,” and which was “Darby”—

which was the “in hand,” and which was the “off hand” ox.

The master of this important ceremony was no less a person

than Mr. Covey, himself; and the introduction was the first

of the kind I had ever had. My life, hitherto, had led me

away from horned cattle, and I had no knowledge of the art

of managing them. What was meant by the “in ox,” as against

the “off ox,” when both were equally fastened to one cart,

and under one yoke, I could not very easily divine; and the

difference, implied by the names, and the peculiar duties of

each, were alike Greek to me. Why was not the “off ox” called

the “in ox?” Where and what is the reason for this distinc-

tion in names, when there is none in the things themselves?

After initiating me into the “woa,” “back” “gee,” “hither”—

the entire spoken language between oxen and driver—Mr.

Covey took a rope, about ten feet long and one inch thick,

and placed one end of it around the horns of the “in hand

ox,” and gave the other end to me, telling me that if the oxen

started to run away, as the scamp knew they would, I must

hold on to the rope and stop them. I need not tell any one

who is acquainted with either the strength of the disposition

of an untamed ox, that this order was about as unreasonable

as a command to shoulder a mad bull! I had never driven

oxen before, and I was as awkward, as a driver, as it is pos-

sible to conceive. It did not answer for me to plead igno-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

rance, to Mr. Covey; there was something in his manner

that quite forbade that. He was a man to whom a slave sel-

dom felt any disposition to speak. Cold, distant, morose,

with a face wearing all the marks of captious pride and mali-

cious sternness, he repelled all advances. Covey was not a

large man; he was only about five feet ten inches in height, I

should think; short necked, round shoulders; of quick and

wiry motion, of thin and wolfish visage; with a pair of small,

greenish-gray eyes, set well back under a forehead without

dignity, and constantly in motion, and floating his passions,

rather than his thoughts, in sight, but denying them utter-

ance in words. The creature presented an appearance alto-

gether ferocious and sinister, disagreeable and forbidding, in

the extreme. When he spoke, it was from the corner of his

mouth, and in a sort of light growl, like a dog, when an

attempt is made to take a bone from him. The fellow had

already made me believe him even worse than he had been

presented. With his directions, and without stopping to ques-

tion, I started for the woods, quite anxious to perform my

first exploit in driving, in a creditable manner. The distance

from the house to the woods gate a full mile, I should think—

was passed over with very little difficulty; for although the

animals ran, I was fleet enough, in the open field, to keep

pace with them; especially as they pulled me along at the

end of the rope; but, on reaching the woods, I was speedily

thrown into a distressing plight. The animals took fright,

and started off ferociously into the woods, carrying the cart,

full tilt, against trees, over stumps, and dashing from side to

side, in a manner altogether frightful. As I held the rope, I

expected every moment to be crushed between the cart and

the huge trees, among which they were so furiously dashing.

After running thus for several minutes, my oxen were, fi-

nally, brought to a stand, by a tree, against which they dashed

themselves with great violence, upsetting the cart, and en-

tangling themselves among sundry young saplings. By the

shock, the body of the cart was flung in one direction, and

the wheels and tongue in another, and all in the greatest

confusion. There I was, all alone, in a thick wood, to which

I was a stranger; my cart upset and shattered; my oxen en-

tangled, wild, and enraged; and I, poor soul! but a green

hand, to set all this disorder right. I knew no more of oxen

than the ox driver is supposed to know of wisdom. After

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Frederick Douglas

standing a few moments surveying the damage and disorder,

and not without a presentiment that this trouble would draw

after it others, even more distressing, I took one end of the

cart body, and, by an extra outlay of strength, I lifted it to-

ward the axle-tree, from which it had been violently flung;

and after much pulling and straining, I succeeded in getting

the body of the cart in its place. This was an important step

out of the difficulty, and its performance increased my cour-

age for the work which remained to be done. The cart was

provided with an ax, a tool with which I had become pretty

well acquainted in the ship yard at Baltimore. With this, I

cut down the saplings by which my oxen were entangled,

and again pursued my journey, with my heart in my mouth,

lest the oxen should again take it into their senseless heads to

cut up a caper. My fears were groundless. Their spree was

over for the present, and the rascals now moved off as so-

berly as though their behavior had been natural and exem-

plary. On reaching the part of the forest where I had been,

the day before, chopping wood, I filled the cart with a heavy

load, as a security against another running away. But, the

neck of an ox is equal in strength to iron. It defies all ordi-

nary burdens, when excited. Tame and docile to a proverb,

when well trained, the ox is the most sullen and intractable

of animals when but half broken to the yoke.

I now saw, in my situation, several points of similarity with

that of the oxen. They were property, so was I; they were to

be broken, so was I. Covey was to break me, I was to break

them; break and be broken—such is life.

Half the day already gone, and my face not yet homeward!

It required only two day’s experience and observation to teach

me, that such apparent waste of time would not be lightly

overlooked by Covey. I therefore hurried toward home; but,

on reaching the lane gate, I met with the crowning disaster

for the day. This gate was a fair specimen of southern handi-

craft. There were two huge posts, eighteen inches in diam-

eter, rough hewed and square, and the heavy gate was so

hung on one of these, that it opened only about half the

proper distance. On arriving here, it was necessary for me to

let go the end of the rope on the horns of the “in hand ox;”

and now as soon as the gate was open, and I let go of it to get

the rope, again, off went my oxen—making nothing of their

load—full tilt; and in doing so they caught the huge gate

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My Bondage and My Freedom

between the wheel and the cart body, literally crushing it to

splinters, and coming only within a few inches of subjecting

me to a similar crushing, for I was just in advance of the

wheel when it struck the left gate post. With these two hair-

breadth escape, I thought I could sucessfully{sic} explain to

Mr. Covey the delay, and avert apprehended punishment. I

was not without a faint hope of being commended for the

stern resolution which I had displayed in accomplishing the

difficult task—a task which, I afterwards learned, even Covey

himself would not have undertaken, without first driving

the oxen for some time in the open field, preparatory to their

going into the woods. But, in this I was disappointed. On

coming to him, his countenance assumed an aspect of rigid

displeasure, and, as I gave him a history of the casualties of

my trip, his wolfish face, with his greenish eyes, became in-

tensely ferocious. “Go back to the woods again,” he said,

muttering something else about wasting time. I hastily

obeyed; but I had not gone far on my way, when I saw him

coming after me. My oxen now behaved themselves with

singular propriety, opposing their present conduct to my rep-

resentation of their former antics. I almost wished, now that

Covey was coming, they would do something in keeping

with the character I had given them; but no, they had al-

ready had their spree, and they could afford now to be extra

good, readily obeying my orders, and seeming to understand

them quite as well as I did myself. On reaching the woods,

my tormentor—who seemed all the way to be remarking

upon the good behavior of his oxen—came up to me, and

ordered me to stop the cart, accompanying the same with

the threat that he would now teach me how to break gates,

and idle away my time, when he sent me to the woods. Suit-

ing the action to the word, Covey paced off, in his own wiry

fashion, to a large, black gum tree, the young shoots of which

are generally used for ox goads, they being exceedingly tough.

Three of these goads, from four to six feet long, he cut off,

and trimmed up, with his large jack-knife. This done, he

ordered me to take off my clothes. To this unreasonable or-

der I made no reply, but sternly refused to take off my cloth-

ing. “If you will beat me,” thought I, “you shall do so over

my clothes.” After many threats, which made no impression

on me, he rushed at me with something of the savage fierce-

ness of a wolf, tore off the few and thinly worn clothes I had

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Frederick Douglas

on, and proceeded to wear out, on my back, the heavy goads

which he had cut from the gum tree. This flogging was the

first of a series of floggings; and though very severe, it was

less so than many which came after it, and these, for offenses

far lighter than the gate breaking

I remained with Mr. Covey one year (I cannot say I lived

with him) and during the first six months that I was there, I

was whipped, either with sticks or cowskins, every week.

Aching bones and a sore back were my constant compan-

ions. Frequent as the lash was used, Mr. Covey thought less

of it, as a means of breaking down my spirit, than that of

hard and long continued labor. He worked me steadily, up

to the point of my powers of endurance. From the dawn of

day in the morning, till the darkness was complete in the

evening, I was kept at hard work, in the field or the woods.

At certain seasons of the year, we were all kept in the field till

eleven and twelve o’clock at night. At these times, Covey

would attend us in the field, and urge us on with words or

blows, as it seemed best to him. He had, in his life, been an

overseer, and he well understood the business of slave driv-

ing. There was no deceiving him. He knew just what a man

or boy could do, and he held both to strict account. When

he pleased, he would work himself, like a very Turk, making

everything fly before him. It was, however, scarcely neces-

sary for Mr. Covey to be really present in the field, to have

his work go on industriously. He had the faculty of making

us feel that he was always present. By a series of adroitly

managed surprises, which he practiced, I was prepared to

expect him at any moment. His plan was, never to approach

the spot where his hands were at work, in an open, manly

and direct manner. No thief was ever more artful in his de-

vices than this man Covey. He would creep and crawl, in

ditches and gullies; hide behind stumps and bushes, and prac-

tice so much of the cunning of the serpent, that Bill Smith

and I--between ourselves—never called him by any other

name than “the snake.” We fancied that in his eyes and his

gait we could see a snakish resemblance. One half of his pro-

ficiency in the art of Negro breaking, consisted, I should

think, in this species of cunning. We were never secure. He

could see or hear us nearly all the time. He was, to us, be-

hind every stump, tree, bush and fence on the plantation.

He carried this kind of trickery so far, that he would some-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

times mount his horse, and make believe he was going to St.

Michael’s; and, in thirty minutes afterward, you might find

his horse tied in the woods, and the snake-like Covey lying

flat in the ditch, with his head lifted above its edge, or in a

fence corner, watching every movement of the slaves! I have

known him walk up to us and give us special orders, as to

our work, in advance, as if he were leaving home with a view

to being absent several days; and before he got half way to

the house, he would avail himself of our inattention to his

movements, to turn short on his heels, conceal himself be-

hind a fence corner or a tree, and watch us until the going

down of the sun. Mean and contemptible as is all this, it is in

keeping with the character which the life of a slaveholder is

calculated to produce. There is no earthly inducement, in

the slave’s condition, to incite him to labor faithfully. The

fear of punishment is the sole motive for any sort of indus-

try, with him. Knowing this fact, as the slaveholder does,

and judging the slave by himself, he naturally concludes the

slave will be idle whenever the cause for this fear is absent.

Hence, all sorts of petty deceptions are practiced, to inspire

this fear.

But, with Mr. Covey, trickery was natural. Everything in

the shape of learning or religion, which he possessed, was

made to conform to this semi-lying propensity. He did not

seem conscious that the practice had anything unmanly, base

or contemptible about it. It was a part of an important sys-

tem, with him, essential to the relation of master and slave. I

thought I saw, in his very religious devotions, this control-

ling element of his character. A long prayer at night made up

for the short prayer in the morning; and few men could seem

more devotional than he, when he had nothing else to do.

Mr. Covey was not content with the cold style of family

worship, adopted in these cold latitudes, which begin and

end with a simple prayer. No! the voice of praise, as well as of

prayer, must be heard in his house, night and morning. At

first, I was called upon to bear some part in these exercises;

but the repeated flogging given me by Covey, turned the

whole thing into mockery. He was a poor singer, and mainly

relied on me for raising the hymn for the family, and when I

failed to do so, he was thrown into much confusion. I do

not think that he ever abused me on account of these vexa-

tions. His religion was a thing altogether apart from his

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Frederick Douglas

worldly concerns. He knew nothing of it as a holy principle,

directing and controlling his daily life, making the latter con-

form to the requirements of the gospel. One or two facts will

illustrate his character better than a volume of generalties{sic}.

I have already said, or implied, that Mr. Edward Covey

was a poor man. He was, in fact, just commencing to lay the

foundation of his fortune, as fortune is regarded in a slave

state. The first condition of wealth and respectability there,

being the ownership of human property, every nerve is

strained, by the poor man, to obtain it, and very little regard

is had to the manner of obtaining it. In pursuit of this ob-

ject, pious as Mr. Covey was, he proved himself to be as

unscrupulous and base as the worst of his neighbors. In the

beginning, he was only able—as he said—“to buy one slave;”

and, scandalous and shocking as is the fact, he boasted that

he bought her simply “as a breeder.” But the worst is not told

in this naked statement. This young woman (Caroline was

her name) was virtually compelled by Mr. Covey to aban-

don herself to the object for which he had purchased her;

and the result was, the birth of twins at the end of the year.

At this addition to his human stock, both Edward Covey

and his wife, Susan, were ecstatic with joy. No one dreamed

of reproaching the woman, or of finding fault with the hired

man—Bill Smith—the father of the children, for Mr. Covey

himself had locked the two up together every night, thus

inviting the result.

But I will pursue this revolting subject no further. No better

illustration of the unchaste and demoralizing character of sla-

very can be found, than is furnished in the fact that this pro-

fessedly Christian slaveholder, amidst all his prayers and hymns,

was shamelessly and boastfully encouraging, and actually com-

pelling, in his own house, undisguised and unmitigated forni-

cation, as a means of increasing his human stock. I may re-

mark here, that, while this fact will be read with disgust and

shame at the north, it will be laughed at, as smart and praise-

worthy in Mr. Covey, at the south; for a man is no more con-

demned there for buying a woman and devoting her to this

life of dishonor, than for buying a cow, and raising stock from

her. The same rules are observed, with a view to increasing the

number and quality of the former, as of the latter.

I will here reproduce what I said of my own experience in

this wretched place, more than ten years ago:

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My Bondage and My Freedom

If at any one time of my life, more than another, I was made

to drink the bitterest dregs of slavery, that time was during

the first six months of my stay with Mr. Covey. We were

worked all weathers. It was never too hot or too cold; it could

never rain, blow, snow, or hail too hard for us to work in the

field. Work, work, work, was scarcely more the order of the

day than the night. The longest days were too short for him,

and the shortest nights were too long for him. I was some-

what unmanageable when I first went there; but a few months

of his discipline tamed me. Mr. Covey succeeded in break-

ing me. I was broken in body, soul and spirit. My natural

elasticity was crushed; my intellect languished; the disposi-

tion to read departed; the cheerful spark that lingered about

my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me;

and behold a man transformed into a brute!

Sunday was my only leisure time. I spent this in a sort of

beast-like stupor, between sleep and wake, under some large

tree. At times, I would rise up, a flash of energetic freedom

would dart through my soul, accompanied with a faint beam

of hope, flickered for a moment, and then vanished. I sank

down again, mourning over my wretched condition. I was

sometimes prompted to take my life, and that of Covey, but

was prevented by a combination of hope and fear. My suf-

ferings on this plantation seem now like a dream rather than

a stern reality.

Our house stood within a few rods of the Chesapeake bay,

whose broad bosom was ever white with sails from every

quarter of the habitable globe. Those beautiful vessels, robed

in purest white, so delightful to the eye of freemen, were to

me so many shrouded ghosts, to terrify and torment me with

thoughts of my wretched condition. I have often, in the deep

stillness of a summer’s Sabbath, stood all alone upon the banks

of that noble bay, and traced, with saddened heart and tear-

ful 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 audi-

ence but the Almighty, I would pour out my soul’s com-

plaint in my rude way, with an apostrophe to the moving

multitude of ships:

“You are loosed from your moorings, and free; I am fast in

my chains, and am a slave! You move merrily before the gentle

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Frederick Douglas

gale, and I sadly before the bloody whip! You are freedom’s

swift-winged angels, that fly around the world; I am con-

fined in bands of iron! O, that I were free! O, that I were on

one of your gallant decks, and under your protecting wing!

Alas! betwixt me and you the turbid waters roll.

Go on, go on. O that I could also go! Could I but swim! If

I could fly! O, why was I born a man, of whom to make a

brute! The glad ship is gone; she hides in the dim distance. I

am left in the hottest hell of unending slavery. O God, save

me! God, deliver me! Let me be free! Is there any God? Why

am I a slave? I will run away. I will not stand it. Get caught,

or get clear, I’ll try it. I had as well die with ague as with

fever. I have only one life to lose. I had as well be killed

running as die standing. Only think of it; one hundred miles

straight north, and I am free! Try it? Yes! God helping me, I

will. It cannot be that I shall live and die a slave. I will take to

the water. This very bay shall yet bear me into freedom. The

steamboats steered in a north-east coast from North Point. I

will do the same; and when I get to the head of the bay, I will

turn my canoe adrift, and walk straight through Delaware

into Pennsylvania. When I get there, I shall not be required

to have a pass; I will travel without being disturbed. Let but

the first opportunity offer, and come what will, I am off.

Meanwhile, I will try to bear up under the yoke. I am not

the only slave in the world. Why should I fret? I can bear as

much as any of them. Besides, I am but a boy, and all boys

are bound to some one. It may be that my misery in slavery

will only increase my happiness when I get free. There is a

better day coming.”

I shall never be able to narrate the mental experience

through which it was my lot to pass during my stay at Covey’s.

I was completely wrecked, changed and bewildered; goaded

almost to madness at one time, and at another reconciling

myself to my wretched condition. Everything in the way of

kindness, which I had experienced at Baltimore; all my former

hopes and aspirations for usefulness in the world, and the

happy moments spent in the exercises of religion, contrasted

with my then present lot, but increased my anguish.

I suffered bodily as well as mentally. I had neither suffi-

cient time in which to eat or to sleep, except on Sundays.

The overwork, and the brutal chastisements of which I was

the victim, combined with that ever-gnawing and soul-de-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

vouring thought— “I am a slave—a slave for life—a slave

with no rational ground to hope for freedom”—rendered me a

living embodiment of mental and physical wretchedness.

CHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVI AAAAAnother Pnother Pnother Pnother Pnother Prrrrressuressuressuressuressure of the e of the e of the e of the e of the TTTTTyryryryryrantantantantant’’’’’s s s s s VVVVViceiceiceiceice

EXPERIENCE AT COVEY’S SUMMED UP—FIRST SIX

MONTHS SEVERER THAN THE SECOND—PRE-

LIMINARIES TO THE CHANCE—REASONS FOR

NARRATING THE CIRCUMSTANCES—SCENE IN

TREADING YARD—TAKEN ILL—UNUSUAL BRU-

TALITY OF COVEY—ESCAPE TO ST. MICHAEL’S—

THE PURSUIT—SUFFERING IN THE WOODS—

DRIVEN BACK AGAIN TO COVEY’S—BEARING OF

MASTER THOMAS—THE SLAVE IS NEVER SICK—

NATURAL TO EXPECT SLAVES TO FEIGN SICK-

NESS—LAZINESS OF SLAVEHOLDERS.

THE FOREGOING CHAPTER, with all its horrid incidents and

shocking features, may be taken as a fair representation of

the first six months of my life at Covey’s. The reader has but

to repeat, in his own mind, once a week, the scene in the

woods, where Covey subjected me to his merciless lash, to

have a true idea of my bitter experience there, during the

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Frederick Douglas

first period of the breaking process through which Mr. Covey

carried me. I have no heart to repeat each separate transac-

tion, in which I was victim of his violence and brutality.

Such a narration would fill a volume much larger than the

present one. I aim only to give the reader a truthful impres-

sion of my slave life, without unnecessarily affecting him

with harrowing details.

As I have elsewhere intimated that my hardships were much

greater during the first six months of my stay at Covey’s,

than during the remainder of the year, and as the change in

my condition was owing to causes which may help the reader

to a better understanding of human nature, when subjected

to the terrible extremities of slavery, I will narrate the cir-

cumstances of this change, although I may seem thereby to

applaud my own courage. You have, dear reader, seen me

humbled, degraded, broken down, enslaved, and brutalized,

and you understand how it was done; now let us see the

converse of all this, and how it was brought about; and this

will take us through the year 1834.

On one of the hottest days of the month of August, of the

year just mentioned, had the reader been passing through

Covey’s farm, he might have seen me at work, in what is

there called the “treading yard”—a yard upon which wheat

is trodden out from the straw, by the horses’ feet. I was there,

at work, feeding the “fan,” or rather bringing wheat to the

fan, while Bill Smith was feeding. Our force consisted of Bill

Hughes, Bill Smith, and a slave by the name of Eli; the latter

having been hired for this occasion. The work was simple,

and required strength and activity, rather than any skill or

intelligence, and yet, to one entirely unused to such work, it

came very hard. The heat was intense and overpowering, and

there was much hurry to get the wheat, trodden out that

day, through the fan; since, if that work was done an hour

before sundown, the hands would have, according to a prom-

ise of Covey, that hour added to their night’s rest. I was not

behind any of them in the wish to complete the day’s work

before sundown, and, hence, I struggled with all my might

to get the work forward. The promise of one hour’s repose

on a week day, was sufficient to quicken my pace, and to

spur me on to extra endeavor. Besides, we had all planned to

go fishing, and I certainly wished to have a hand in that. But

I was disappointed, and the day turned out to be one of the

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My Bondage and My Freedom

bitterest I ever experienced. About three o’clock, while the

sun was pouring down his burning rays, and not a breeze

was stirring, I broke down; my strength failed me; I was seized

with a violent aching of the head, attended with extreme

dizziness, and trembling in every limb. Finding what was

coming, and feeling it would never do to stop work, I nerved

myself up, and staggered on until I fell by the side of the

wheat fan, feeling that the earth had fallen upon me. This

brought the entire work to a dead stand. There was work for

four; each one had his part to perform, and each part de-

pended on the other, so that when one stopped, all were

compelled to stop. Covey, who had now become my dread,

as well as my tormentor, was at the house, about a hundred

yards from where I was fanning, and instantly, upon hearing

the fan stop, he came down to the treading yard, to inquire

into the cause of our stopping. Bill Smith told him I was

sick, and that I was unable longer to bring wheat to the fan.

I had, by this time, crawled away, under the side of a post-

and-rail fence, in the shade, and was exceeding ill. The in-

tense heat of the sun, the heavy dust rising from the fan, the

stooping, to take up the wheat from the yard, together with

the hurrying, to get through, had caused a rush of blood to

my head. In this condition, Covey finding out where I was,

came to me; and, after standing over me a while, he asked

me what the matter was. I told him as well as I could, for it

was with difficulty that I could speak. He then gave me a

savage kick in the side, which jarred my whole frame, and

commanded me to get up. The man had obtained complete

control over me; and if he had commanded me to do any

possible thing, I should, in my then state of mind, have en-

deavored to comply. I made an effort to rise, but fell back in

the attempt, before gaining my feet. The brute now gave me

another heavy kick, and again told me to rise. I again tried to

rise, and succeeded in gaining my feet; but upon stooping to

get the tub with which I was feeding the fan, I again stag-

gered and fell to the ground; and I must have so fallen, had

I been sure that a hundred bullets would have pierced me, as

the consequence. While down, in this sad condition, and

perfectly helpless, the merciless Negro breaker took up the

hickory slab, with which Hughes had been striking off the

wheat to a level with the sides of the half bushel measure (a

very hard weapon) and with the sharp edge of it, he dealt me

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Frederick Douglas

a heavy blow on my head which made a large gash, and caused

the blood to run freely, saying, at the same time, “If you have

got the headache, I’ll cure you.” This done, he ordered me

again to rise, but I made no effort to do so; for I had made

up my mind that it was useless, and that the heartless mon-

ster might now do his worst; he could but kill me, and that

might put me out of my misery. Finding me unable to rise,

or rather despairing of my doing so, Covey left me, with a

view to getting on with the work without me. I was bleeding

very freely, and my face was soon covered with my warm

blood. Cruel and merciless as was the motive that dealt that

blow, dear reader, the wound was fortunate for me. Bleeding

was never more efficacious. The pain in my head speedily

abated, and I was soon able to rise. Covey had, as I have said,

now left me to my fate; and the question was, shall I return

to my work, or shall I find my way to St. Michael’s, and

make Capt. Auld acquainted with the atrocious cruelty of

his brother Covey, and beseech him to get me another mas-

ter? Remembering the object he had in view, in placing me

under the management of Covey, and further, his cruel treat-

ment of my poor crippled cousin, Henny, and his meanness

in the matter of feeding and clothing his slaves, there was

little ground to hope for a favorable reception at the hands

of Capt. Thomas Auld. Nevertheless, I resolved to go straight

to Capt. Auld, thinking that, if not animated by motives of

humanity, he might be induced to interfere on my behalf

from selfish considerations. “He cannot,” thought I, “allow

his property to be thus bruised and battered, marred and

defaced; and I will go to him, and tell him the simple truth

about the matter.” In order to get to St. Michael’s, by the

most favorable and direct road, I must walk seven miles; and

this, in my sad condition, was no easy performance. I had

already lost much blood; I was exhausted by over exertion;

my sides were sore from the heavy blows planted there by

the stout boots of Mr. Covey; and I was, in every way, in an

unfavorable plight for the journey. I however watched my

chance, while the cruel and cunning Covey was looking in

an opposite direction, and started off, across the field, for St.

Michael’s. This was a daring step; if it failed, it would only

exasperate Covey, and increase the rigors of my bondage,

during the remainder of my term of service under him; but

the step was taken, and I must go forward. I succeeded in

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My Bondage and My Freedom

getting nearly half way across the broad field, toward the

woods, before Mr. Covey observed me. I was still bleeding,

and the exertion of running had started the blood afresh.

“Come back! Come back!” vociferated Covey, with threats of

what he would do if I did not return instantly. But, disre-

garding his calls and his threats, I pressed on toward the woods

as fast as my feeble state would allow. Seeing no signs of my

stopping, Covey caused his horse to be brought out and

saddled, as if he intended to pursue me. The race was now to

be an unequal one; and, thinking I might be overhauled by

him, if I kept the main road, I walked nearly the whole dis-

tance in the woods, keeping far enough from the road to

avoid detection and pursuit. But, I had not gone far, before

my little strength again failed me, and I laid down. The blood

was still oozing from the wound in my head; and, for a time,

I suffered more than I can describe. There I was, in the deep

woods, sick and emaciated, pursued by a wretch whose char-

acter for revolting cruelty beggars all opprobrious speech—

bleeding, and almost bloodless. I was not without the fear of

bleeding to death. The thought of dying in the woods, all

alone, and of being torn to pieces by the buzzards, had not

yet been rendered tolerable by my many troubles and hard-

ships, and I was glad when the shade of the trees, and the

cool evening breeze, combined with my matted hair to stop

the flow of blood. After lying there about three quarters of

an hour, brooding over the singular and mournful lot to which

I was doomed, my mind passing over the whole scale or circle

of belief and unbelief, from faith in the overruling provi-

dence of God, to the blackest atheism, I again took up my

journey toward St. Michael’s, more weary and sad than in

the morning when I left Thomas Auld’s for the home of Mr.

Covey. I was bare-footed and bare-headed, and in my shirt

sleeves. The way was through bogs and briers, and I tore my

feet often during the journey. I was full five hours in going

the seven or eight miles; partly, because of the difficulties of

the way, and partly, because of the feebleness induced by my

illness, bruises and loss of blood. On gaining my master’s

store, I presented an appearance of wretchedness and woe,

fitted to move any but a heart of stone. From the crown of

my head to the sole of my feet, there were marks of blood.

My hair was all clotted with dust and blood, and the back of

my shirt was literally stiff with the same. Briers and thorns

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Frederick Douglas

had scarred and torn my feet and legs, leaving blood marks

there. Had I escaped from a den of tigers, I could not have

looked worse than I did on reaching St. Michael’s. In this

unhappy plight, I appeared before my professedly Christian

master, humbly to invoke the interposition of his power and

authority, to protect me from further abuse and violence. I

had begun to hope, during the latter part of my tedious jour-

ney toward St. Michael’s, that Capt. Auld would now show

himself in a nobler light than I had ever before seen him. I

was disappointed. I had jumped from a sinking ship into the

sea; I had fled from the tiger to something worse. I told him

all the circumstances, as well as I could; how I was endeavor-

ing to please Covey; how hard I was at work in the present

instance; how unwilling I sunk down under the heat, toil

and pain; the brutal manner in which Covey had kicked me

in the side; the gash cut in my head; my hesitation about

troubling him (Capt. Auld) with complaints; but, that now

I felt it would not be best longer to conceal from him the

outrages committed on me from time to time by Covey. At

first, master Thomas seemed somewhat affected by the story

of my wrongs, but he soon repressed his feelings and became

cold as iron. It was impossible—as I stood before him at the

first—for him to seem indifferent. I distinctly saw his hu-

man nature asserting its conviction against the slave system,

which made cases like mine possible; but, as I have said, hu-

manity fell before the systematic tyranny of slavery. He first

walked the floor, apparently much agitated by my story, and

the sad spectacle I presented; but, presently, it was his turn

to talk. He began moderately, by finding excuses for Covey,

and ending with a full justification of him, and a passionate

condemnation of me. “He had no doubt I deserved the flog-

ging. He did not believe I was sick; I was only endeavoring

to get rid of work. My dizziness was laziness, and Covey did

right to flog me, as he had done.” After thus fairly annihilat-

ing me, and rousing himself by his own eloquence, he fiercely

demanded what I wished him to do in the case!

With such a complete knock-down to all my hopes, as he

had given me, and feeling, as I did, my entire subjection to

his power, I had very little heart to reply. I must not affirm

my innocence of the allegations which he had piled up against

me; for that would be impudence, and would probably call

down fresh violence as well as wrath upon me. The guilt of a

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My Bondage and My Freedom

slave is always, and everywhere, presumed; and the inno-

cence of the slaveholder or the slave employer, is always as-

serted. The word of the slave, against this presumption, is

generally treated as impudence, worthy of punishment. “Do

you contradict me, you rascal?” is a final silencer of counter

statements from the lips of a slave.

Calming down a little in view of my silence and hesita-

tion, and, perhaps, from a rapid glance at the picture of mis-

ery I presented, he inquired again, “what I would have him

do?” Thus invited a second time, I told Master Thomas I

wished him to allow me to get a new home and to find a new

master; that, as sure as I went back to live with Mr. Covey

again, I should be killed by him; that he would never forgive

my coming to him (Capt. Auld) with a complaint against

him (Covey); that, since I had lived with him, he almost

crushed my spirit, and I believed that he would ruin me for

future service; that my life was not safe in his hands. This,

Master Thomas (my brother in the church) regarded as

“nonsence{sic}.” “There was no danger of Mr. Covey’s kill-

ing me; he was a good man, industrious and religious, and

he would not think of removing me from that home; “be-

sides,” said he and this I found was the most distressing

thought of all to him—“if you should leave Covey now, that

your year has but half expired, I should lose your wages for

the entire year. You belong to Mr. Covey for one year, and

you must go back to him, come what will. You must not

trouble me with any more stories about Mr. Covey; and if

you do not go immediately home, I will get hold of you

myself.” This was just what I expected, when I found he had

prejudged the case against me. “But, Sir,” I said, “I am sick

and tired, and I cannot get home to-night.” At this, he again

relented, and finally he allowed me to remain all night at St.

Michael’s; but said I must be off early in the morning, and

concluded his directions by making me swallow a huge dose

of epsom salts—about the only medicine ever administered

to slaves.

It was quite natural for Master Thomas to presume I was

feigning sickness to escape work, for he probably thought

that were he in the place of a slave with no wages for his

work, no praise for well doing, no motive for toil but the

lash—he would try every possible scheme by which to es-

cape labor. I say I have no doubt of this; the reason is, that

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Frederick Douglas

there are not, under the whole heavens, a set of men who

cultivate such an intense dread of labor as do the slaveholders.

The charge of laziness against the slave is ever on their lips,

and is the standing apology for every species of cruelty and

brutality. These men literally “bind heavy burdens, grievous

to be borne, and lay them on men’s shoulders; but they, them-

selves, will not move them with one of their fingers.”

My kind readers shall have, in the next chapter—what they

were led, perhaps, to expect to find in this—namely: an ac-

count of my partial disenthrallment from the tyranny of

Covey, and the marked change which it brought about.

CHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVII The Last FThe Last FThe Last FThe Last FThe Last Flogginglogginglogginglogginglogging

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT—RETURN TO COVEY’S—PUR-

SUED BY COVEY—THE CHASE DEFEATED—VEN-

GEANCE POSTPONED—MUSINGS IN THE

WOODS—THE ALTERNATIVE—DEPLORABLE

SPECTACLE—NIGHT IN THE WOODS—EXPECTED

ATTACK—ACCOSTED BY SANDY, A FRIEND, NOT

A HUNTER—SANDY’S HOSPITALITY—THE “ASH

CAKE” SUPPER—THE INTERVIEW WITH SANDY—

HIS ADVICE—SANDY A CONJURER AS WELL AS A

CHRISTIAN—THE MAGIC ROOT—STRANGE

MEETING WITH COVEY—HIS MANNER—COVEY’S

SUNDAY FACE—MY DEFENSIVE RESOLVE—THE

FIGHT—THE VICTORY, AND ITS RESULTS.

SLEEP ITSELF DOES NOT ALWAYS COME to the relief of the weary

in body, and the broken in spirit; especially when past troubles

only foreshadow coming disasters. The last hope had been

extinguished. My master, who I did not venture to hope

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My Bondage and My Freedom

would protect me as a man, had even now refused to protect

me as his property; and had cast me back, covered with re-

proaches and bruises, into the hands of a stranger to that mercy

which was the soul of the religion he professed. May the reader

never spend such a night as that allotted to me, previous to the

morning which was to herald my return to the den of horrors

from which I had made a temporary escape.

I remained all night—sleep I did not—at St. Michael’s;

and in the morning (Saturday) I started off, according to the

order of Master Thomas, feeling that I had no friend on

earth, and doubting if I had one in heaven. I reached Covey’s

about nine o’clock; and just as I stepped into the field, be-

fore I had reached the house, Covey, true to his snakish hab-

its, darted out at me from a fence corner, in which he had

secreted himself, for the purpose of securing me. He was

amply provided with a cowskin and a rope; and he evidently

intended to tie me up, and to wreak his vengeance on me to

the fullest extent. I should have been an easy prey, had he

succeeded in getting his hands upon me, for I had taken no

refreshment since noon on Friday; and this, together with

the pelting, excitement, and the loss of blood, had reduced

my strength. I, however, darted back into the woods, before

the ferocious hound could get hold of me, and buried my-

self in a thicket, where he lost sight of me. The corn-field

afforded me cover, in getting to the woods. But for the tall

corn, Covey would have overtaken me, and made me his

captive. He seemed very much chagrined that he did not

catch me, and gave up the chase, very reluctantly; for I could

see his angry movements, toward the house from which he

had sallied, on his foray.

Well, now I am clear of Covey, and of his wrathful lash,

for present. I am in the wood, buried in its somber gloom,

and hushed in its solemn silence; hid from all human eyes;

shut in with nature and nature’s God, and absent from all

human contrivances. Here was a good place to pray; to pray

for help for deliverance—a prayer I had often made before.

But how could I pray? Covey could pray—Capt. Auld could

pray—I would fain pray; but doubts (arising partly from my

own neglect of the means of grace, and partly from the sham

religion which everywhere prevailed, cast in my mind a doubt

upon all religion, and led me to the conviction that prayers

were unavailing and delusive) prevented my embracing the

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Frederick Douglas

opportunity, as a religious one. Life, in itself, had almost

become burdensome to me. All my outward relations were

against me; I must stay here and starve (I was already hun-

gry) or go home to Covey’s, and have my flesh torn to pieces,

and my spirit humbled under the cruel lash of Covey. This

was the painful alternative presented to me. The day was

long and irksome. My physical condition was deplorable. I

was weak, from the toils of the previous day, and from the

want of food and rest; and had been so little concerned about

my appearance, that I had not yet washed the blood from

my garments. I was an object of horror, even to myself. Life,

in Baltimore, when most oppressive, was a paradise to this.

What had I done, what had my parents done, that such a life

as this should be mine? That day, in the woods, I would have

exchanged my manhood for the brutehood of an ox.

Night came. I was still in the woods, unresolved what to do.

Hunger had not yet pinched me to the point of going home,

and I laid myself down in the leaves to rest; for I had been

watching for hunters all day, but not being molested during

the day, I expected no disturbance during the night. I had

come to the conclusion that Covey relied upon hunger to drive

me home; and in this I was quite correct—the facts showed

that he had made no effort to catch me, since morning.

During the night, I heard the step of a man in the woods.

He was coming toward the place where I lay. A person lying

still has the advantage over one walking in the woods, in the

day time, and this advantage is much greater at night. I was

not able to engage in a physical struggle, and I had recourse

to the common resort of the weak. I hid myself in the leaves

to prevent discovery. But, as the night rambler in the woods

drew nearer, I found him to be a friend, not an enemy; it was

a slave of Mr. William Groomes, of Easton, a kind hearted

fellow, named “Sandy.” Sandy lived with Mr. Kemp that year,

about four miles from St. Michael’s. He, like myself had been

hired out by the year; but, unlike myself, had not been hired

out to be broken. Sandy was the husband of a free woman,

who lived in the lower part of “Potpie Neck,” and he was now

on his way through the woods, to see her, and to spend the

Sabbath with her.

As soon as I had ascertained that the disturber of my soli-

tude was not an enemy, but the good-hearted Sandy—a man

as famous among the slaves of the neighborhood for his good

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My Bondage and My Freedom

nature, as for his good sense I came out from my hiding

place, and made myself known to him. I explained the cir-

cumstances of the past two days, which had driven me to the

woods, and he deeply compassionated my distress. It was a

bold thing for him to shelter me, and I could not ask him to

do so; for, had I been found in his hut, he would have suf-

fered the penalty of thirty-nine lashes on his bare back, if

not something worse. But Sandy was too generous to permit

the fear of punishment to prevent his relieving a brother

bondman from hunger and exposure; and, therefore, on his

own motion, I accompanied him to his home, or rather to

the home of his wife—for the house and lot were hers. His

wife was called up—for it was now about midnight—a fire

was made, some Indian meal was soon mixed with salt and

water, and an ash cake was baked in a hurry to relieve my

hunger. Sandy’s wife was not behind him in kindness—both

seemed to esteem it a privilege to succor me; for, although I

was hated by Covey and by my master, I was loved by the

colored people, because they thought I was hated for my

knowledge, and persecuted because I was feared. I was the

only slave now in that region who could read and write. There

had been one other man, belonging to Mr. Hugh Hamilton,

who could read (his name was “Jim”), but he, poor fellow,

had, shortly after my coming into the neighborhood, been

sold off to the far south. I saw Jim ironed, in the cart, to be

carried to Easton for sale—pinioned like a yearling for the

slaughter. My knowledge was now the pride of my brother

slaves; and, no doubt, Sandy felt something of the general

interest in me on that account. The supper was soon ready,

and though I have feasted since, with honorables, lord may-

ors and aldermen, over the sea, my supper on ash cake and

cold water, with Sandy, was the meal, of all my life, most

sweet to my taste, and now most vivid in my memory.

Supper over, Sandy and I went into a discussion of what

was possible for me, under the perils and hardships which

now overshadowed my path. The question was, must I go

back to Covey, or must I now tempt to run away? Upon a

careful survey, the latter was found to be impossible; for I

was on a narrow neck of land, every avenue from which would

bring me in sight of pursuers. There was the Chesapeake bay

to the right, and “Pot-pie” river to the left, and St. Michael’s

and its neighborhood occupying the only space through

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which there was any retreat.

I found Sandy an old advisor. He was not only a religious

man, but he professed to believe in a system for which I have

no name. He was a genuine African, and had inherited some

of the so-called magical powers, said to be possessed by Afri-

can and eastern nations. He told me that he could help me;

that, in those very woods, there was an herb, which in the

morning might be found, possessing all the powers required

for my protection (I put his thoughts in my own language);

and that, if I would take his advice, he would procure me the

root of the herb of which he spoke. He told me further, that if

I would take that root and wear it on my right side, it would

be impossible for Covey to strike me a blow; that with this

root about my person, no white man could whip me. He said

he had carried it for years, and that he had fully tested its

virtues. He had never received a blow from a slaveholder since

he carried it; and he never expected to receive one, for he al-

ways meant to carry that root as a protection. He knew Covey

well, for Mrs. Covey was the daughter of Mr. Kemp; and he

(Sandy) had heard of the barbarous treatment to which I was

subjected, and he wanted to do something for me.

Now all this talk about the root, was to me, very absurd

and ridiculous, if not positively sinful. I at first rejected the

idea that the simple carrying a root on my right side (a root,

by the way, over which I walked every time I went into the

woods) could possess any such magic power as he ascribed

to it, and I was, therefore, not disposed to cumber my pocket

with it. I had a positive aversion to all pretenders to “divina-

tion.” It was beneath one of my intelligence to countenance

such dealings with the devil, as this power implied. But, with

all my learning—it was really precious little—Sandy was more

than a match for me. “My book learning,” he said, “had not

kept Covey off me” (a powerful argument just then) and he

entreated me, with flashing eyes, to try this. If it did me no

good, it could do me no harm, and it would cost me noth-

ing, any way. Sandy was so earnest, and so confident of the

good qualities of this weed, that, to please him, rather than

from any conviction of its excellence, I was induced to take

it. He had been to me the good Samaritan, and had, almost

providentially, found me, and helped me when I could not

help myself; how did I know but that the hand of the Lord

was in it? With thoughts of this sort, I took the roots from

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My Bondage and My Freedom

Sandy, and put them in my right hand pocket.

This was, of course, Sunday morning. Sandy now urged

me to go home, with all speed, and to walk up bravely to the

house, as though nothing had happened. I saw in Sandy too

deep an insight into human nature, with all his superstition,

not to have some respect for his advice; and perhaps, too, a

slight gleam or shadow of his superstition had fallen upon

me. At any rate, I started off toward Covey’s, as directed by

Sandy. Having, the previous night, poured my griefs into

Sandy’s ears, and got him enlisted in my behalf, having made

his wife a sharer in my sorrows, and having, also, become

well refreshed by sleep and food, I moved off, quite coura-

geously, toward the much dreaded Covey’s. Singularly

enough, just as I entered his yard gate, I met him and his

wife, dressed in their Sunday best—looking as smiling as

angels—on their way to church. The manner of Covey as-

tonished me. There was something really benignant in his

countenance. He spoke to me as never before; told me that

the pigs had got into the lot, and he wished me to drive

them out; inquired how I was, and seemed an altered man.

This extraordinary conduct of Covey, really made me begin

to think that Sandy’s herb had more virtue in it than I, in my

pride, had been willing to allow; and, had the day been other

than Sunday, I should have attributed Covey’s altered man-

ner solely to the magic power of the root. I suspected, how-

ever, that the Sabbath, and not the root, was the real explana-

tion of Covey’s manner. His religion hindered him from

breaking the Sabbath, but not from breaking my skin. He

had more respect for the day than for the man, for whom the

day was mercifully given; for while he would cut and slash

my body during the week, he would not hesitate, on Sun-

day, to teach me the value of my soul, or the way of life and

salvation by Jesus Christ.

All went well with me till Monday morning; and then,

whether the root had lost its virtue, or whether my tormen-

tor had gone deeper into the black art than myself (as was

sometimes said of him), or whether he had obtained a spe-

cial indulgence, for his faithful Sabbath day’s worship, it is

not necessary for me to know, or to inform the reader; but,

this I may say—the pious and benignant smile which graced

Covey’s face on Sunday, wholly disappeared on Monday. Long

before daylight, I was called up to go and feed, rub, and

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Frederick Douglas

curry the horses. I obeyed the call, and would have so obeyed

it, had it been made at an earilier{sic} hour, for I had brought

my mind to a firm resolve, during that Sunday’s reflection,

viz: to obey every order, however unreasonable, if it were

possible, and, if Mr. Covey should then undertake to beat me,

to defend and protect myself to the best of my ability. My

religious views on the subject of resisting my master, had suf-

fered a serious shock, by the savage persecution to which I had

been subjected, and my hands were no longer tied by my reli-

gion. Master Thomas’s indifference had served the last link. I

had now to this extent “backslidden” from this point in the

slave’s religious creed; and I soon had occasion to make my

fallen state known to my Sunday-pious brother, Covey.

Whilst I was obeying his order to feed and get the horses

ready for the field, and when in the act of going up the stable

loft for the purpose of throwing down some blades, Covey

sneaked into the stable, in his peculiar snake-like way, and

seizing me suddenly by the leg, he brought me to the stable

floor, giving my newly mended body a fearful jar. I now for-

got my roots, and remembered my pledge to stand up in my

own defense. The brute was endeavoring skillfully to get a

slip-knot on my legs, before I could draw up my feet. As

soon as I found what he was up to, I gave a sudden spring

(my two day’s rest had been of much service to me,) and by

that means, no doubt, he was able to bring me to the floor so

heavily. He was defeated in his plan of tying me. While down,

he seemed to think he had me very securely in his power. He

little thought he was—as the rowdies say—“in” for a “rough

and tumble” fight; but such was the fact. Whence came the

daring spirit necessary to grapple with a man who, eight-

and-forty hours before, could, with his slightest word have

made me tremble like a leaf in a storm, I do not know; at any

rate, I was resolved to fight, and, what was better still, I was

actually hard at it. The fighting madness had come upon

me, and I found my strong fingers firmly attached to the

throat of my cowardly tormentor; as heedless of consequences,

at the moment, as though we stood as equals before the law.

The very color of the man was forgotten. I felt as supple as a

cat, and was ready for the snakish creature at every turn.

Every blow of his was parried, though I dealt no blows in

turn. I was strictly on the defensive, preventing him from

injuring me, rather than trying to injure him. I flung him on

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My Bondage and My Freedom

the ground several times, when he meant to have hurled me

there. I held him so firmly by the throat, that his blood fol-

lowed my nails. He held me, and I held him.

All was fair, thus far, and the contest was about equal. My

resistance was entirely unexpected, and Covey was taken all

aback by it, for he trembled in every limb. “Are you going to

resist, you scoundrel?” said he. To which, I returned a polite

“Yes sir;” steadily gazing my interrogator in the eye, to meet

the first approach or dawning of the blow, which I expected

my answer would call forth. But, the conflict did not long

remain thus equal. Covey soon cried out lustily for help; not

that I was obtaining any marked advantage over him, or was

injuring him, but because he was gaining none over me, and

was not able, single handed, to conquer me. He called for

his cousin Hughs, to come to his assistance, and now the

scene was changed. I was compelled to give blows, as well as

to parry them; and, since I was, in any case, to suffer for

resistance, I felt (as the musty proverb goes) that “I might as

well be hanged for an old sheep as a lamb.” I was still defen-

sive toward Covey, but aggressive toward Hughs; and, at the

first approach of the latter, I dealt a blow, in my desperation,

which fairly sickened my youthful assailant. He went off,

bending over with pain, and manifesting no disposition to

come within my reach again. The poor fellow was in the act

of trying to catch and tie my right hand, and while flattering

himself with success, I gave him the kick which sent him

staggering away in pain, at the same time that I held Covey

with a firm hand.

Taken completely by surprise, Covey seemed to have lost

his usual strength and coolness. He was frightened, and stood

puffing and blowing, seemingly unable to command words

or blows. When he saw that poor Hughes was standing half

bent with pain—his courage quite gone the cowardly tyrant

asked if I “meant to persist in my resistance.” I told him “I

did mean to resist, come what might;” that I had been by him

treated like a brute, during the last six months; and that I

should stand it no longer. With that, he gave me a shake, and

attempted to drag me toward a stick of wood, that was lying

just outside the stable door. He meant to knock me down

with it; but, just as he leaned over to get the stick, I seized

him with both hands by the collar, and, with a vigorous and

sudden snatch, I brought my assailant harmlessly, his full

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Frederick Douglas

length, on the not overclean ground—for we were now in

the cow yard. He had selected the place for the fight, and it

was but right that he should have all the advantges{sic} of his

own selection.

By this time, Bill, the hiredman, came home. He had been

to Mr. Hemsley’s, to spend the Sunday with his nominal

wife, and was coming home on Monday morning, to go to

work. Covey and I had been skirmishing from before day-

break, till now, that the sun was almost shooting his beams

over the eastern woods, and we were still at it. I could not see

where the matter was to terminate. He evidently was afraid

to let me go, lest I should again make off to the woods; oth-

erwise, he would probably have obtained arms from the

house, to frighten me. Holding me, Covey called upon Bill

for assistance. The scene here, had something comic about

it. “Bill,” who knew precisely what Covey wished him to do,

affected ignorance, and pretended he did not know what to

do. “What shall I do, Mr. Covey,” said Bill. “Take hold of

him—take hold of him!” said Covey. With a toss of his head,

peculiar to Bill, he said, “indeed, Mr. Covey I want to go to

work.” “This is your work,” said Covey; “take hold of him.”

Bill replied, with spirit, “My master hired me here, to work,

and not to help you whip Frederick.” It was now my turn to

speak. “Bill,” said I, “don’t put your hands on me.” To which

he replied, “My GOD! Frederick, I ain’t goin’ to tech ye,”

and Bill walked off, leaving Covey and myself to settle our

matters as best we might.

But, my present advantage was threatened when I saw

Caroline (the slave-woman of Covey) coming to the cow

yard to milk, for she was a powerful woman, and could have

mastered me very easily, exhausted as I now was. As soon as

she came into the yard, Covey attempted to rally her to his

aid. Strangely—and, I may add, fortunately—Caroline was

in no humor to take a hand in any such sport. We were all in

open rebellion, that morning. Caroline answered the com-

mand of her master to “take hold of me,” precisely as Bill had

answered, but in her, it was at greater peril so to answer; she

was the slave of Covey, and he could do what he pleased

with her. It was not so with Bill, and Bill knew it. Samuel

Harris, to whom Bill belonged, did not allow his slaves to be

beaten, unless they were guilty of some crime which the law

would punish. But, poor Caroline, like myself, was at the

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mercy of the merciless Covey; nor did she escape the dire

effects of her refusal. He gave her several sharp blows.

Covey at length (two hours had elapsed) gave up the con-

test. Letting me go, he said—puffing and blowing at a great

rate—”Now, you scoundrel, go to your work; I would not

have whipped you half so much as I have had you not re-

sisted.” The fact was, he had not whipped me at all. He had

not, in all the scuffle, drawn a single drop of blood from me.

I had drawn blood from him; and, even without this satis-

faction, I should have been victorious, because my aim had

not been to injure him, but to prevent his injuring me.

During the whole six months that I lived with Covey, after

this transaction, he never laid on me the weight of his finger

in anger. He would, occasionally, say he did not want to

have to get hold of me again—a declaration which I had no

difficulty in believing; and I had a secret feeling, which an-

swered, “You need not wish to get hold of me again, for you

will be likely to come off worse in a second fight than you

did in the first.”

Well, my dear reader, this battle with Mr. Covey—undig-

nified as it was, and as I fear my narration of it is—was the

turning point in my “life as a slave.” It rekindled in my breast

the smouldering embers of liberty; it brought up my Balti-

more dreams, and revived a sense of my own manhood. I

was a changed being after that fight. I was nothing before; I

WAS A MAN NOW. It recalled to life my crushed self-re-

spect and my self-confidence, and inspired me with a re-

newed determination to be A FREEMAN. A man, without

force, is without the essential dignity of humanity. Human

nature is so constituted, that it cannot honor a helpless man,

although it can pity him; and even this it cannot do long, if

the signs of power do not arise.

He can only understand the effect of this combat on my

spirit, who has himself incurred something, hazarded some-

thing, in repelling the unjust and cruel aggressions of a ty-

rant. Covey was a tyrant, and a cowardly one, withal. After

resisting him, I felt as I had never felt before. It was a resur-

rection from the dark and pestiferous tomb of slavery, to the

heaven of comparative freedom. I was no longer a servile

coward, trembling under the frown of a brother worm of the

dust, but, my long-cowed spirit was roused to an attitude of

manly independence. I had reached the point, at which I

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Frederick Douglas

was not afraid to die. This spirit made me a freeman in fact,

while I remained a slave in form. When a slave cannot be

flogged he is more than half free. He has a domain as broad

as his own manly heart to defend, and he is really “a power

on earth.” While slaves prefer their lives, with flogging, to

instant death, they will always find Christians enough, like

unto Covey, to accommodate that preference. From this time,

until that of my escape from slavery, I was never fairly

whipped. Several attempts were made to whip me, but they

were always unsuccessful. Bruises I did get, as I shall hereaf-

ter inform the reader; but the case I have been describing,

was the end of the brutification to which slavery had sub-

jected me.

The reader will be glad to know why, after I had so griev-

ously offended Mr. Covey, he did not have me taken in hand

by the authorities; indeed, why the law of Maryland, which

assigns hanging to the slave who resists his master, was not

put in force against me; at any rate, why I was not taken up,

as is usual in such cases, and publicly whipped, for an ex-

ample to other slaves, and as a means of deterring me from

committing the same offense again. I confess, that the easy

manner in which I got off, for a long time, a surprise to me,

and I cannot, even now, fully explain the cause.

The only explanation I can venture to suggest, is the fact,

that Covey was, probably, ashamed to have it known and

confessed that he had been mastered by a boy of sixteen. Mr.

Covey enjoyed the unbounded and very valuable reputation,

of being a first rate overseer and Negro breaker. By means of

this reputation, he was able to procure his hands for very

trifling compensation, and with very great ease. His interest

and his pride mutually suggested the wisdom of passing the

matter by, in silence. The story that he had undertaken to

whip a lad, and had been resisted, was, of itself, sufficient to

damage him; for his bearing should, in the estimation of

slaveholders, be of that imperial order that should make such

an occurrence impossible. I judge from these circumstances,

that Covey deemed it best to give me the go-by. It is, per-

haps, not altogether creditable to my natural temper, that,

after this conflict with Mr. Covey, I did, at times, purposely

aim to provoke him to an attack, by refusing to keep with

the other hands in the field, but I could never bully him to

another battle. I had made up my mind to do him serious

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My Bondage and My Freedom

damage, if he ever again attempted to lay violent hands on

me.

Hereditary bondmen, know ye not

Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?

CHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XVIII NNNNNew Rew Rew Rew Rew Relations and Dutieselations and Dutieselations and Dutieselations and Dutieselations and Duties

CHANGE OF MASTERS—BENEFITS DERIVED BY THE

CHANGE—FAME OF THE FIGHT WITH COVEY—

RECKLESS UNCONCERN—MY ABHORRENCE OF

SLAVERY—ABILITY TO READ A CAUSE OF PREJU-

DICE—THE HOLIDAYS—HOW SPENT—SHARP HIT

AT SLAVERY—EFFECTS OF HOLIDAYS—A DEVICE OF

SLAVERY—DIFFERENCE BETWEEN COVEY AND

FREELAND—AN IRRELIGIOUS MASTER PREFERRED

TO A RELIGIOUS ONE—CATALOGUE OF FLOGGABLE

OFFENSES—HARD LIFE AT COVEY’S USEFUL—IM-

PROVED CONDITION NOT FOLLOWED BY CON-

TENTMENT—CONGENIAL SOCIETY AT

FREELAND’S—SABBATH SCHOOL INSTITUTED—

SECRECY NECESSARY—AFFECTIONATE RELATIONS

OF TUTOR AND PUPILS—CONFIDENCE AND

FRIENDSHIP AMONG SLAVES—I DECLINE PUBLISH-

ING PARTICULARS OF CONVERSATIONS WITH MY

FRIENDS—SLAVERY THE INVITER OF VENGEANCE.

165

Frederick Douglas

MY TERM OF ACTUAL SERVICE to Mr. Edward Covey ended on

Christmas day, 1834. I gladly left the snakish Covey, although

he was now as gentle as a lamb. My home for the year 1835

was already secured—my next master was already selected.

There is always more or less excitement about the matter of

changing hands, but I had become somewhat reckless. I cared

very little into whose hands I fell—I meant to fight my way.

Despite of Covey, too, the report got abroad, that I was hard

to whip; that I was guilty of kicking back; that though gen-

erally a good tempered Negro, I sometimes “got the devil in

me.” These sayings were rife in Talbot county, and they dis-

tinguished me among my servile brethren. Slaves, generally,

will fight each other, and die at each other’s hands; but there

are few who are not held in awe by a white man. Trained

from the cradle up, to think and feel that their masters are

superior, and invested with a sort of sacredness, there are few

who can outgrow or rise above the control which that senti-

ment exercises. I had now got free from it, and the thing was

known. One bad sheep will spoil a whole flock. Among the

slaves, I was a bad sheep. I hated slavery, slaveholders, and

all pertaining to them; and I did not fail to inspire others

with the same feeling, wherever and whenever opportunity

was presented. This made me a marked lad among the slaves,

and a suspected one among the slaveholders. A knowledge

of my ability to read and write, got pretty widely spread,

which was very much against me.

The days between Christmas day and New Year’s, are al-

lowed the slaves as holidays. During these days, all regular

work was suspended, and there was nothing to do but to

keep fires, and look after the stock. This time was regarded

as our own, by the grace of our masters, and we, therefore

used it, or abused it, as we pleased. Those who had families

at a distance, were now expected to visit them, and to spend

with them the entire week. The younger slaves, or the un-

married ones, were expected to see to the cattle, and attend

to incidental duties at home. The holidays were variously

spent. The sober, thinking and industrious ones of our num-

ber, would employ themselves in manufacturing corn brooms,

mats, horse collars and baskets, and some of these were very

well made. Another class spent their time in hunting opos-

sums, coons, rabbits, and other game. But the majority spent

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My Bondage and My Freedom

the holidays in sports, ball playing, wrestling, boxing, run-

ning foot races, dancing, and drinking whisky; and this

latter mode of spending the time was generally most agree-

able to their masters. A slave who would work during the

holidays, was thought, by his master, undeserving of holi-

days. Such an one had rejected the favor of his master. There

was, in this simple act of continued work, an accusation

against slaves; and a slave could not help thinking, that if

he made three dollars during the holidays, he might make

three hundred during the year. Not to be drunk during the

holidays, was disgraceful; and he was esteemed a lazy and

improvident man, who could not afford to drink whisky

during Christmas.

The fiddling, dancing and “jubilee beating,” was going on

in all directions. This latter performance is strictly southern.

It supplies the place of a violin, or of other musical instru-

ments, and is played so easily, that almost every farm has its

“Juba” beater. The performer improvises as he beats, and sings

his merry songs, so ordering the words as to have them fall

pat with the movement of his hands. Among a mass of non-

sense and wild frolic, once in a while a sharp hit is given to

the meanness of slaveholders. Take the following, for an ex-

ample:

We raise de wheat,

Dey gib us de corn;

We bake de bread,

Dey gib us de cruss;

We sif de meal,

Dey gib us de huss;

We peal de meat,

Dey gib us de skin,

And dat’s de way

Dey takes us in.

We skim de pot,

Dey gib us the liquor,

And say dat’s good enough for nigger.

Walk over! walk over!

Tom butter and de fat;

Poor nigger you can’t get over dat;

Walk over!

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Frederick Douglas

This is not a bad summary of the palpable injustice and

fraud of slavery, giving—as it does—to the lazy and idle, the

comforts which God designed should be given solely to the

honest laborer. But to the holiday’s.

Judging from my own observation and experience, I be-

lieve these holidays to be among the most effective means,

in the hands of slaveholders, of keeping down the spirit of

insurrection among the slaves.

To enslave men, successfully and safely, it is necessary to

have their minds occupied with thoughts and aspirations

short of the liberty of which they are deprived. A certain

degree of attainable good must be kept before them. These

holidays serve the purpose of keeping the minds of the slaves

occupied with prospective pleasure, within the limits of sla-

very. The young man can go wooing; the married man can

visit his wife; the father and mother can see their children;

the industrious and money loving can make a few dollars;

the great wrestler can win laurels; the young people can meet,

and enjoy each other’s society; the drunken man can get

plenty of whisky; and the religious man can hold prayer

meetings, preach, pray and exhort during the holidays. Be-

fore the holidays, these are pleasures in prospect; after the

holidays, they become pleasures of memory, and they serve

to keep out thoughts and wishes of a more dangerous char-

acter. Were slaveholders at once to abandon the practice of

allowing their slaves these liberties, periodically, and to keep

them, the year round, closely confined to the narrow circle

of their homes, I doubt not that the south would blaze with

insurrections. These holidays are conductors or safety valves

to carry off the explosive elements inseparable from the hu-

man mind, when reduced to the condition of slavery. But

for these, the rigors of bondage would become too severe for

endurance, and the slave would be forced up to dangerous

desperation. Woe to the slaveholder when he undertakes to

hinder or to prevent the operation of these electric conduc-

tors. A succession of earthquakes would be less destructive,

than the insurrectionary fires which would be sure to burst

forth in different parts of the south, from such interference.

Thus, the holidays, became part and parcel of the gross

fraud, wrongs and inhumanity of slavery. Ostensibly, they

are institutions of benevolence, designed to mitigate the rig-

ors of slave life, but, practically, they are a fraud, instituted

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My Bondage and My Freedom

by human selfishness, the better to secure the ends of injus-

tice and oppression. The slave’s happiness is not the end

sought, but, rather, the master’s safety. It is not from a gener-

ous unconcern for the slave’s labor that this cessation from

labor is allowed, but from a prudent regard to the safety of

the slave system. I am strengthened in this opinion, by the

fact, that most slaveholders like to have their slaves spend

the holidays in such a manner as to be of no real benefit to

the slaves. It is plain, that everything like rational enjoyment

among the slaves, is frowned upon; and only those wild and

low sports, peculiar to semi-civilized people, are encouraged.

All the license allowed, appears to have no other object than

to disgust the slaves with their temporary freedom, and to

make them as glad to return to their work, as they were to

leave it. By plunging them into exhausting depths of drunk-

enness and dissipation, this effect is almost certain to follow.

I have known slaveholders resort to cunning tricks, with a

view of getting their slaves deplorably drunk. A usual plan

is, to make bets on a slave, that he can drink more whisky

than any other; and so to induce a rivalry among them, for

the mastery in this degradation. The scenes, brought about

in this way, were often scandalous and loathsome in the ex-

treme. Whole multitudes might be found stretched out in

brutal drunkenness, at once helpless and disgusting. Thus,

when the slave asks for a few hours of virtuous freedom, his

cunning master takes advantage of his ignorance, and cheers

him with a dose of vicious and revolting dissipation, artfully

labeled with the name of LIBERTY. We were induced to

drink, I among the rest, and when the holidays were over,

we all staggered up from our filth and wallowing, took a

long breath, and went away to our various fields of work;

feeling, upon the whole, rather glad to go from that which

our masters artfully deceived us into the belief was freedom,

back again to the arms of slavery. It was not what we had

taken it to be, nor what it might have been, had it not been

abused by us. It was about as well to be a slave to master, as to

be a slave to rum and whisky.

I am the more induced to take this view of the holiday

system, adopted by slaveholders, from what I know of their

treatment of slaves, in regard to other things. It is the com-

monest thing for them to try to disgust their slaves with what

they do not want them to have, or to enjoy. A slave, for

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Frederick Douglas

instance, likes molasses; he steals some; to cure him of the

taste for it, his master, in many cases, will go away to town,

and buy a large quantity of the poorest quality, and set it

before his slave, and, with whip in hand, compel him to eat

it, until the poor fellow is made to sicken at the very thought

of molasses. The same course is often adopted to cure slaves

of the disagreeable and inconvenient practice of asking for

more food, when their allowance has failed them. The same

disgusting process works well, too, in other things, but I need

not cite them. When a slave is drunk, the slaveholder has no

fear that he will plan an insurrection; no fear that he will

escape to the north. It is the sober, thinking slave who is

dangerous, and needs the vigilance of his master, to keep

him a slave. But, to proceed with my narrative.

On the first of January, 1835, I proceeded from St.

Michael’s to Mr. William Freeland’s, my new home. Mr.

Freeland lived only three miles from St. Michael’s, on an old

worn out farm, which required much labor to restore it to

anything like a self-supporting establishment.

I was not long in finding Mr. Freeland to be a very differ-

ent man from Mr. Covey. Though not rich, Mr. Freeland

was what may be called a well-bred southern gentleman, as

different from Covey, as a well-trained and hardened Negro

breaker is from the best specimen of the first families of the

south. Though Freeland was a slaveholder, and shared many

of the vices of his class, he seemed alive to the sentiment of

honor. He had some sense of justice, and some feelings of

humanity. He was fretful, impulsive and passionate, but I

must do him the justice to say, he was free from the mean

and selfish characteristics which distinguished the creature

from which I had now, happily, escaped. He was open, frank,

imperative, and practiced no concealments, disdaining to play

the spy. In all this, he was the opposite of the crafty Covey.

Among the many advantages gained in my change from

Covey’s to Freeland’s—startling as the statement may be—

was the fact that the latter gentleman made no profession of

religion. I assert most unhesitatingly, that the religion of the

south—as I have observed it and proved it—is a mere cover-

ing for the most horrid crimes; the justifier of the most ap-

palling barbarity; a sanctifier of the most hateful frauds; and

a secure shelter, under which the darkest, foulest, grossest,

and most infernal abominations fester and flourish. Were I

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My Bondage and My Freedom

again to be reduced to the condition of a slave, next to that

calamity, I should regard the fact of being the slave of a reli-

gious slaveholder, the greatest that could befall me. For all

slaveholders with whom I have ever met, religious slaveholders

are the worst. I have found them, almost invariably, the vil-

est, meanest and basest of their class. Exceptions there may

be, but this is true of religious slaveholders, as a class. It is not

for me to explain the fact. Others may do that; I simply state

it as a fact, and leave the theological, and psychological in-

quiry, which it raises, to be decided by others more compe-

tent than myself. Religious slaveholders, like religious perse-

cutors, are ever extreme in their malice and violence. Very

near my new home, on an adjoining farm, there lived the

Rev. Daniel Weeden, who was both pious and cruel after the

real Covey pattern. Mr. Weeden was a local preacher of the

Protestant Methodist persuasion, and a most zealous sup-

porter of the ordinances of religion, generally. This Weeden

owned a woman called “Ceal,” who was a standing proof of

his mercilessness. Poor Ceal’s back, always scantily clothed,

was kept literally raw, by the lash of this religious man and

gospel minister. The most notoriously wicked man—so called

in distinction from church members—could hire hands more

easily than this brute. When sent out to find a home, a slave

would never enter the gates of the preacher Weeden, while a

sinful sinner needed a hand. Behave ill, or behave well, it

was the known maxim of Weeden, that it is the duty of a

master to use the lash. If, for no other reason, he contended

that this was essential to remind a slave of his condition, and

of his master’s authority. The good slave must be whipped,

to be kept good, and the bad slave must be whipped, to be

made good. Such was Weeden’s theory, and such was his prac-

tice. The back of his slave-woman will, in the judgment, be

the swiftest witness against him.

While I am stating particular cases, I might as well immor-

talize another of my neighbors, by calling him by name, and

putting him in print. He did not think that a “chiel” was

near, “taking notes,” and will, doubtless, feel quite angry at

having his character touched off in the ragged style of a slave’s

pen. I beg to introduce the reader to REV. RIGBY

HOPKINS. Mr. Hopkins resides between Easton and St.

Michael’s, in Talbot county, Maryland. The severity of this

man made him a perfect terror to the slaves of his neighbor-

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Frederick Douglas

hood. The peculiar feature of his government, was, his sys-

tem of whipping slaves, as he said, in advance of deserving it.

He always managed to have one or two slaves to whip on

Monday morning, so as to start his hands to their work,

under the inspiration of a new assurance on Monday, that

his preaching about kindness, mercy, brotherly love, and the

like, on Sunday, did not interfere with, or prevent him from

establishing his authority, by the cowskin. He seemed to wish

to assure them, that his tears over poor, lost and ruined sin-

ners, and his pity for them, did not reach to the blacks who

tilled his fields. This saintly Hopkins used to boast, that he

was the best hand to manage a Negro in the county. He

whipped for the smallest offenses, by way of preventing the

commission of large ones.

The reader might imagine a difficulty in finding faults

enough for such frequent whipping. But this is because you

have no idea how easy a matter it is to offend a man who is

on the look-out for offenses. The man, unaccustomed to

slaveholding, would be astonished to observe how many

foggable offenses there are in the slaveholder’s catalogue of

crimes; and how easy it is to commit any one of them, even

when the slave least intends it. A slaveholder, bent on find-

ing fault, will hatch up a dozen a day, if he chooses to do so,

and each one of these shall be of a punishable description. A

mere look, word, or motion, a mistake, accident, or want of

power, are all matters for which a slave may be whipped at

any time. Does a slave look dissatisfied with his condition?

It is said, that he has the devil in him, and it must be whipped

out. Does he answer loudly, when spoken to by his master,

with an air of self-consciousness? Then, must he be taken

down a button-hole lower, by the lash, well laid on. Does he

forget, and omit to pull off his hat, when approaching a white

person? Then, he must, or may be, whipped for his bad man-

ners. Does he ever venture to vindicate his conduct, when

harshly and unjustly accused? Then, he is guilty of impu-

dence, one of the greatest crimes in the social catalogue of

southern society. To allow a slave to escape punishment, who

has impudently attempted to exculpate himself from unjust

charges, preferred against him by some white person, is to be

guilty of great dereliction of duty. Does a slave ever venture

to suggest a better way of doing a thing, no matter what? He

is, altogether, too officious—wise above what is written—

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My Bondage and My Freedom

and he deserves, even if he does not get, a flogging for his

presumption. Does he, while plowing, break a plow, or while

hoeing, break a hoe, or while chopping, break an ax? No

matter what were the imperfections of the implement bro-

ken, or the natural liabilities for breaking, the slave can be

whipped for carelessness. The reverend slaveholder could al-

ways find something of this sort, to justify him in using the

lash several times during the week. Hopkins—like Covey

and Weeden—were shunned by slaves who had the privilege

(as many had) of finding their own masters at the end of

each year; and yet, there was not a man in all that section of

country, who made a louder profession of religion, than did

MR. RIGBY HOPKINS.

But, to continue the thread of my story, through my expe-

rience when at Mr. William Freeland’s.

My poor, weather-beaten bark now reached smoother wa-

ter, and gentler breezes. My stormy life at Covey’s had been of

service to me. The things that would have seemed very hard,

had I gone direct to Mr. Freeland’s, from the home of Master

Thomas, were now (after the hardships at Covey’s) “trifles light

as air.” I was still a field hand, and had come to prefer the

severe labor of the field, to the enervating duties of a house

servant. I had become large and strong; and had begun to take

pride in the fact, that I could do as much hard work as some

of the older men. There is much rivalry among slaves, at times,

as to which can do the most work, and masters generally seek

to promote such rivalry. But some of us were too wise to race

with each other very long. Such racing, we had the sagacity to

see, was not likely to pay. We had our times for measuring

each other’s strength, but we knew too much to keep up the

competition so long as to produce an extraordinary day’s work.

We knew that if, by extraordinary exertion, a large quantity of

work was done in one day, the fact, becoming known to the

master, might lead him to require the same amount every day.

This thought was enough to bring us to a dead halt when over

so much excited for the race.

At Mr. Freeland’s, my condition was every way improved.

I was no longer the poor scape-goat that I was when at

Covey’s, where every wrong thing done was saddled upon

me, and where other slaves were whipped over my shoul-

ders. Mr. Freeland was too just a man thus to impose upon

me, or upon any one else.

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Frederick Douglas

It is quite usual to make one slave the object of especial

abuse, and to beat him often, with a view to its effect upon

others, rather than with any expectation that the slave

whipped will be improved by it, but the man with whom I

now was, could descend to no such meanness and wicked-

ness. Every man here was held individually responsible for

his own conduct.

This was a vast improvement on the rule at Covey’s. There,

I was the general pack horse. Bill Smith was protected, by a

positive prohibition made by his rich master, and the com-

mand of the rich slaveholder is LAW to the poor one; Hughes

was favored, because of his relationship to Covey; and the

hands hired temporarily, escaped flogging, except as they got

it over my poor shoulders. Of course, this comparison refers

to the time when Covey could whip me.

Mr. Freeland, like Mr. Covey, gave his hands enough to

eat, but, unlike Mr. Covey, he gave them time to take their

meals; he worked us hard during the day, but gave us the

night for rest—another advantage to be set to the credit of

the sinner, as against that of the saint. We were seldom in the

field after dark in the evening, or before sunrise in the morn-

ing. Our implements of husbandry were of the most im-

proved pattern, and much superior to those used at Covey’s.

Nothwithstanding the improved condition which was now

mine, and the many advantages I had gained by my new

home, and my new master, I was still restless and discon-

tented. I was about as hard to please by a master, as a master

is by slave. The freedom from bodily torture and unceasing

labor, had given my mind an increased sensibility, and im-

parted to it greater activity. I was not yet exactly in right

relations. “How be it, that was not first which is spiritual,

but that which is natural, and afterward that which is spiri-

tual.” When entombed at Covey’s, shrouded in darkness and

physical wretchedness, temporal wellbeing was the grand

desideratum; but, temporal wants supplied, the spirit puts in

its claims. Beat and cuff your slave, keep him hungry and

spiritless, and he will follow the chain of his master like a

dog; but, feed and clothe him well—work him moderately—

surround him with physical comfort—and dreams of free-

dom intrude. Give him a bad master, and he aspires to a good

master; give him a good master, and he wishes to become his

own master. Such is human nature. You may hurl a man so

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My Bondage and My Freedom

low, beneath the level of his kind, that he loses all just ideas

of his natural position; but elevate him a little, and the clear

conception of rights arises to life and power, and leads him

onward. Thus elevated, a little, at Freeland’s, the dreams called

into being by that good man, Father Lawson, when in Balti-

more, began to visit me; and shoots from the tree of liberty

began to put forth tender buds, and dim hopes of the future

began to dawn.

I found myself in congenial society, at Mr. Freeland’s. There

were Henry Harris, John Harris, Handy Caldwell, and Sandy

Jenkins.*

Henry and John were brothers, and belonged to Mr.

Freeland. They were both remarkably bright and intelligent,

though neither of them could read. Now for mischief! I had

not been long at Freeland’s before I was up to my old tricks.

I early began to address my companions on the subject of

education, and the advantages of intelligence over ignorance,

and, as far as I dared, I tried to show the agency of ignorance

in keeping men in slavery. Webster’s spelling book and the

Columbian Orator were looked into again. As summer came

on, and the long Sabbath days stretched themselves over our

idleness, I became uneasy, and wanted a Sabbath school, in

which to exercise my gifts, and to impart the little knowl-

edge of letters which I possessed, to my brother slaves. A

house was hardly necessary in the summer time; I could hold

my school under the shade of an old oak tree, as well as any

where else. The thing was, to get the scholars, and to have

them thoroughly imbued with the desire to learn. Two such

boys were quickly secured, in Henry and John, and from

them the contagion spread. I was not long bringing around

me twenty or thirty young men, who enrolled themselves,

gladly, in my Sabbath school, and were willing to meet me

regularly, under the trees or elsewhere, for the purpose of

learning to read. It was surprising with what ease they pro-

vided themselves with spelling books. These were mostly the

cast off books of their young masters or mistresses. I taught,

at first, on our own farm. All were impressed with the neces-

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

175

Frederick Douglas

sity of keeping the matter as private as possible, for the fate

of the St. Michael’s attempt was notorious, and fresh in the

minds of all. Our pious masters, at St. Michael’s, must not

know that a few of their dusky brothers were learning to

read the word of God, lest they should come down upon us

with the lash and chain. We might have met to drink whisky,

to wrestle, fight, and to do other unseemly things, with no

fear of interruption from the saints or sinners of St. Michael’s.

But, to meet for the purpose of improving the mind and

heart, by learning to read the sacred scriptures, was esteemed

a most dangerous nuisance, to be instantly stopped. The

slaveholders of St. Michael’s, like slaveholders elsewhere,

would always prefer to see the slaves engaged in degrading

sports, rather than to see them acting like moral and account-

able beings.

Had any one asked a religious white man, in St. Michael’s,

twenty years ago, the names of three men in that town, whose

lives were most after the pattern of our Lord and Master,

Jesus Christ, the first three would have been as follows:

GARRISON WEST, Class Leader.

WRIGHT FAIRBANKS, Class Leader. THOMAS AULD, Class Leader.

And yet, these were men who ferociously rushed in upon

my Sabbath school, at St. Michael’s, armed with mob-like

missiles, and I must say, I thought him a Christian, until he

took part in bloody by the lash. This same Garrison West

was my class leader, and I must say, I thought him a Chris-

tian, until he took part in breaking up my school. He led me

no more after that. The plea for this outrage was then, as it is

now and at all times—the danger to good order. If the slaves

learnt to read, they would learn something else, and some-

thing worse. The peace of slavery would be disturbed; slave

rule would be endangered. I leave the reader to characterize

a system which is endangered by such causes. I do not dis-

pute the soundness of the reasoning. It is perfectly sound;

and, if slavery be right, Sabbath schools for teaching slaves to

read the bible are wrong, and ought to be put down. These

Christian class leaders were, to this extent, consistent. They

had settled the question, that slavery is right, and, by that

standard, they determined that Sabbath schools are wrong.

To be sure, they were Protestant, and held to the great Prot-

estant right of every man to “search the scriptures” for him-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

self; but, then, to all general rules, there are exceptions. How

convenient! What crimes may not be committed under the

doctrine of the last remark. But, my dear, class leading Meth-

odist brethren, did not condescend to give me a reason for

breaking up the Sabbath school at St. Michael’s; it was enough

that they had determined upon its destruction. I am, how-

ever, digressing.

After getting the school cleverly into operation, the sec-

ond time holding it in the woods, behind the barn, and in

the shade of trees—I succeeded in inducing a free colored

man, who lived several miles from our house, to permit me

to hold my school in a room at his house. He, very kindly,

gave me this liberty; but he incurred much peril in doing so,

for the assemblage was an unlawful one. I shall not mention,

here, the name of this man; for it might, even now, subject

him to persecution, although the offenses were committed

more than twenty years ago. I had, at one time, more than

forty scholars, all of the right sort; and many of them suc-

ceeded in learning to read. I have met several slaves from

Maryland, who were once my scholars; and who obtained

their freedom, I doubt not, partly in consequence of the ideas

imparted to them in that school. I have had various employ-

ments during my short life; but I look back to none with

more satisfaction, than to that afforded by my Sunday school.

An attachment, deep and lasting, sprung up between me and

my persecuted pupils, which made parting from them in-

tensely grievous; and, when I think that most of these dear

souls are yet shut up in this abject thralldom, I am over-

whelmed with grief.

Besides my Sunday school, I devoted three evenings a week

to my fellow slaves, during the winter. Let the reader reflect

upon the fact, that, in this christian country, men and women

are hiding from professors of religion, in barns, in the woods

and fields, in order to learn to read the holy bible. Those dear

souls, who came to my Sabbath school, came not because it

was popular or reputable to attend such a place, for they

came under the liability of having forty stripes laid on their

naked backs. Every moment they spend in my school, they

were under this terrible liability; and, in this respect, I was

sharer with them. Their minds had been cramped and starved

by their cruel masters; the light of education had been com-

pletely excluded; and their hard earnings had been taken to

177

Frederick Douglas

educate their master’s children. I felt a delight in circum-

venting the tyrants, and in blessing the victims of their curses.

The year at Mr. Freeland’s passed off very smoothly, to

outward seeming. Not a blow was given me during the whole

year. To the credit of Mr. Freeland—irreligious though he

was—it must be stated, that he was the best master I ever

had, until I became my own master, and assumed for myself,

as I had a right to do, the responsibility of my own existence

and the exercise of my own powers. For much of the happi-

ness—or absence of misery—with which I passed this year

with Mr. Freeland, I am indebted to the genial temper and

ardent friendship of my brother slaves. They were, every one

of them, manly, generous and brave, yes; I say they were

brave, and I will add, fine looking. It is seldom the lot of

mortals to have truer and better friends than were the slaves

on this farm. It is not uncommon to charge slaves with great

treachery toward each other, and to believe them incapable

of confiding in each other; but I must say, that I never loved,

esteemed, or confided in men, more than I did in these. They

were as true as steel, and no band of brothers could have

been more loving. There were no mean advantages taken of

each other, as is sometimes the case where slaves are situated

as we were; no tattling; no giving each other bad names to

Mr. Freeland; and no elevating one at the expense of the

other. We never undertook to do any thing, of any impor-

tance, which was likely to affect each other, without mutual

consultation. We were generally a unit, and moved together.

Thoughts and sentiments were exchanged between us, which

might well be called very incendiary, by oppressors and ty-

rants; and perhaps the time has not even now come, when it

is safe to unfold all the flying suggestions which arise in the

minds of intelligent slaves. Several of my friends and broth-

ers, if yet alive, are still in some part of the house of bondage;

and though twenty years have passed away, the suspicious

malice of slavery might punish them for even listening to

my thoughts.

The slaveholder, kind or cruel, is a slaveholder still—the

every hour violator of the just and inalienable rights of man;

and he is, therefore, every hour silently whetting the knife of

vengeance for his own throat. He never lisps a syllable in

commendation of the fathers of this republic, nor denounces

any attempted oppression of himself, without inviting the

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My Bondage and My Freedom

knife to his own throat, and asserting the rights of rebellion

for his own slaves.

The year is ended, and we are now in the midst of the

Christmas holidays, which are kept this year as last, accord-

ing to the general description previously given.

CHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XIX The RThe RThe RThe RThe Run-Aun-Aun-Aun-Aun-Away Pway Pway Pway Pway Plotlotlotlotlot

NEW YEAR’S THOUGHTS AND MEDITATIONS—

AGAIN BOUGHT BY FREELAND—NO AMBITION

TO BE A SLAVE—KINDNESS NO COMPENSATION

FOR SLAVERY—INCIPIENT STEPS TOWARD ES-

CAPE—CONSIDERATIONS LEADING THERETO—

IRRECONCILABLE HOSTILITY TO SLAVERY—SOL-

EMN VOW TAKEN—PLAN DIVULGED TO THE

SLAVES—Columbian Orator—SCHEME GAINS FAVOR,

DESPITE PRO-SLAVERY PREACHING—DANGER OF

DISCOVERY—SKILL OF SLAVEHOLDERS IN READ-

ING THE MINDS OF THEIR SLAVES—SUSPICION

AND COERCION—HYMNS WITH DOUBLE MEAN-

ING—VALUE, IN DOLLARS, OF OUR COMPANY—

PRELIMINARY CONSULTATION—PASS-WORD—

CONFLICTS OF HOPE AND FEAR—DIFFICULTIES

TO BE OVERCOME—IGNORANCE OF GEOGRA-

PHY—SURVEY OF IMAGINARY DIFFICULTIES—

EFFECT ON OUR MINDS—PATRICK HENRY—

179

Frederick Douglas

SANDY BECOMES A DREAMER—ROUTE TO THE

NORTH LAID OUT—OBJECTIONS CONSID-

ERED—FRAUDS PRACTICED ON FREEMEN—

PASSES WRITTEN—ANXIETIES AS THE TIME

DREW NEAR—DREAD OF FAILURE—APPEALS TO

COMRADES—STRANGE PRESENTIMENT—COIN-

CIDENCE—THE BETRAYAL DISCOVERED—THE

MANNER OF ARRESTING US—RESISTANCE MADE

BY HENRY HARRIS—ITS EFFECT—THE UNIQUE

SPEECH OF MRS. FREELAND—OUR SAD PROCES-

SION TO PRISON—BRUTAL JEERS BY THE MULTI-

TUDE ALONG THE ROAD—PASSES EATEN—THE

DENIAL—SANDY TOO WELL LOVED TO BE SUS-

PECTED—DRAGGED BEHIND HORSES—THE JAIL

A RELIEF—A NEW SET OF TORMENTORS—SLAVE-

TRADERS—JOHN, CHARLES AND HENRY RE-

LEASED—ALONE IN PRISON—I AM TAKEN OUT,

AND SENT TO BALTIMORE.

I AM NOW at the beginning of the year 1836, a time favorable

for serious thoughts. The mind naturally occupies itself with

the mysteries of life in all its phases—the ideal, the real and

the actual. Sober people look both ways at the beginning of

the year, surveying the errors of the past, and providing against

possible errors of the future. I, too, was thus exercised. I had

little pleasure in retrospect, and the prospect was not very

brilliant. “Notwithstanding,” thought I, “the many resolu-

tions and prayers I have made, in behalf of freedom, I am,

this first day of the year 1836, still a slave, still wandering in

the depths of spirit-devouring thralldom. My faculties and

powers of body and soul are not my own, but are the prop-

erty of a fellow mortal, in no sense superior to me, except

that he has the physical power to compel me to be owned

and controlled by him. By the combined physical force of

the community, I am his slave—a slave for life.” With

thoughts like these, I was perplexed and chafed; they ren-

dered me gloomy and disconsolate. The anguish of my mind

may not be written.

At the close of the year 1835, Mr. Freeland, my temporary

master, had bought me of Capt. Thomas Auld, for the year

1836. His promptness in securing my services, would have

been flattering to my vanity, had I been ambitious to win

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My Bondage and My Freedom

the reputation of being a valuable slave. Even as it was, I felt

a slight degree of complacency at the circumstance. It showed

he was as well pleased with me as a slave, as I was with him as

a master. I have already intimated my regard for Mr. Freeland,

and I may say here, in addressing northern readers—where

is no selfish motive for speaking in praise of a slaveholder—

that Mr. Freeland was a man of many excellent qualities,

and to me quite preferable to any master I ever had.

But the kindness of the slavemaster only gilds the chain of

slavery, and detracts nothing from its weight or power. The

thought that men are made for other and better uses than

slavery, thrives best under the gentle treatment of a kind mas-

ter. But the grim visage of slavery can assume no smiles which

can fascinate the partially enlightened slave, into a forgetful-

ness of his bondage, nor of the desirableness of liberty.

I was not through the first month of this, my second year

with the kind and gentlemanly Mr. Freeland, before I was

earnestly considering and advising plans for gaining that free-

dom, which, when I was but a mere child, I had ascertained

to be the natural and inborn right of every member of the

human family. The desire for this freedom had been be-

numbed, while I was under the brutalizing dominion of

Covey; and it had been postponed, and rendered inopera-

tive, by my truly pleasant Sunday school engagements with

my friends, during the year 1835, at Mr. Freeland’s. It had,

however, never entirely subsided. I hated slavery, always, and

the desire for freedom only needed a favorable breeze, to fan

it into a blaze, at any moment. The thought of only being a

creature of the present and the past, troubled me, and I longed

to have a future—a future with hope in it. To be shut up

entirely to the past and present, is abhorrent to the human

mind; it is to the soul—whose life and happiness is unceas-

ing progress—what the prison is to the body; a blight and

mildew, a hell of horrors. The dawning of this, another year,

awakened me from my temporary slumber, and roused into

life my latent, but long cherished aspirations for freedom. I

was now not only ashamed to be contented in slavery, but

ashamed to seem to be contented, and in my present favor-

able condition, under the mild rule of Mr. F., I am not sure

that some kind reader will not condemn me for being over

ambitious, and greatly wanting in proper humility, when I

say the truth, that I now drove from me all thoughts of mak-

181

Frederick Douglas

ing the best of my lot, and welcomed only such thoughts as

led me away from the house of bondage. The intense de-

sires, now felt, to be free, quickened by my present favorable

circumstances, brought me to the determination to act, as

well as to think and speak. Accordingly, at the beginning of

this year 1836, I took upon me a solemn vow, that the year

which had now dawned upon me should not close, without

witnessing an earnest attempt, on my part, to gain my lib-

erty. This vow only bound me to make my escape individu-

ally; but the year spent with Mr. Freeland had attached me,

as with “hooks of steel,” to my brother slaves. The most af-

fectionate and confiding friendship existed between us; and

I felt it my duty to give them an opportunity to share in my

virtuous determination by frankly disclosing to them my

plans and purposes. Toward Henry and John Harris, I felt a

friendship as strong as one man can feel for another; for I

could have died with and for them. To them, therefore, with

a suitable degree of caution, I began to disclose my senti-

ments and plans; sounding them, the while on the subject of

running away, provided a good chance should offer. I scarcely

need tell the reader, that I did my very best to imbue the

minds of my dear friends with my own views and feelings.

Thoroughly awakened, now, and with a definite vow upon

me, all my little reading, which had any bearing on the sub-

ject of human rights, was rendered available in my commu-

nications with my friends. That (to me) gem of a book, the

Columbian Orator, with its eloquent orations and spicy dia-

logues, denouncing oppression and slavery—telling of what

had been dared, done and suffered by men, to obtain the

inestimable boon of liberty—was still fresh in my memory,

and whirled into the ranks of my speech with the aptitude of

well trained soldiers, going through the drill. The fact is, I

here began my public speaking. I canvassed, with Henry and

John, the subject of slavery, and dashed against it the con-

demning brand of God’s eternal justice, which it every hour

violates. My fellow servants were neither indifferent, dull,

nor inapt. Our feelings were more alike than our opinions.

All, however, were ready to act, when a feasible plan should

be proposed. “Show us how the thing is to be done,” said

they, “and all is clear.”

We were all, except Sandy, quite free from slaveholding

priestcraft. It was in vain that we had been taught from the

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My Bondage and My Freedom

pulpit at St. Michael’s, the duty of obedience to our masters;

to recognize God as the author of our enslavement; to regard

running away an offense, alike against God and man; to deem

our enslavement a merciful and beneficial arrangement; to

esteem our condition, in this country, a paradise to that from

which we had been snatched in Africa; to consider our hard

hands and dark color as God’s mark of displeasure, and as

pointing us out as the proper subjects of slavery; that the

relation of master and slave was one of reciprocal benefits;

that our work was not more serviceable to our masters, than

our master’s thinking was serviceable to us. I say, it was in

vain that the pulpit of St. Michael’s had constantly incul-

cated these plausib]e doctrine. Nature laughed them to scorn.

For my own part, I had now become altogether too big for

my chains. Father Lawson’s solemn words, of what I ought

to be, and might be, in the providence of God, had not fallen

dead on my soul. I was fast verging toward manhood, and

the prophecies of my childhood were still unfulfilled. The

thought, that year after year had passed away, and my reso-

lutions to run away had failed and faded—that I was still a

slave, and a slave, too, with chances for gaining my freedom

diminished and still diminishing—was not a matter to be

slept over easily; nor did I easily sleep over it.

But here came a new trouble. Thoughts and purposes so

incendiary as those I now cherished, could not agitate the

mind long, without danger of making themselves manifest

to scrutinizing and unfriendly beholders. I had reason to fear

that my sable face might prove altogether too transparent

for the safe concealment of my hazardous enterprise. Plans

of greater moment have leaked through stone walls, and re-

vealed their projectors. But, here was no stone wall to hide

my purpose. I would have given my poor, tell tale face for

the immoveable countenance of an Indian, for it was far from

being proof against the daily, searching glances of those with

whom I met.

It is the interest and business of slaveholders to study hu-

man nature, with a view to practical results, and many of

them attain astonishing proficiency in discerning the thoughts

and emotions of slaves. They have to deal not with earth,

wood, or stone, but with men; and, by every regard they

have for their safety and prosperity, they must study to know

the material on which they are at work. So much intellect as

183

Frederick Douglas

the slaveholder has around him, requires watching. Their

safety depends upon their vigilance. Conscious of the injus-

tice and wrong they are every hour perpetrating, and know-

ing what they themselves would do if made the victims of

such wrongs, they are looking out for the first signs of the

dread retribution of justice. They watch, therefore, with

skilled and practiced eyes, and have learned to read, with

great accuracy, the state of mind and heart of the slaves,

through his sable face. These uneasy sinners are quick to

inquire into the matter, where the slave is concerned. Un-

usual sobriety, apparent abstraction, sullenness and indiffer-

ence—indeed, any mood out of the common way—afford

ground for suspicion and inquiry. Often relying on their su-

perior position and wisdom, they hector and torture the slave

into a confession, by affecting to know the truth of their

accusations. “You have got the devil in you,” say they, “and

we will whip him out of you.” I have often been put thus to

the torture, on bare suspicion. This system has its disadvan-

tages as well as their opposite. The slave is sometimes whipped

into the confession of offenses which he never committed.

The reader will see that the good old rule—”a man is to be

held innocent until proved to be guilty”—does not hold good

on the slave plantation. Suspicion and torture are the ap-

proved methods of getting at the truth, here. It was neces-

sary for me, therefore, to keep a watch over my deportment,

lest the enemy should get the better of me.

But with all our caution and studied reserve, I am not sure

that Mr. Freeland did not suspect that all was not right with

us. It did seem that he watched us more narrowly, after the

plan of escape had been conceived and discussed amongst

us. Men seldom see themselves as others see them; and while,

to ourselves, everything connected with our contemplated

escape appeared concealed, Mr. Freeland may have, with the

peculiar prescience of a slaveholder, mastered the huge

thought which was disturbing our peace in slavery.

I am the more inclined to think that he suspected us, be-

cause, prudent as we were, as I now look back, I can see that

we did many silly things, very well calculated to awaken sus-

picion. We were, at times, remarkably buoyant, singing

hymns and making joyous exclamations, almost as trium-

phant in their tone as if we reached a land of freedom and

safety. A keen observer might have detected in our repeated

184

My Bondage and My Freedom

singing of

O Canaan, sweet Canaan,

I am bound for the land of Canaan,

something more than a hope of reaching heaven. We meant

to reach the north—and the north was our Canaan.

I thought I heard them say,

There were lions in the way,

I don’t expect to Star

Much longer here.

Run to Jesus—shun the danger—

I don’t expect to stay

Much longer here.

was a favorite air, and had a double meaning. In the lips of

some, it meant the expectation of a speedy summons to a

world of spirits; but, in the lips of our company, it simply

meant, a speedy pilgrimage toward a free state, and deliver-

ance from all the evils and dangers of slavery.

I had succeeded in winning to my (what slaveholders would

call wicked) scheme, a company of five young men, the very

flower of the neighborhood, each one of whom would have

commanded one thousand dollars in the home market. At

New Orleans, they would have brought fifteen hundred dol-

lars a piece, and, perhaps, more. The names of our party

were as follows: Henry Harris; John Harris, brother to Henry;

Sandy Jenkins, of root memory; Charles Roberts, and Henry

Bailey. I was the youngest, but one, of the party. I had, how-

ever, the advantage of them all, in experience, and in a knowl-

edge of letters. This gave me great influence over them. Per-

haps not one of them, left to himself, would have dreamed

of escape as a possible thing. Not one of them was self-moved

in the matter. They all wanted to be free; but the serious

thought of running away, had not entered into their minds,

until I won them to the undertaking. They all were tolerably

well off—for slaves—and had dim hopes of being set free,

some day, by their masters. If any one is to blame for dis-

turbing the quiet of the slaves and slave-masters of the neigh-

borhood of St. Michael’s, I am the man. I claim to be the

185

Frederick Douglas

instigator of the high crime (as the slaveholders regard it)

and I kept life in it, until life could be kept in it no longer.

Pending the time of our contemplated departure out of

our Egypt, we met often by night, and on every Sunday. At

these meetings we talked the matter over; told our hopes

and fears, and the difficulties discovered or imagined; and,

like men of sense, we counted the cost of the enterprise to

which we were committing ourselves.

These meetings must have resembled, on a small scale, the

meetings of revolutionary conspirators, in their primary con-

dition. We were plotting against our (so called) lawful rulers;

with this difference that we sought our own good, and not

the harm of our enemies. We did not seek to overthrow them,

but to escape from them. As for Mr. Freeland, we all liked

him, and would have gladly remained with him, as freeman.

LIBERTY was our aim; and we had now come to think that

we had a right to liberty, against every obstacle even against

the lives of our enslavers.

We had several words, expressive of things, important to

us, which we understood, but which, even if distinctly heard

by an outsider, would convey no certain meaning. I have

reasons for suppressing these pass-words, which the reader

will easily divine. I hated the secrecy; but where slavery is

powerful, and liberty is weak, the latter is driven to conceal-

ment or to destruction.

The prospect was not always a bright one. At times, we

were almost tempted to abandon the enterprise, and to get

back to that comparative peace of mind, which even a man

under the gallows might feel, when all hope of escape had

vanished. Quiet bondage was felt to be better than the doubts,

fears and uncertainties, which now so sadly perplexed and

disturbed us.

The infirmities of humanity, generally, were represented

in our little band. We were confident, bold and determined,

at times; and, again, doubting, timid and wavering; whis-

tling, like the boy in the graveyard, to keep away the spirits.

To look at the map, and observe the proximity of Eastern

Shore, Maryland, to Delaware and Pennsylvania, it may seem

to the reader quite absurd, to regard the proposed escape as a

formidable undertaking. But to understand, some one has

said a man must stand under. The real distance was great

enough, but the imagined distance was, to our ignorance,

186

My Bondage and My Freedom

even greater. Every slaveholder seeks to impress his slave with

a belief in the boundlessness of slave territory, and of his

own almost illimitable power. We all had vague and indis-

tinct notions of the geography of the country.

The distance, however, is not the chief trouble. The nearer

are the lines of a slave state and the borders of a free one, the

greater the peril. Hired kidnappers infest these borders. Then,

too, we knew that merely reaching a free state did not free

us; that, wherever caught, we could be returned to slavery.

We could see no spot on this side the ocean, where we could

be free. We had heard of Canada, the real Canaan of the

American bondmen, simply as a country to which the wild

goose and the swan repaired at the end of winter, to escape

the heat of summer, but not as the home of man. I knew

something of theology, but nothing of geography. I really

did not, at that time, know that there was a state of New

York, or a state of Massachusetts. I had heard of Pennsylva-

nia, Delaware and New Jersey, and all the southern states,

but was ignorant of the free states, generally. New York city

was our northern limit, and to go there, and be forever ha-

rassed with the liability of being hunted down and returned

to slavery—with the certainty of being treated ten times worse

than we had ever been treated before was a prospect far from

delightful, and it might well cause some hesitation about

engaging in the enterprise. The case, sometimes, to our ex-

cited visions, stood thus: At every gate through which we

had to pass, we saw a watchman; at every ferry, a guard; on

every bridge, a sentinel; and in every wood, a patrol or slave-

hunter. We were hemmed in on every side. The good to be

sought, and the evil to be shunned, were flung in the bal-

ance, and weighed against each other. On the one hand, there

stood slavery; a stern reality, glaring frightfully upon us, with

the blood of millions in his polluted skirts—terrible to be-

hold—greedily devouring our hard earnings and feeding him-

self upon our flesh. Here was the evil from which to escape.

On the other hand, far away, back in the hazy distance, where

all forms seemed but shadows, under the flickering light of

the north star—behind some craggy hill or snow-covered

mountain—stood a doubtful freedom, half frozen, beckon-

ing us to her icy domain. This was the good to be sought.

The inequality was as great as that between certainty and

uncertainty. This, in itself, was enough to stagger us; but

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Frederick Douglas

when we came to survey the untrodden road, and conjecture

the many possible difficulties, we were appalled, and at times,

as I have said, were upon the point of giving over the struggle

altogether.

The reader can have little idea of the phantoms of trouble

which flit, in such circumstances, before the uneducated mind

of the slave. Upon either side, we saw grim death assuming a

variety of horrid shapes. Now, it was starvation, causing us,

in a strange and friendless land, to eat our own flesh. Now,

we were contending with the waves (for our journey was in

part by water) and were drowned. Now, we were hunted by

dogs, and overtaken and torn to pieces by their merciless

fangs. We were stung by scorpions—chased by wild beasts—

bitten by snakes; and, worst of all, after having succeeded in

swimming rivers—encountering wild beasts—sleeping in the

woods—suffering hunger, cold, heat and nakedness—we

supposed ourselves to be overtaken by hired kidnappers, who,

in the name of the law, and for their thrice accursed reward,

would, perchance, fire upon us—kill some, wound others,

and capture all. This dark picture, drawn by ignorance and

fear, at times greatly shook our determination, and not

unfrequently caused us to

Rather bear those ills we had

Than fly to others which we knew not of.

I am not disposed to magnify this circumstance in my expe-

rience, and yet I think I shall seem to be so disposed, to the

reader. No man can tell the intense agony which is felt by

the slave, when wavering on the point of making his escape.

All that he has is at stake; and even that which he has not, is

at stake, also. The life which he has, may be lost, and the

liberty which he seeks, may not be gained.

Patrick Henry, to a listening senate, thrilled by his magic

eloquence, and ready to stand by him in his boldest flights,

could say, GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH,

and this saying was a sublime one, even for a freeman; but,

incomparably more sublime, is the same sentiment, when

practically asserted by men accustomed to the lash and

chain—men whose sensibilities must have become more or

less deadened by their bondage. With us it was a doubtful

liberty, at best, that we sought; and a certain, lingering death

188

My Bondage and My Freedom

in the rice swamps and sugar fields, if we failed. Life is not

lightly regarded by men of sane minds. It is precious, alike to

the pauper and to the prince—to the slave, and to his mas-

ter; and yet, I believe there was not one among us, who would

not rather have been shot down, than pass away life in hope-

less bondage.

In the progress of our preparations, Sandy, the root man,

became troubled. He began to have dreams, and some of

them were very distressing. One of these, which happened

on a Friday night, was, to him, of great significance; and I

am quite ready to confess, that I felt somewhat damped by it

myself. He said, “I dreamed, last night, that I was roused

from sleep, by strange noises, like the voices of a swarm of

angry birds, that caused a roar as they passed, which fell upon

my ear like a coming gale over the tops of the trees. Looking

up to see what it could mean,” said Sandy, “I saw you,

Frederick, in the claws of a huge bird, surrounded by a large

number of birds, of all colors and sizes. These were all pick-

ing at you, while you, with your arms, seemed to be trying

to protect your eyes. Passing over me, the birds flew in a

south-westerly direction, and I watched them until they were

clean out of sight. Now, I saw this as plainly as I now see

you; and furder, honey, watch de Friday night dream; dare is

sumpon in it, shose you born; dare is, indeed, honey.”

I confess I did not like this dream; but I threw off concern

about it, by attributing it to the general excitement and per-

turbation consequent upon our contemplated plan of escape.

I could not, however, shake off its effect at once. I felt that it

boded me no good. Sandy was unusually emphatic and oracu-

lar, and his manner had much to do with the impression

made upon me.

The plan of escape which I recommended, and to which

my comrades assented, was to take a large canoe, owned by

Mr. Hamilton, and, on the Saturday night previous to the

Easter holidays, launch out into the Chesapeake bay, and

paddle for its head—a distance of seventy miles with all our

might. Our course, on reaching this point, was, to turn the

canoe adrift, and bend our steps toward the north star, till

we reached a free state.

There were several objections to this plan. One was, the

danger from gales on the bay. In rough weather, the waters

of the Chesapeake are much agitated, and there is danger, in

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Frederick Douglas

a canoe, of being swamped by the waves. Another objection

was, that the canoe would soon be missed; the absent per-

sons would, at once, be suspected of having taken it; and we

should be pursued by some of the fast sailing bay craft out of

St. Michael’s. Then, again, if we reached the head of the bay,

and turned the canoe adrift, she might prove a guide to our

track, and bring the land hunters after us.

These and other objections were set aside, by the stronger

ones which could be urged against every other plan that could

then be suggested. On the water, we had a chance of being

regarded as fishermen, in the service of a master. On the

other hand, by taking the land route, through the counties

adjoining Delaware, we should be subjected to all manner of

interruptions, and many very disagreeable questions, which

might give us serious trouble. Any white man is authorized

to stop a man of color, on any road, and examine him, and

arrest him, if he so desires.

By this arrangement, many abuses (considered such even

by slaveholders) occur. Cases have been known, where free-

men have been called upon to show their free papers, by a

pack of ruffians—and, on the presentation of the papers,

the ruffians have torn them up, and seized their victim, and

sold him to a life of endless bondage.

The week before our intended start, I wrote a pass for each

of our party, giving them permission to visit Baltimore, dur-

ing the Easter holidays. The pass ran after this manner:

This is to certify, that I, the undersigned, have given the

bearer, my servant, John, full liberty to go to Baltimore, to

spend the Easter holidays.

W.H.

Near St. Michael’s, Talbot county, Maryland

Although we were not going to Baltimore, and were in-

tending to land east of North Point, in the direction where I

had seen the Philadelphia steamers go, these passes might be

made useful to us in the lower part of the bay, while steering

toward Baltimore. These were not, however, to be shown by

us, until all other answers failed to satisfy the inquirer. We

were all fully alive to the importance of being calm and self-

possessed, when accosted, if accosted we should be; and we

more times than one rehearsed to each other how we should

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My Bondage and My Freedom

behave in the hour of trial.

These were long, tedious days and nights. The suspense

was painful, in the extreme. To balance probabilities, where

life and liberty hang on the result, requires steady nerves. I

panted for action, and was glad when the day, at the close of

which we were to start, dawned upon us. Sleeping, the night

before, was out of the question. I probably felt more deeply

than any of my companions, because I was the instigator of

the movement. The responsibility of the whole enterprise

rested on my shoulders. The glory of success, and the shame

and confusion of failure, could not be matters of indiffer-

ence to me. Our food was prepared; our clothes were packed

up; we were all ready to go, and impatient for Saturday morn-

ing—considering that the last morning of our bondage.

I cannot describe the tempest and tumult of my brain,

that morning. The reader will please to bear in mind, that,

in a slave state, an unsuccessful runaway is not only sub-

jected to cruel torture, and sold away to the far south, but he

is frequently execrated by the other slaves. He is charged with

making the condition of the other slaves intolerable, by lay-

ing them all under the suspicion of their masters—subject-

ing them to greater vigilance, and imposing greater limita-

tions on their privileges. I dreaded murmurs from this quar-

ter. It is difficult, too, for a slavemaster to believe that slaves

escaping have not been aided in their flight by some one of

their fellow slaves. When, therefore, a slave is missing, every

slave on the place is closely examined as to his knowledge of

the undertaking; and they are sometimes even tortured, to

make them disclose what they are suspected of knowing of

such escape.

Our anxiety grew more and more intense, as the time of

our intended departure for the north drew nigh. It was truly

felt to be a matter of life and death with us; and we fully

intended to fight as well as run, if necessity should occur for

that extremity. But the trial hour was not yet to come. It was

easy to resolve, but not so easy to act. I expected there might

be some drawing back, at the last. It was natural that there

should be; therefore, during the intervening time, I lost no

opportunity to explain away difficulties, to remove doubts,

to dispel fears, and to inspire all with firmness. It was too

late to look back; and now was the time to go forward. Like

most other men, we had done the talking part of our work,

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Frederick Douglas

long and well; and the time had come to act as if we were in

earnest, and meant to be as true in action as in words. I did

not forget to appeal to the pride of my comrades, by telling

them that, if after having solemnly promised to go, as they

had done, they now failed to make the attempt, they would,

in effect, brand themselves with cowardice, and might as

well sit down, fold their arms, and acknowledge themselves

as fit only to be slaves. This detestable character, all were

unwilling to assume. Every man except Sandy (he, much to

our regret, withdrew) stood firm; and at our last meeting we

pledged ourselves afresh, and in the most solemn manner,

that, at the time appointed, we would certainly start on our

long journey for a free country. This meeting was in the

middle of the week, at the end of which we were to start.

Early that morning we went, as usual, to the field, but

with hearts that beat quickly and anxiously. Any one inti-

mately acquainted with us, might have seen that all was not

well with us, and that some monster lingered in our thoughts.

Our work that morning was the same as it had been for sev-

eral days past—drawing out and spreading manure. While

thus engaged, I had a sudden presentiment, which flashed

upon me like lightning in a dark night, revealing to the lonely

traveler the gulf before, and the enemy behind. I instantly

turned to Sandy Jenkins, who was near me, and said to him,

“Sandy, we are betrayed; something has just told me so.” I felt

as sure of it, as if the officers were there in sight. Sandy said,

“Man, dat is strange; but I feel just as you do.” If my mother—

then long in her grave—had appeared before me, and told

me that we were betrayed, I could not, at that moment, have

felt more certain of the fact.

In a few minutes after this, the long, low and distant notes

of the horn summoned us from the field to breakfast. I felt

as one may be supposed to feel before being led forth to be

executed for some great offense. I wanted no breakfast; but I

went with the other slaves toward the house, for form’s sake.

My feelings were not disturbed as to the right of running

away; on that point I had no trouble, whatever. My anxiety

arose from a sense of the consequences of failure.

In thirty minutes after that vivid presentiment came the

apprehended crash. On reaching the house, for breakfast,

and glancing my eye toward the lane gate, the worst was at

once made known. The lane gate off Mr. Freeland’s house, is

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My Bondage and My Freedom

nearly a half mile from the door, and shaded by the heavy

wood which bordered the main road. I was, however, able to

descry four white men, and two colored men, approaching.

The white men were on horseback, and the colored men

were walking behind, and seemed to be tied. “It is all over

with us,” thought I, “we are surely betrayed.” I now became

composed, or at least comparatively so, and calmly awaited

the result. I watched the ill-omened company, till I saw them

enter the gate. Successful flight was impossible, and I made

up my mind to stand, and meet the evil, whatever it might

be; for I was not without a slight hope that things might

turn differently from what I at first expected. In a few mo-

ments, in came Mr. William Hamilton, riding very rapidly,

and evidently much excited. He was in the habit of riding

very slowly, and was seldom known to gallop his horse. This

time, his horse was nearly at full speed, causing the dust to

roll thick behind him. Mr. Hamilton, though one of the

most resolute men in the whole neighborhood, was, never-

theless, a remarkably mild spoken man; and, even when

greatly excited, his language was cool and circumspect. He

came to the door, and inquired if Mr. Freeland was in. I told

him that Mr. Freeland was at the barn. Off the old gentle-

man rode, toward the barn, with unwonted speed. Mary, the

cook, was at a loss to know what was the matter, and I did

not profess any skill in making her understand. I knew she

would have united, as readily as any one, in cursing me for

bringing trouble into the family; so I held my peace, leaving

matters to develop themselves, without my assistance. In a

few moments, Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Freeland came down

from the barn to the house; and, just as they made their

appearance in the front yard, three men (who proved to be

constables) came dashing into the lane, on horseback, as if

summoned by a sign requiring quick work. A few seconds

brought them into the front yard, where they hastily dis-

mounted, and tied their horses. This done, they joined Mr.

Freeland and Mr. Hamilton, who were standing a short dis-

tance from the kitchen. A few moments were spent, as if in

consulting how to proceed, and then the whole party walked

up to the kitchen door. There was now no one in the kitchen

but myself and John Harris. Henry and Sandy were yet at

the barn. Mr. Freeland came inside the kitchen door, and

with an agitated voice, called me by name, and told me to

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Frederick Douglas

come forward; that there was some gentlemen who wished

to see me. I stepped toward them, at the door, and asked

what they wanted, when the constables grabbed me, and

told me that I had better not resist; that I had been in a

scrape, or was said to have been in one; that they were merely

going to take me where I could be examined; that they were

going to carry me to St. Michael’s, to have me brought be-

fore my master. They further said, that, in case the evidence

against me was not true, I should be acquitted. I was now

firmly tied, and completely at the mercy of my captors. Re-

sistance was idle. They were five in number, armed to the

very teeth. When they had secured me, they next turned to

John Harris, and, in a few moments, succeeded in tying him

as firmly as they had already tied me. They next turned to-

ward Henry Harris, who had now returned from the barn.

“Cross your hands,” said the constables, to Henry. “I won’t”

said Henry, in a voice so firm and clear, and in a manner so

determined, as for a moment to arrest all proceedings. “Won’t

you cross your hands?” said Tom Graham, the constable.

“No I won’t,” said Henry, with increasing emphasis. Mr.

Hamilton, Mr. Freeland, and the officers, now came near to

Henry. Two of the constables drew out their shining pistols,

and swore by the name of God, that he should cross his

hands, or they would shoot him down. Each of these hired

ruffians now cocked their pistols, and, with fingers appar-

ently on the triggers, presented their deadly weapons to the

breast of the unarmed slave, saying, at the same time, if he

did not cross his hands, they would “blow his d—d heart

out of him.”

“Shoot! shoot me!” said Henry. “You can’t kill me but once.

Shoot!—shoot! and be d—d. I won’t be tied.” This, the brave

fellow said in a voice as defiant and heroic in its tone, as was

the language itself; and, at the moment of saying this, with

the pistols at his very breast, he quickly raised his arms, and

dashed them from the puny hands of his assassins, the weap-

ons flying in opposite directions. Now came the struggle. All

hands was now rushed upon the brave fellow, and, after beat-

ing him for some time, they succeeded in overpowering and

tying him. Henry put me to shame; he fought, and fought

bravely. John and I had made no resistance. The fact is, I

never see much use in fighting, unless there is a reasonable

probability of whipping somebody. Yet there was something

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My Bondage and My Freedom

almost providential in the resistance made by the gallant

Henry. But for that resistance, every soul of us would have

been hurried off to the far south. Just a moment previous to

the trouble with Henry, Mr. Hamilton mildly said—and this

gave me the unmistakable clue to the cause of our arrest—

”Perhaps we had now better make a search for those protec-

tions, which we understand Frederick has written for him-

self and the rest.” Had these passes been found, they would

have been point blank proof against us, and would have con-

firmed all the statements of our betrayer. Thanks to the re-

sistance of Henry, the excitement produced by the scuffle

drew all attention in that direction, and I succeeded in fling-

ing my pass, unobserved, into the fire. The confusion atten-

dant upon the scuffle, and the apprehension of further

trouble, perhaps, led our captors to forego, for the present,

any search for “those protections” which Frederick was said to

have written for his companions; so we were not yet convicted

of the purpose to run away; and it was evident that there was

some doubt, on the part of all, whether we had been guilty

of such a purpose.

Just as we were all completely tied, and about ready to

start toward St. Michael’s, and thence to jail, Mrs. Betsey

Freeland (mother to William, who was very much attached—

after the southern fashion—to Henry and John, they having

been reared from childhood in her house) came to the kitchen

door, with her hands full of biscuits—for we had not had

time to take our breakfast that morning—and divided them

between Henry and John. This done, the lady made the fol-

lowing parting address to me, looking and pointing her bony

finger at me. “You devil! you yellow devil! It was you that

put it into the heads of Henry and John to run away. But for

you, you long legged yellow devil, Henry and John would never

have thought of running away.” I gave the lady a look, which

called forth a scream of mingled wrath and terror, as she

slammed the kitchen door, and went in, leaving me, with

the rest, in hands as harsh as her own broken voice.

Could the kind reader have been quietly riding along the

main road to or from Easton, that morning, his eye would

have met a painful sight. He would have seen five young

men, guilty of no crime, save that of preferring liberty to a

life of bondage, drawn along the public highway—firmly

bound together—tramping through dust and heat, bare-

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Frederick Douglas

footed and bare-headed—fastened to three strong horses,

whose riders were armed to the teeth, with pistols and dag-

gers—on their way to prison, like felons, and suffering every

possible insult from the crowds of idle, vulgar people, who

clustered around, and heartlessly made their failure the oc-

casion for all manner of ribaldry and sport. As I looked upon

this crowd of vile persons, and saw myself and friends thus

assailed and persecuted, I could not help seeing the fulfill-

ment of Sandy’s dream. I was in the hands of moral vultures,

and firmly held in their sharp talons, and was hurried away

toward Easton, in a south-easterly direction, amid the jeers

of new birds of the same feather, through every neighbor-

hood we passed. It seemed to me (and this shows the good

understanding between the slaveholders and their allies) that

every body we met knew the cause of our arrest, and were

out, awaiting our passing by, to feast their vindictive eyes on

our misery and to gloat over our ruin. Some said, I ought to

be hanged, and others, I ought to be burnt, others, I ought to

have the “hide” taken from my back; while no one gave us a

kind word or sympathizing look, except the poor slaves, who

were lifting their heavy hoes, and who cautiously glanced at

us through the post-and-rail fences, behind which they were

at work. Our sufferings, that morning, can be more easily

imagined than described. Our hopes were all blasted, at a

blow. The cruel injustice, the victorious crime, and the help-

lessness of innocence, led me to ask, in my ignorance and

weakness “Where now is the God of justice and mercy? And

why have these wicked men the power thus to trample upon

our rights, and to insult our feelings?” And yet, in the next

moment, came the consoling thought, “The day of oppressor

will come at last.” Of one thing I could be glad—not one of

my dear friends, upon whom I had brought this great ca-

lamity, either by word or look, reproached me for having led

them into it. We were a band of brothers, and never dearer

to each other than now. The thought which gave us the most

pain, was the probable separation which would now take

place, in case we were sold off to the far south, as we were

likely to be. While the constables were looking forward,

Henry and I, being fastened together, could occasionally ex-

change a word, without being observed by the kidnappers

who had us in charge. “What shall I do with my pass?” said

Henry. “Eat it with your biscuit,” said I; “it won’t do to tear

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My Bondage and My Freedom

it up.” We were now near St. Michael’s. The direction con-

cerning the passes was passed around, and executed. “Own

nothing!” said I. “Own nothing!” was passed around and en-

joined, and assented to. Our confidence in each other was

unshaken; and we were quite resolved to succeed or fail to-

gether—as much after the calamity which had befallen us,

as before.

On reaching St. Michael’s, we underwent a sort of exami-

nation at my master’s store, and it was evident to my mind,

that Master Thomas suspected the truthfulness of the evi-

dence upon which they had acted in arresting us; and that

he only affected, to some extent, the positiveness with which

he asserted our guilt. There was nothing said by any of our

company, which could, in any manner, prejudice our cause;

and there was hope, yet, that we should be able to return to

our homes—if for nothing else, at least to find out the guilty

man or woman who had betrayed us.

To this end, we all denied that we had been guilty of in-

tended flight. Master Thomas said that the evidence he had

of our intention to run away, was strong enough to hang us,

in a case of murder. “But,” said I, “the cases are not equal. If

murder were committed, some one must have committed

it—the thing is done! In our case, nothing has been done!

We have not run away. Where is the evidence against us? We

were quietly at our work.” I talked thus, with unusual free-

dom, to bring out the evidence against us, for we all wanted,

above all things, to know the guilty wretch who had betrayed

us, that we might have something tangible upon which to

pour the execrations. From something which dropped, in

the course of the talk, it appeared that there was but one

witness against us—and that that witness could not be pro-

duced. Master Thomas would not tell us who his informant

was; but we suspected, and suspected one person only. Sev-

eral circumstances seemed to point SANDY out, as our be-

trayer. His entire knowledge of our plans his participation in

them—his withdrawal from us—his dream, and his simul-

taneous presentiment that we were betrayed—the taking us,

and the leaving him—were calculated to turn suspicion to-

ward him; and yet, we could not suspect him. We all loved

him too well to think it possible that he could have betrayed

us. So we rolled the guilt on other shoulders.

We were literally dragged, that morning, behind horses, a

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Frederick Douglas

distance of fifteen miles, and placed in the Easton jail. We

were glad to reach the end of our journey, for our pathway

had been the scene of insult and mortification. Such is the

power of public opinion, that it is hard, even for the inno-

cent, to feel the happy consolations of innocence, when they

fall under the maledictions of this power. How could we

regard ourselves as in the right, when all about us denounced

us as criminals, and had the power and the disposition to

treat us as such.

In jail, we were placed under the care of Mr. Joseph Gra-

ham, the sheriff of the county. Henry, and John, and myself,

were placed in one room, and Henry Baily and Charles Rob-

erts, in another, by themselves. This separation was intended

to deprive us of the advantage of concert, and to prevent

trouble in jail.

Once shut up, a new set of tormentors came upon us. A

swarm of imps, in human shape the slave-traders, deputy

slave-traders, and agents of slave-traders—that gather in ev-

ery country town of the state, watching for chances to buy

human flesh (as buzzards to eat carrion) flocked in upon us,

to ascertain if our masters had placed us in jail to be sold.

Such a set of debased and villainous creatures, I never saw

before, and hope never to see again. I felt myself surrounded

as by a pack of fiends, fresh from perdition. They laughed,

leered, and grinned at us; saying, “Ah! boys, we’ve got you,

havn’t we? So you were about to make your escape? Where

were you going to?” After taunting us, and peering at us, as

long as they liked, they one by one subjected us to an exami-

nation, with a view to ascertain our value; feeling our arms

and legs, and shaking us by the shoulders to see if we were

sound and healthy; impudently asking us, “how we would

like to have them for masters?” To such questions, we were,

very much to their annoyance, quite dumb, disdaining to

answer them. For one, I detested the whisky-bloated gam-

blers in human flesh; and I believe I was as much detested by

them in turn. One fellow told me, “if he had me, he would

cut the devil out of me pretty quick.”

These Negro buyers are very offensive to the genteel south-

ern Christian public. They are looked upon, in respectable

Maryland society, as necessary, but detestable characters. As

a class, they are hardened ruffians, made such by nature and

by occupation. Their ears are made quite familiar with the

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My Bondage and My Freedom

agonizing cry of outraged and woe-smitted humanity. Their

eyes are forever open to human misery. They walk amid des-

ecrated affections, insulted virtue, and blasted hopes. They

have grown intimate with vice and blood; they gloat over

the wildest illustrations of their soul-damning and earth-

polluting business, and are moral pests. Yes; they are a legiti-

mate fruit of slavery; and it is a puzzle to make out a case of

greater villainy for them, than for the slaveholders, who make

such a class possible. They are mere hucksters of the surplus

slave produce of Maryland and Virginia coarse, cruel, and

swaggering bullies, whose very breathing is of blasphemy and

blood.

Aside from these slave-buyers, who infested the prison, from

time to time, our quarters were much more comfortable than

we had any right to expect they would be. Our allowance of

food was small and coarse, but our room was the best in the

jail—neat and spacious, and with nothing about it necessar-

ily reminding us of being in prison, but its heavy locks and

bolts and the black, iron lattice-work at the windows. We

were prisoners of state, compared with most slaves who are

put into that Easton jail. But the place was not one of con-

tentment. Bolts, bars and grated windows are not acceptable

to freedom-loving people of any color. The suspense, too,

was painful. Every step on the stairway was listened to, in

the hope that the comer would cast a ray of light on our fate.

We would have given the hair off our heads for half a dozen

words with one of the waiters in Sol. Lowe’s hotel. Such

waiters were in the way of hearing, at the table, the probable

course of things. We could see them flitting about in their

white jackets in front of this hotel, but could speak to none

of them.

Soon after the holidays were over, contrary to all our ex-

pectations, Messrs. Hamilton and Freeland came up to

Easton; not to make a bargain with the “Georgia traders,”

nor to send us up to Austin Woldfolk, as is usual in the case

of run-away salves, but to release Charles, Henry Harris,

Henry Baily and John Harris, from prison, and this, too,

without the infliction of a single blow. I was now left en-

tirely alone in prison. The innocent had been taken, and the

guilty left. My friends were separated from me, and appar-

ently forever. This circumstance caused me more pain than

any other incident connected with our capture and impris-

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onment. Thirty-nine lashes on my naked and bleeding back,

would have been joyfully borne, in preference to this separa-

tion from these, the friends of my youth. And yet, I could

not but feel that I was the victim of something like justice.

Why should these young men, who were led into this scheme

by me, suffer as much as the instigator? I felt glad that they

were leased from prison, and from the dread prospect of a

life (or death I should rather say) in the rice swamps. It is

due to the noble Henry, to say, that he seemed almost as

reluctant to leave the prison with me in it, as he was to be

tied and dragged to prison. But he and the rest knew that we

should, in all the likelihoods of the case, be separated, in the

event of being sold; and since we were now completely in

the hands of our owners, we all concluded it would be best

to go peaceably home.

Not until this last separation, dear reader, had I touched

those profounder depths of desolation, which it is the lot of

slaves often to reach. I was solitary in the world, and alone

within the walls of a stone prison, left to a fate of life-long

misery. I had hoped and expected much, for months before,

but my hopes and expectations were now withered and

blasted. The ever dreaded slave life in Georgia, Louisiana

and Alabama—from which escape is next to impossible now,

in my loneliness, stared me in the face. The possibility of

ever becoming anything but an abject slave, a mere machine

in the hands of an owner, had now fled, and it seemed to me

it had fled forever. A life of living death, beset with the innu-

merable horrors of the cotton field, and the sugar planta-

tion, seemed to be my doom. The fiends, who rushed into

the prison when we were first put there, continued to visit

me, and to ply me with questions and with their tantalizing

remarks. I was insulted, but helpless; keenly alive to the de-

mands of justice and liberty, but with no means of asserting

them. To talk to those imps about justice and mercy, would

have been as absurd as to reason with bears and tigers. Lead

and steel are the only arguments that they understand.

After remaining in this life of misery and despair about a

week, which, by the way, seemed a month, Master Thomas,

very much to my surprise, and greatly to my relief, came to

the prison, and took me out, for the purpose, as he said, of

sending me to Alabama, with a friend of his, who would

emancipate me at the end of eight years. I was glad enough

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My Bondage and My Freedom

to get out of prison; but I had no faith in the story that this

friend of Capt. Auld would emancipate me, at the end of the

time indicated. Besides, I never had heard of his having a

friend in Alabama, and I took the announcement, simply as

an easy and comfortable method of shipping me off to the

far south. There was a little scandal, too, connected with the

idea of one Christian selling another to the Georgia traders,

while it was deemed every way proper for them to sell to

others. I thought this friend in Alabama was an invention,

to meet this difficulty, for Master Thomas was quite jealous

of his Christian reputation, however unconcerned he might

be about his real Christian character. In these remarks, how-

ever, it is possible that I do Master Thomas Auld injustice.

He certainly did not exhaust his power upon me, in the case,

but acted, upon the whole, very generously, considering the

nature of my offense. He had the power and the provocation

to send me, without reserve, into the very everglades of

Florida, beyond the remotest hope of emancipation; and his

refusal to exercise that power, must be set down to his credit.

After lingering about St. Michael’s a few days, and no friend

from Alabama making his appearance, to take me there,

Master Thomas decided to send me back again to Baltimore,

to live with his brother Hugh, with whom he was now at

peace; possibly he became so by his profession of religion, at

the camp-meeting in the Bay Side. Master Thomas told me

that he wished me to go to Baltimore, and learn a trade; and

that, if I behaved myself properly, he would emancipate me

at twenty-five! Thanks for this one beam of hope in the fu-

ture. The promise had but one fault; it seemed too good to

be true.

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Frederick Douglas

CHAPTER XXCHAPTER XXCHAPTER XXCHAPTER XXCHAPTER XX AAAAApprpprpprpprpprenticeship Lenticeship Lenticeship Lenticeship Lenticeship Lifeifeifeifeife

NOTHING LOST BY THE ATTEMPT TO RUN

AWAY—COMRADES IN THEIR OLD HOMES—REA-

SONS FOR SENDING ME AWAY—RETURN TO BAL-

TIMORE—CONTRAST BETWEEN TOMMY AND

THAT OF HIS COLORED COMPANION—TRIALS IN

GARDINER’S SHIP YARD—DESPERATE FIGHT—ITS

CAUSES—CONFLICT BETWEEN WHITE AND

BLACK LABOR—DESCRIPTION OF THE OUT-

RAGE—COLORED TESTIMONY NOTHING—CON-

DUCT OF MASTER HUGH—SPIRIT OF SLAVERY IN

BALTIMORE—MY CONDITION IMPROVES—NEW

ASSOCIATIONS—SLAVEHOLDER’S RIGHT TO

TAKE HIS WAGES—HOW TO MAKE A CONTENTED

SLAVE.

WELL! DEAR READER, I am not, as you may have already in-

ferred, a loser by the general upstir, described in the forego-

ing chapter. The little domestic revolution, notwithstanding

the sudden snub it got by the treachery of somebody—I dare

not say or think who—did not, after all, end so disastrously,

as when in the iron cage at Easton, I conceived it would.

The prospect, from that point, did look about as dark as any

that ever cast its gloom over the vision of the anxious, out-

looking, human spirit. “All is well that ends well.” My affec-

tionate comrades, Henry and John Harris, are still with Mr.

William Freeland. Charles Roberts and Henry Baily are safe

at their homes. I have not, therefore, any thing to regret on

their account. Their masters have mercifully forgiven them,

probably on the ground suggested in the spirited little speech

of Mrs. Freeland, made to me just before leaving for the jail—

namely: that they had been allured into the wicked scheme

of making their escape, by me; and that, but for me, they

would never have dreamed of a thing so shocking! My friends

had nothing to regret, either; for while they were watched

more closely on account of what had happened, they were,

doubtless, treated more kindly than before, and got new as-

surances that they would be legally emancipated, some day,

provided their behavior should make them deserving, from

that time forward. Not a blow, as I learned, was struck any

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My Bondage and My Freedom

one of them. As for Master William Freeland, good, unsus-

pecting soul, he did not believe that we were intending to

run away at all. Having given—as he thought—no occasion

to his boys to leave him, he could not think it probable that

they had entertained a design so grievous. This, however,

was not the view taken of the matter by “Mas’ Billy,” as we

used to call the soft spoken, but crafty and resolute Mr. Wil-

liam Hamilton. He had no doubt that the crime had been

meditated; and regarding me as the instigator of it, he frankly

told Master Thomas that he must remove me from that neigh-

borhood, or he would shoot me down. He would not have

one so dangerous as “Frederick” tampering with his slaves.

William Hamilton was not a man whose threat might be

safely disregarded. I have no doubt that he would have proved

as good as his word, had the warning given not been promptly

taken. He was furious at the thought of such a piece of high-

handed theft, as we were about to perpetrate the stealing of

our own bodies and souls! The feasibility of the plan, too,

could the first steps have been taken, was marvelously plain.

Besides, this was a new idea, this use of the bay. Slaves escap-

ing, until now, had taken to the woods; they had never

dreamed of profaning and abusing the waters of the noble

Chesapeake, by making them the highway from slavery to

freedom. Here was a broad road of destruction to slavery,

which, before, had been looked upon as a wall of security by

slaveholders. But Master Billy could not get Mr. Freeland to

see matters precisely as he did; nor could he get Master Tho-

mas so excited as he was himself. The latter—I must say it to

his credit—showed much humane feeling in his part of the

transaction, and atoned for much that had been harsh, cruel

and unreasonable in his former treatment of me and others.

His clemency was quite unusual and unlooked for. “Cousin

Tom” told me that while I was in jail, Master Thomas was

very unhappy; and that the night before his going up to re-

lease me, he had walked the floor nearly all night, evincing

great distress; that very tempting offers had been made to him,

by the Negro-traders, but he had rejected them all, saying that

money could not tempt him to sell me to the far south. All this I

can easily believe, for he seemed quite reluctant to send me

away, at all. He told me that he only consented to do so, be-

cause of the very strong prejudice against me in the neighbor-

hood, and that he feared for my safety if I remained there.

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Frederick Douglas

Thus, after three years spent in the country, roughing it in

the field, and experiencing all sorts of hardships, I was again

permitted to return to Baltimore, the very place, of all oth-

ers, short of a free state, where I most desired to live. The

three years spent in the country, had made some difference

in me, and in the household of Master Hugh. “Little Tommy”

was no longer little Tommy; and I was not the slender lad

who had left for the Eastern Shore just three years before.

The loving relations between me and Mas’ Tommy were bro-

ken up. He was no longer dependent on me for protection,

but felt himself a man, with other and more suitable associ-

ates. In childhood, he scarcely considered me inferior to him-

self certainly, as good as any other boy with whom he played;

but the time had come when his friend must become his

slave. So we were cold, and we parted. It was a sad thing to

me, that, loving each other as we had done, we must now

take different roads. To him, a thousand avenues were open.

Education had made him acquainted with all the treasures

of the world, and liberty had flung open the gates thereunto;

but I, who had attended him seven years, and had watched

over him with the care of a big brother, fighting his battles in

the street, and shielding him from harm, to an extent which

had induced his mother to say, “Oh! Tommy is always safe,

when he is with Freddy,” must be confined to a single condi-

tion. He could grow, and become a MAN; I could grow,

though I could not become a man, but must remain, all my

life, a minor—a mere boy. Thomas Auld, Junior, obtained a

situation on board the brig “Tweed,” and went to sea. I know

not what has become of him; he certainly has my good wishes

for his welfare and prosperity. There were few persons to

whom I was more sincerely attached than to him, and there

are few in the world I would be more pleased to meet.

Very soon after I went to Baltimore to live, Master Hugh

succeeded in getting me hired to Mr. William Gardiner, an

extensive ship builder on Fell’s Point. I was placed here to

learn to calk, a trade of which I already had some knowl-

edge, gained while in Mr. Hugh Auld’s ship-yard, when he

was a master builder. Gardiner’s, however, proved a very un-

favorable place for the accomplishment of that object. Mr.

Gardiner was, that season, engaged in building two large

man-of-war vessels, professedly for the Mexican government.

These vessels were to be launched in the month of July, of

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My Bondage and My Freedom

that year, and, in failure thereof, Mr. G. would forfeit a very

considerable sum of money. So, when I entered the ship-

yard, all was hurry and driving. There were in the yard about

one hundred men; of these about seventy or eighty were regu-

lar carpenters—privileged men. Speaking of my condition

here I wrote, years ago—and I have now no reason to vary

the picture as follows:

There was no time to learn any thing. Every man had to do

that which he knew how to do. In entering the ship-yard,

my orders from Mr. Gardiner were, to do whatever the car-

penters commanded me to do. This was placing me at the

beck and call of about seventy-five men. I was to regard all

these as masters. Their word was to be my law. My situation

was a most trying one. At times I needed a dozen pair of

hands. I was called a dozen ways in the space of a single

minute. Three or four voices would strike my ear at the same

moment. It was—“Fred., come help me to cant this timber

here.” “Fred., come carry this timber yonder.”—“Fred., bring

that roller here.”—“Fred., go get a fresh can of water.”—

“Fred., come help saw off the end of this timber.”—“Fred.,

go quick and get the crow bar.”—“Fred., hold on the end of

this fall.”—“Fred., go to the blacksmith’s shop, and get a

new punch.”—“Hurra, Fred.! run and bring me a cold

chisel.”—“I say, Fred., bear a hand, and get up a fire as quick

as lightning under that steam-box.”—“Halloo, nigger! come,

turn this grindstone.”—“Come, come! move, move! and

bowse this timber forward.”—“I say, darkey, blast your eyes,

why don’t you heat up some pitch?”—“Halloo! halloo!

halloo!” (Three voices at the same time.) “Come here!—Go

there!—Hold on where you are! D—n you, if you move, I’ll

knock your brains out!”

Such, dear reader, is a glance at the school which was mine,

during, the first eight months of my stay at Baltimore. At

the end of the eight months, Master Hugh refused longer to

allow me to remain with Mr. Gardiner. The circumstance

which led to his taking me away, was a brutal outrage, com-

mitted upon me by the white apprentices of the ship-yard.

The fight was a desperate one, and I came out of it most

shockingly mangled. I was cut and bruised in sundry places,

and my left eye was nearly knocked out of its socket. The

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Frederick Douglas

facts, leading to this barbarous outrage upon me, illustrate a

phase of slavery destined to become an important element

in the overthrow of the slave system, and I may, therefore

state them with some minuteness. That phase is this: the con-

flict of slavery with the interests of the white mechanics and

laborers of the south. In the country, this conflict is not so

apparent; but, in cities, such as Baltimore, Richmond, New

Orleans, Mobile, &c., it is seen pretty clearly. The

slaveholders, with a craftiness peculiar to themselves, by en-

couraging the enmity of the poor, laboring white man against

the blacks, succeeds in making the said white man almost as

much a slave as the black slave himself. The difference be-

tween the white slave, and the black slave, is this: the latter

belongs to one slaveholder, and the former belongs to all the

slaveholders, collectively. The white slave has taken from him,

by indirection, what the black slave has taken from him,

directly, and without ceremony. Both are plundered, and by

the same plunderers. The slave is robbed, by his master, of

all his earnings, above what is required for his bare physical

necessities; and the white man is robbed by the slave system,

of the just results of his labor, because he is flung into com-

petition with a class of laborers who work without wages.

The competition, and its injurious consequences, will, one

day, array the nonslaveholding white people of the slave states,

against the slave system, and make them the most effective

workers against the great evil. At present, the slaveholders

blind them to this competition, by keeping alive their preju-

dice against the slaves, as men—not against them as slaves.

They appeal to their pride, often denouncing emancipation,

as tending to place the white man, on an equality with Ne-

groes, and, by this means, they succeed in drawing off the

minds of the poor whites from the real fact, that, by the rich

slave-master, they are already regarded as but a single remove

from equality with the slave. The impression is cunningly

made, that slavery is the only power that can prevent the

laboring white man from falling to the level of the slave’s

poverty and degradation. To make this enmity deep and

broad, between the slave and the poor white man, the latter

is allowed to abuse and whip the former, without hinder-

ance. But—as I have suggested—this state of facts prevails

mostly in the country. In the city of Baltimore, there are not

unfrequent murmurs, that educating the slaves to be me-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

chanics may, in the end, give slavemasters power to dispense

with the services of the poor white man altogether. But, with

characteristic dread of offending the slaveholders, these poor,

white mechanics in Mr. Gardiner’s ship-yard—instead of

applying the natural, honest remedy for the apprehended

evil, and objecting at once to work there by the side of slaves—

made a cowardly attack upon the free colored mechanics,

saying they were eating the bread which should be eaten by

American freemen, and swearing that they would not work

with them. The feeling was, really, against having their labor

brought into competition with that of the colored people at

all; but it was too much to strike directly at the interest of

the slaveholders; and, therefore proving their servility and

cowardice they dealt their blows on the poor, colored free-

man, and aimed to prevent him from serving himself, in the

evening of life, with the trade with which he had served his

master, during the more vigorous portion of his days. Had

they succeeded in driving the black freemen out of the ship-

yard, they would have determined also upon the removal of

the black slaves. The feeling was very bitter toward all col-

ored people in Baltimore, about this time (1836), and they—

free and slave suffered all manner of insult and wrong.

Until a very little before I went there, white and black ship

carpenters worked side by side, in the ship yards of Mr.

Gardiner, Mr. Duncan, Mr. Walter Price, and Mr. Robb.

Nobody seemed to see any impropriety in it. To outward

seeming, all hands were well satisfied. Some of the blacks

were first rate workmen, and were given jobs requiring high-

est skill. All at once, however, the white carpenters knocked

off, and swore that they would no longer work on the same

stage with free Negroes. Taking advantage of the heavy con-

tract resting upon Mr. Gardiner, to have the war vessels for

Mexico ready to launch in July, and of the difficulty of get-

ting other hands at that season of the year, they swore they

would not strike another blow for him, unless he would dis-

charge his free colored workmen.

Now, although this movement did not extend to me, in

form, it did reach me, in fact. The spirit which it awakened

was one of malice and bitterness, toward colored people gen-

erally, and I suffered with the rest, and suffered severely. My

fellow apprentices very soon began to feel it to be degrading

to work with me. They began to put on high looks, and to

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Frederick Douglas

talk contemptuously and maliciously of “the Niggers;” say-

ing, that “they would take the country,” that “they ought to

be killed.” Encouraged by the cowardly workmen, who,

knowing me to be a slave, made no issue with Mr. Gardiner

about my being there, these young men did their utmost to

make it impossible for me to stay. They seldom called me to

do any thing, without coupling the call with a curse, and

Edward North, the biggest in every thing, rascality included,

ventured to strike me, whereupon I picked him up, and threw

him into the dock. Whenever any of them struck me, I struck

back again, regardless of consequences. I could manage any

of them singly, and, while I could keep them from combin-

ing, I succeeded very well. In the conflict which ended my

stay at Mr. Gardiner’s, I was beset by four of them at once—

Ned North, Ned Hays, Bill Stewart, and Tom Humphreys.

Two of them were as large as myself, and they came near

killing me, in broad day light. The attack was made sud-

denly, and simultaneously. One came in front, armed with a

brick; there was one at each side, and one behind, and they

closed up around me. I was struck on all sides; and, while I

was attending to those in front, I received a blow on my

head, from behind, dealt with a heavy hand-spike. I was com-

pletely stunned by the blow, and fell, heavily, on the ground,

among the timbers. Taking advantage of my fall, they rushed

upon me, and began to pound me with their fists. I let them

lay on, for a while, after I came to myself, with a view of

gaining strength. They did me little damage, so far; but, fi-

nally, getting tired of that sport, I gave a sudden surge, and,

despite their weight, I rose to my hands and knees. Just as I

did this, one of their number (I know not which) planted a

blow with his boot in my left eye, which, for a time, seemed

to have burst my eyeball. When they saw my eye completely

closed, my face covered with blood, and I staggering under

the stunning blows they had given me, they left me. As soon

as I gathered sufficient strength, I picked up the hand-spike,

and, madly enough, attempted to pursue them; but here the

carpenters interfered, and compelled me to give up my fren-

zied pursuit. It was impossible to stand against so many.

Dear reader, you can hardly believe the statement, but it is

true, and, therefore, I write it down: not fewer than fifty

white men stood by, and saw this brutal and shameless out-

rage committed, and not a man of them all interposed a

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My Bondage and My Freedom

single word of mercy. There were four against one, and that

one’s face was beaten and battered most horribly, and no one

said, “that is enough;” but some cried out, “Kill him—kill

him—kill the d—d nigger! knock his brains out—he struck

a white person.” I mention this inhuman outcry, to show

the character of the men, and the spirit of the times, at

Gardiner’s ship yard, and, indeed, in Baltimore generally, in

1836. As I look back to this period, I am almost amazed that

I was not murdered outright, in that ship yard, so murder-

ous was the spirit which prevailed there. On two occasions,

while there, I came near losing my life. I was driving bolts in

the hold, through the keelson, with Hays. In its course, the

bolt bent. Hays cursed me, and said that it was my blow

which bent the bolt. I denied this, and charged it upon him.

In a fit of rage he seized an adze, and darted toward me. I

met him with a maul, and parried his blow, or I should have

then lost my life. A son of old Tom Lanman (the latter’s

double murder I have elsewhere charged upon him), in the

spirit of his miserable father, made an assault upon me, but

the blow with his maul missed me. After the united assault

of North, Stewart, Hays and Humphreys, finding that the

carpenters were as bitter toward me as the apprentices, and

that the latter were probably set on by the former, I found

my only chances for life was in flight. I succeeded in getting

away, without an additional blow. To strike a white man,

was death, by Lynch law, in Gardiner’s ship yard; nor was

there much of any other law toward colored people, at that

time, in any other part of Maryland. The whole sentiment

of Baltimore was murderous.

After making my escape from the ship yard, I went straight

home, and related the story of the outrage to Master Hugh

Auld; and it is due to him to say, that his conduct—though

he was not a religious man—was every way more humane

than that of his brother, Thomas, when I went to the latter

in a somewhat similar plight, from the hands of “Brother

Edward Covey.” He listened attentively to my narration of

the circumstances leading to the ruffianly outrage, and gave

many proofs of his strong indignation at what was done.

Hugh was a rough, but manly-hearted fellow, and, at this

time, his best nature showed itself.

The heart of my once almost over-kind mistress, Sophia,

was again melted in pity toward me. My puffed-out eye, and

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Frederick Douglas

my scarred and blood-covered face, moved the dear lady to

tears. She kindly drew a chair by me, and with friendly, con-

soling words, she took water, and washed the blood from

my face. No mother’s hand could have been more tender

than hers. She bound up my head, and covered my wounded

eye with a lean piece of fresh beef. It was almost compensa-

tion for the murderous assault, and my suffering, that it fur-

nished and occasion for the manifestation, once more, of

the orignally{sic} characteristic kindness of my mistress. Her

affectionate heart was not yet dead, though much hardened

by time and by circumstances.

As for Master Hugh’s part, as I have said, he was furious

about it; and he gave expression to his fury in the usual forms

of speech in that locality. He poured curses on the heads of

the whole ship yard company, and swore that he would have

satisfaction for the outrage. His indignation was really strong

and healthy; but, unfortunately, it resulted from the thought

that his rights of property, in my person, had not been re-

spected, more than from any sense of the outrage commit-

ted on me as a man. I inferred as much as this, from the fact

that he could, himself, beat and mangle when it suited him

to do so. Bent on having satisfaction, as he said, just as soon as

I got a little the better of my bruises, Master Hugh took me to

Esquire Watson’s office, on Bond street, Fell’s Point, with a

view to procuring the arrest of those who had assaulted me.

He related the outrage to the magistrate, as I had related it to

him, and seemed to expect that a warrant would, at once, be

issued for the arrest of the lawless ruffians.

Mr. Watson heard it all, and instead of drawing up his

warrant, he inquired.—

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

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

hands.”

“Sir,” said Watson, “I am sorry, but I cannot move in this

matter except upon the oath of white witnesses.”

“But here’s the boy; look at his head and face,” said the

excited Master Hugh; “they show what has been done.”

But Watson insisted that he was not authorized to do any-

thing, unless white witnesses of the transaction would come

forward, and testify to what had taken place. He could issue

no warrant on my word, against white persons; and, if I had

been killed in the presence of a thousand blacks, their testi-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

mony, combined would have been insufficient to arrest a

single murderer. Master Hugh, for once, was compelled to

say, that this state of things was too bad; and he left the office

of the magistrate, disgusted.

Of course, it was impossible to get any white man to testify

against my assailants. The carpenters saw what was done; but

the actors were but the agents of their malice, and only what

the carpenters sanctioned. They had cried, with one accord,

“Kill the nigger!” “Kill the nigger!” Even those who may have

pitied me, if any such were among them, lacked the moral

courage to come and volunteer their evidence. The slightest

manifestation of sympathy or justice toward a person of color,

was denounced as abolitionism; and the name of abolitionist,

subjected its bearer to frightful liabilities. “D—n abolition-

ists,” and “Kill the niggers,” were the watch-words of the foul-

mouthed ruffians of those days. Nothing was done, and prob-

ably there would not have been any thing done, had I been

killed in the affray. The laws and the morals of the Christian

city of Baltimore, afforded no protection to the sable denizens

of that city.

Master Hugh, on finding he could get no redress for the

cruel wrong, withdrew me from the employment of Mr.

Gardiner, and took me into his own family, Mrs. Auld kindly

taking care of me, and dressing my wounds, until they were

healed, and I was ready to go again to work.

While I was on the Eastern Shore, Master Hugh had met

with reverses, which overthrew his business; and he had given

up ship building in his own yard, on the City Block, and was

now acting as foreman of Mr. Walter Price. The best he could

now do for me, was to take me into Mr. Price’s yard, and

afford me the facilities there, for completing the trade which

I had began to learn at Gardiner’s. Here I rapidly became

expert in the use of my calking tools; and, in the course of a

single year, I was able to command the highest wages paid to

journeymen calkers in Baltimore.

The reader will observe that I was now of some pecuniary

value to my master. During the busy season, I was bringing

six and seven dollars per week. I have, sometimes, brought

him as much as nine dollars a week, for the wages were a

dollar and a half per day.

After learning to calk, I sought my own employment, made

my own contracts, and collected my own earnings; giving

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Frederick Douglas

Master Hugh no trouble in any part of the transactions to

which I was a party.

Here, then, were better days for the Eastern Shore slave. I

was now free from the vexatious assalts{sic} of the appren-

tices at Mr. Gardiner’s; and free from the perils of plantation

life, and once more in a favorable condition to increase my

little stock of education, which had been at a dead stand

since my removal from Baltimore. I had, on the Eastern

Shore, been only a teacher, when in company with other

slaves, but now there were colored persons who could in-

struct me. Many of the young calkers could read, write and

cipher. Some of them had high notions about mental im-

provement; and the free ones, on Fell’s Point, organized what

they called the “East Baltimore Mental Improvement Society.”

To this society, notwithstanding it was intended that only

free persons should attach themselves, I was admitted, and

was, several times, assigned a prominent part in its debates. I

owe much to the society of these young men.

The reader already knows enough of the ill effects of good

treatment on a slave, to anticipate what was now the case in

my improved condition. It was not long before I began to

show signs of disquiet with slavery, and to look around for

means to get out of that condition by the shortest route. I

was living among freemen; and was, in all respects, equal to

them by nature and by attainments. Why should I be a slave?

There was no reason why I should be the thrall of any man.

Besides, I was now getting—as I have said—a dollar and

fifty cents per day. I contracted for it, worked for it, earned

it, collected it; it was paid to me, and it was rightfully my

own; and yet, upon every returning Saturday night, this

money—my own hard earnings, every cent of it—was de-

manded of me, and taken from me by Master Hugh. He did

not earn it; he had no hand in earning it; why, then, should

he have it? I owed him nothing. He had given me no school-

ing, and I had received from him only my food and raiment;

and for these, my services were supposed to pay, from the

first. The right to take my earnings, was the right of the

robber. He had the power to compel me to give him the

fruits of my labor, and this power was his only right in the

case. I became more and more dissatisfied with this state of

things; and, in so becoming, I only gave proof of the same

human nature which every reader of this chapter in my life—

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My Bondage and My Freedom

slaveholder, or nonslaveholder—is conscious of possessing.

To make a contented slave, you must make a thoughtless

one. It is necessary to darken his moral and mental vision,

and, as far as possible, to annihilate his power of reason. He

must be able to detect no inconsistencies in slavery. The man

that takes his earnings, must be able to convince him that he

has a perfect right to do so. It must not depend upon mere

force; the slave must know no Higher Law than his master’s

will. The whole relationship must not only demonstrate, to

his mind, its necessity, but its absolute rightfulness. If there

be one crevice through which a single drop can fall, it will

certainly rust off the slave’s chain.

CHAPTER XXICHAPTER XXICHAPTER XXICHAPTER XXICHAPTER XXI MMMMMy Ey Ey Ey Ey Escape frscape frscape frscape frscape from Som Som Som Som Slavlavlavlavlaverererereryyyyy

CLOSING INCIDENTS OF “MY LIFE AS A SLAVE”—

REASONS WHY FULL PARTICULARS OF THE MAN-

NER OF MY ESCAPE WILL NOT BE GIVEN—

CRAFTINESS AND MALICE OF SLAVEHOLDERS—

SUSPICION OF AIDING A SLAVE’S ESCAPE ABOUT

AS DANGEROUS AS POSITIVE EVIDENCE—WANT

OF WISDOM SHOWN IN PUBLISHING DETAILS OF

THE ESCAPE OF THE FUGITIVES—PUBLISHED AC-

COUNTS REACH THE MASTERS, NOT THE

SL AVES—SLAVEHOLDERS STIMULATED TO

GREATER WATCHFULNESS—MY CONDITION—

DISCONTENT—SUSPICIONS IMPLIED BY MASTER

HUGH’S MANNER, WHEN RECEIVING MY

WAGES—HIS OCCASIONAL GENEROSITY!—DIFFI-

CULTIES IN THE WAY OF ESCAPE—EVERY AVENUE

GUARDED—PLAN TO OBTAIN MONEY—I AM AL-

LOWED TO HIRE MY TIME—A GLEAM OF HOPE—

ATTENDS CAMP-MEETING, WITHOUT PERMIS-

213

Frederick Douglas

SION—ANGER OF MASTER HUGH THEREAT—

THE RESULT—MY PLANS OF ESCAPE ACCELER-

ATED THERBY—THE DAY FOR MY DEPARTURE

FIXED—HARASSED BY DOUBTS AND FEARS—

PAINFUL THOUGHTS OF SEPARATION FROM

FRIENDS—THE ATTEMPT MADE—ITS SUCCESS.

I WILL NOW MAKE the kind reader acquainted with the clos-

ing incidents of my “Life as a Slave,” having already trenched

upon the limit allotted to my “Life as a Freeman.” Before,

however, proceeding with this narration, it is, perhaps,

proper that I should frankly state, in advance, my inten-

tion to withhold a part of the{sic} connected with my es-

cape from slavery. There are reasons for this suppression,

which I trust the reader will deem altogether valid. It may

be easily conceived, that a full and complete statement of

all facts pertaining to the flight of a bondman, might im-

plicate and embarrass some who may have, wittingly or

unwittingly, assisted him; and no one can wish me to in-

volve any man or woman who has befriended me, even in

the liability of embarrassment or trouble.

Keen is the scent of the slaveholder; like the fangs of the

rattlesnake, his malice retains its poison long; and, although

it is now nearly seventeen years since I made my escape, it is

well to be careful, in dealing with the circumstances relating

to it. Were I to give but a shadowy outline of the process

adopted, with characteristic aptitude, the crafty and mali-

cious among the slaveholders might, possibly, hit upon the

track I pursued, and involve some one in suspicion which,

in a slave state, is about as bad as positive evidence. The

colored man, there, must not only shun evil, but shun the

very appearance of evil, or be condemned as a criminal. A

slaveholding community has a peculiar taste for ferreting out

offenses against the slave system, justice there being more

sensitive in its regard for the peculiar rights of this system,

than for any other interest or institution. By stringing to-

gether a train of events and circumstances, even if I were not

very explicit, the means of escape might be ascertained, and,

possibly, those means be rendered, thereafter, no longer avail-

able to the liberty-seeking children of bondage I have left

behind me. No antislavery man can wish me to do anything

favoring such results, and no slaveholding reader has any

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My Bondage and My Freedom

right to expect the impartment of such information.

While, therefore, it would afford me pleasure, and perhaps

would materially add to the interest of my story, were I at

liberty to gratify a curiosity which I know to exist in the

minds of many, as to the manner of my escape, I must de-

prive myself of this pleasure, and the curious of the gratifica-

tion, which such a statement of facts would afford. I would

allow myself to suffer under the greatest imputations that

evil minded men might suggest, rather than exculpate my-

self by explanation, and thereby run the hazards of closing

the slightest avenue by which a brother in suffering might

clear himself of the chains and fetters of slavery.

The practice of publishing every new invention by which

a slave is known to have escaped from slavery, has neither

wisdom nor necessity to sustain it. Had not Henry Box Brown

and his friends attracted slaveholding attention to the man-

ner of his escape, we might have had a thousand Box Browns

per annum. The singularly original plan adopted by Will-

iam and Ellen Crafts, perished with the first using, because

every slaveholder in the land was apprised of it. The salt water

slave who hung in the guards of a steamer, being washed

three days and three nights—like another Jonah—by the

waves of the sea, has, by the publicity given to the circum-

stance, set a spy on the guards of every steamer departing

from southern ports.

I have never approved of the very public manner, in which

some of our western friends have conducted what they call

the “Under-ground Railroad,” but which, I think, by their

open declarations, has been made, most emphatically, the

“Upper-ground Railroad.” Its stations are far better known

to the slaveholders than to the slaves. I honor those good

men and women for their noble daring, in willingly subject-

ing themselves to persecution, by openly avowing their par-

ticipation in the escape of slaves; nevertheless, the good

resulting from such avowals, is of a very questionable char-

acter. It may kindle an enthusiasm, very pleasant to inhale;

but that is of no practical benefit to themselves, nor to the

slaves escaping. Nothing is more evident, than that such dis-

closures are a positive evil to the slaves remaining, and seek-

ing to escape. In publishing such accounts, the anti-slavery

man addresses the slaveholder, not the slave; he stimulates

the former to greater watchfulness, and adds to his facilities

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Frederick Douglas

for capturing his slave. We owe something to the slaves, south

of Mason and Dixon’s line, as well as to those north of it;

and, in discharging the duty of aiding the latter, on their

way to freedom, we should be careful to do nothing which

would be likely to hinder the former, in making their escape

from slavery. Such is my detestation of slavery, that I would

keep the merciless slaveholder profoundly ignorant of the

means of flight adopted by the slave. He should be left to

imagine himself surrounded by myriads of invisible tormen-

tors, ever ready to snatch, from his infernal grasp, his trem-

bling prey. In pursuing his victim, let him be left to feel his

way in the dark; let shades of darkness, commensurate with

his crime, shut every ray of light from his pathway; and let

him be made to feel, that, at every step he takes, with the

hellish purpose of reducing a brother man to slavery, he is

running the frightful risk of having his hot brains dashed

out by an invisible hand.

But, enough of this. I will now proceed to the statement of

those facts, connected with my escape, for which I am alone re-

sponsible, and for which no one can be made to suffer but myself.

My condition in the year (1838) of my escape, was, com-

paratively, a free and easy one, so far, at least, as the wants of

the physical man were concerned; but the reader will bear in

mind, that my troubles from the beginning, have been less

physical than mental, and he will thus be prepared to find,

after what is narrated in the previous chapters, that slave life

was adding nothing to its charms for me, as I grew older,

and became better acquainted with it. The practice, from

week to week, of openly robbing me of all my earnings, kept

the nature and character of slavery constantly before me. I

could be robbed by indirection, but this was too open and

barefaced to be endured. I could see no reason why I should,

at the end of each week, pour the reward of my honest toil

into the purse of any man. The thought itself vexed me, and

the manner in which Master Hugh received my wages, vexed

me more than the original wrong. Carefully counting the

money and rolling it out, dollar by dollar, he would look me

in the face, as if he would search my heart as well as my

pocket, and reproachfully ask me, “Is that all?”—implying

that I had, perhaps, kept back part of my wages; or, if not so,

the demand was made, possibly, to make me feel, that, after

all, I was an “unprofitable servant.” Draining me of the last

216

My Bondage and My Freedom

cent of my hard earnings, he would, however, occasionally—

when I brought home an extra large sum—dole out to me a

sixpence or a shilling, with a view, perhaps, of kindling up

my gratitude; but this practice had the opposite effect—it

was an admission of my right to the whole sum. The fact, that

he gave me any part of my wages, was proof that he sus-

pected that I had a right to the whole of them. I always felt

uncomfortable, after having received anything in this way,

for I feared that the giving me a few cents, might, possibly,

ease his conscience, and make him feel himself a pretty hon-

orable robber, after all!

Held to a strict account, and kept under a close watch—

the old suspicion of my running away not having been en-

tirely removed—escape from slavery, even in Baltimore, was

very difficult. The railroad from Baltimore to Philadelphia

was under regulations so stringent, that even free colored trav-

elers were almost excluded. They must have free papers; they

must be measured and carefully examined, before they were

allowed to enter the cars; they only went in the day time,

even when so examined. The steamboats were under regula-

tions equally stringent. All the great turnpikes, leading north-

ward, were beset with kidnappers, a class of men who watched

the newspapers for advertisements for runaway slaves, mak-

ing their living by the accursed reward of slave hunting.

My discontent grew upon me, and I was on the look-out

for means of escape. With money, I could easily have man-

aged the matter, and, therefore, I hit upon the plan of solic-

iting the privilege of hiring my time. It is quite common, in

Baltimore, to allow slaves this privilege, and it is the prac-

tice, also, in New Orleans. A slave who is considered trust-

worthy, can, by paying his master a definite sum regularly, at

the end of each week, dispose of his time as he likes. It so

happened that I was not in very good odor, and I was far

from being a trustworthy slave. Nevertheless, I watched my

opportunity when Master Thomas came to Baltimore (for I

was still his property, Hugh only acted as his agent) in the

spring of 1838, to purchase his spring supply of goods, and

applied to him, directly, for the much-coveted privilege of

hiring my time. This request Master Thomas unhesitatingly

refused to grant; and he charged me, with some sternness,

with inventing this stratagem to make my escape. He told

me, “I could go nowhere but he could catch me; and, in the

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Frederick Douglas

event of my running away, I might be assured he should

spare no pains in his efforts to recapture me. He recounted,

with a good deal of eloquence, the many kind offices he had

done me, and exhorted me to be contented and obedient.

“Lay out no plans for the future,” said he. “If you behave

yourself properly, I will take care of you.” Now, kind and

considerate as this offer was, it failed to soothe me into re-

pose. In spite of Master Thomas, and, I may say, in spite of

myself, also, I continued to think, and worse still, to think

almost exclusively about the injustice and wickedness of sla-

very. No effort of mine or of his could silence this trouble-

giving thought, or change my purpose to run away.

About two months after applying to Master Thomas for

the privilege of hiring my time, I applied to Master Hugh

for the same liberty, supposing him to be unacquainted with

the fact that I had made a similar application to Master Tho-

mas, and had been refused. My boldness in making this re-

quest, fairly astounded him at the first. He gazed at me in

amazement. But I had many good reasons for pressing the

matter; and, after listening to them awhile, he did not abso-

lutely refuse, but told me he would think of it. Here, then,

was a gleam of hope. Once master of my own time, I felt

sure that I could make, over and above my obligation to

him, a dollar or two every week. Some slaves have made

enough, in this way, to purchase their freedom. It is a sharp

spur to industry; and some of the most enterprising colored

men in Baltimore hire themselves in this way. After mature

reflection—as I must suppose it was Master Hugh granted

me the privilege in question, on the following terms: I was

to be allowed all my time; to make all bargains for work; to

find my own employment, and to collect my own wages;

and, in return for this liberty, I was required, or obliged, to

pay him three dollars at the end of each week, and to board

and clothe myself, and buy my own calking tools. A failure

in any of these particulars would put an end to my privilege.

This was a hard bargain. The wear and tear of clothing, the

losing and breaking of tools, and the expense of board, made

it necessary for me to earn at least six dollars per week, to

keep even with the world. All who are acquainted with calk-

ing, know how uncertain and irregular that employment is.

It can be done to advantage only in dry weather, for it is

useless to put wet oakum into a seam. Rain or shine, how-

218

My Bondage and My Freedom

ever, work or no work, at the end of each week the money

must be forthcoming.

Master Hugh seemed to be very much pleased, for a time,

with this arrangement; and well he might be, for it was decid-

edly in his favor. It relieved him of all anxiety concerning me.

His money was sure. He had armed my love of liberty with a

lash and a driver, far more efficient than any I had before

known; and, while he derived all the benefits of slaveholding

by the arrangement, without its evils, I endured all the evils of

being a slave, and yet suffered all the care and anxiety of a

responsible freeman. “Nevertheless,” thought I, “it is a valu-

able privilege another step in my career toward freedom.” It

was something even to be permitted to stagger under the dis-

advantages of liberty, and I was determined to hold on to the

newly gained footing, by all proper industry. I was ready to

work by night as well as by day; and being in the enjoyment of

excellent health, I was able not only to meet my current ex-

penses, but also to lay by a small sum at the end of each week.

All went on thus, from the month of May till August; then—

for reasons which will become apparent as I proceed—my

much valued liberty was wrested from me.

During the week previous to this (to me) calamitous event,

I had made arrangements with a few young friends, to ac-

company them, on Saturday night, to a camp-meeting, held

about twelve miles from Baltimore. On the evening of our

intended start for the camp-ground, something occurred in

the ship yard where I was at work, which detained me un-

usually late, and compelled me either to disappoint my young

friends, or to neglect carrying my weekly dues to Master

Hugh. Knowing that I had the money, and could hand it to

him on another day, I decided to go to camp-meeting, and

to pay him the three dollars, for the past week, on my re-

turn. Once on the camp-ground, I was induced to remain

one day longer than I had intended, when I left home. But,

as soon as I returned, I went straight to his house on Fell

street, to hand him his (my) money. Unhappily, the fatal

mistake had been committed. I found him exceedingly an-

gry. He exhibited all the signs of apprehension and wrath,

which a slaveholder may be surmised to exhibit on the sup-

posed escape of a favorite slave. “You rascal! I have a great

mind to give you a severe whipping. How dare you go out of

the city without first asking and obtaining my permission?”

219

Frederick Douglas

“Sir,” said I, “I hired my time and paid you the price you

asked for it. I did not know that it was any part of the bar-

gain that I should ask you when or where I should go.”

“You did not know, you rascal! You are bound to show

yourself here every Saturday night.” After reflecting, a few

moments, he became somewhat cooled down; but, evidently

greatly troubled, he said, “Now, you scoundrel! you have done

for yourself; you shall hire your time no longer. The next

thing I shall hear of, will be your running away. Bring home

your tools and your clothes, at once. I’ll teach you how to go

off in this way.”

Thus ended my partial freedom. I could hire my time no

longer; and I obeyed my master’s orders at once. The little

taste of liberty which I had had—although as the reader will

have seen, it was far from being unalloyed—by no means

enhanced my contentment with slavery. Punished thus by

Master Hugh, it was now my turn to punish him. “Since,”

thought I, “you will make a slave of me, I will await your

orders in all things;” and, instead of going to look for work

on Monday morning, as I had formerly done, I remained at

home during the entire week, without the performance of a

single stroke of work. Saturday night came, and he called

upon me, as usual, for my wages. I, of course, told him I had

done no work, and had no wages. Here we were at the point

of coming to blows. His wrath had been accumulating dur-

ing the whole week; for he evidently saw that I was making

no effort to get work, but was most aggravatingly awaiting

his orders, in all things. As I look back to this behavior of

mine, I scarcely know what possessed me, thus to trifle with

those who had such unlimited power to bless or to blast me.

Master Hugh raved and swore his determination to “get hold

of me;” but, wisely for him, and happily for me, his wrath

only employed those very harmless, impalpable missiles,

which roll from a limber tongue. In my desperation, I had

fully made up my mind to measure strength with Master

Hugh, in case he should undertake to execute his threats. I

am glad there was no necessity for this; for resistance to him

could not have ended so happily for me, as it did in the case

of Covey. He was not a man to be safely resisted by a slave;

and I freely own, that in my conduct toward him, in this

instance, there was more folly than wisdom. Master Hugh

closed his reproofs, by telling me that, hereafter, I need give

220

My Bondage and My Freedom

myself no uneasiness about getting work; that he “would,

himself, see to getting work for me, and enough of it, at

that.” This threat I confess had some terror in it; and, on

thinking the matter over, during the Sunday, I resolved, not

only to save him the trouble of getting me work, but that,

upon the third day of September, I would attempt to make

my escape from slavery. The refusal to allow me to hire my

time, therefore, hastened the period of flight. I had three

weeks, now, in which to prepare for my journey.

Once resolved, I felt a certain degree of repose, and on

Monday, instead of waiting for Master Hugh to seek em-

ployment for me, I was up by break of day, and off to the

ship yard of Mr. Butler, on the City Block, near the draw-

bridge. I was a favorite with Mr. B., and, young as I was, I

had served as his foreman on the float stage, at calking. Of

course, I easily obtained work, and, at the end of the week—

which by the way was exceedingly fine I brought Master Hugh

nearly nine dollars. The effect of this mark of returning good

sense, on my part, was excellent. He was very much pleased;

he took the money, commended me, and told me I might

have done the same thing the week before. It is a blessed

thing that the tyrant may not always know the thoughts and

purposes of his victim. Master Hugh little knew what my

plans were. The going to camp-meeting without asking his

permission—the insolent answers made to his reproaches—

the sulky deportment the week after being deprived of the

privilege of hiring my time—had awakened in him the sus-

picion that I might be cherishing disloyal purposes. My ob-

ject, therefore, in working steadily, was to remove suspicion,

and in this I succeeded admirably. He probably thought I

was never better satisfied with my condition, than at the very

time I was planning my escape. The second week passed,

and again I carried him my full week’s wages—nine dollars;

and so well pleased was he, that he gave me TWENTY-FIVE

CENTS! and “bade me make good use of it!” I told him I

would, for one of the uses to which I meant to put it, was to

pay my fare on the underground railroad.

Things without went on as usual; but I was passing through

the same internal excitement and anxiety which I had expe-

rienced two years and a half before. The failure, in that in-

stance, was not calculated to increase my confidence in the

success of this, my second attempt; and I knew that a second

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Frederick Douglas

failure could not leave me where my first did—I must either

get to the far north, or be sent to the far south. Besides the

exercise of mind from this state of facts, I had the painful

sensation of being about to separate from a circle of honest

and warm hearted friends, in Baltimore. The thought of such

a separation, where the hope of ever meeting again is ex-

cluded, and where there can be no correspondence, is very

painful. It is my opinion, that thousands would escape from

slavery who now remain there, but for the strong cords of

affection that bind them to their families, relatives and friends.

The daughter is hindered from escaping, by the love she bears

her mother, and the father, by the love he bears his children;

and so, to the end of the chapter. I had no relations in Balti-

more, and I saw no probability of ever living in the neigh-

borhood of sisters and brothers; but the thought of leaving

my friends, was among the strongest obstacles to my run-

ning away. The last two days of the week—Friday and Sat-

urday—were spent mostly in collecting my things together,

for my journey. Having worked four days that week, for my

master, I handed him six dollars, on Saturday night. I sel-

dom spent my Sundays at home; and, for fear that some-

thing might be discovered in my conduct, I kept up my cus-

tom, and absented myself all day. On Monday, the third day

of September, 1838, in accordance with my resolution, I bade

farewell to the city of Baltimore, and to that slavery which

had been my abhorrence from childhood.

How I got away—in what direction I traveled—whether

by land or by water; whether with or without assistance—

must, for reasons already mentioned, remain unexplained.

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My Bondage and My Freedom

LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE as aas aas aas aas a FREEMAN FREEMAN FREEMAN FREEMAN FREEMAN

CHAPTER XXIICHAPTER XXIICHAPTER XXIICHAPTER XXIICHAPTER XXII LLLLLiberiberiberiberiberty Aty Aty Aty Aty Attainedttainedttainedttainedttained

TRANSITION FROM SLAVERY TO FREEDOM—A

WANDERER IN NEW YORK—FEELINGS ON REACH-

ING THAT CITY—AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE MET—

UNFAVORABLE IMPRESSIONS—LONELINESS AND

INSECURITY—APOLOGY FOR SLAVES WHO RE-

TURN TO THEIR MASTERS—COMPELLED TO TELL

MY CONDITION—SUCCORED BY A SAILOR—

DAVID RUGGLES—THE UNDERGROUND RAIL-

ROAD—MARRIAGE—BAGGAGE TAKEN FROM

ME—KINDNESS OF NATHAN JOHNSON—MY

CHANGE OF NAME—DARK NOTIONS OF NORTH-

ERN CIVILIZATION—THE CONTRAST—COLORED

PEOPLE IN NEW BEDFORD—AN INCIDENT ILLUS-

TRATING THEIR SPIRIT—A COMMON LABORER—

DENIED WORK AT MY TRADE—THE FIRST WIN-

TER AT THE NORTH—REPULSE AT THE DOORS OF

THE CHURCH—SANCTIFIED HATE—THE Liberator

AND ITS EDITOR.

THERE IS NO NECESSITY for any extended notice of the inci-

dents of this part of my life. There is nothing very striking or

peculiar about my career as a freeman, when viewed apart

from my life as a slave. The relation subsisting between my

early experience and that which I am now about to narrate,

is, perhaps, my best apology for adding another chapter to

this book.

Disappearing from the kind reader, in a flying cloud or

balloon (pardon the figure), driven by the wind, and know-

ing not where I should land—whether in slavery or in free-

dom—it is proper that I should remove, at once, all anxiety,

by frankly making known where I alighted. The flight was a

bold and perilous one; but here I am, in the great city of

New York, safe and sound, without loss of blood or bone. In

less than a week after leaving Baltimore, I was walking amid

the hurrying throng, and gazing upon the dazzling wonders

of Broadway. The dreams of my childhood and the purposes

of my manhood were now fulfilled. A free state around me,

223

Frederick Douglas

and a free earth under my feet! What a moment was this to

me! A whole year was pressed into a single day. A new world

burst upon my agitated vision. I have often been asked, by

kind friends to whom I have told my story, how I felt when

first I found myself beyond the limits of slavery; and I must

say here, as I have often said to them, there is scarcely any-

thing about which I could not give a more satisfactory an-

swer. It was a moment of joyous excitement, which no words

can describe. In a letter to a friend, written soon after reach-

ing New York. I said I felt as one might be supposed to feel,

on escaping from a den of hungry lions. But, in a moment

like that, sensations are too intense and too rapid for words.

Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be described,

but joy and gladness, like the rainbow of promise, defy alike

the pen and pencil.

For ten or fifteen years I had been dragging a heavy chain,

with a huge block attached to it, cumbering my every mo-

tion. I had felt myself doomed to drag this chain and this

block through life. All efforts, before, to separate myself from

the hateful encumbrance, had only seemed to rivet me the

more firmly to it. Baffled and discouraged at times, I had

asked myself the question, May not this, after all, be God’s

work? May He not, for wise ends, have doomed me to this

lot? A contest had been going on in my mind for years, be-

tween the clear consciousness of right and the plausible er-

rors of superstition; between the wisdom of manly courage,

and the foolish weakness of timidity. The contest was now

ended; the chain was severed; God and right stood vindi-

cated. I was A FREEMAN, and the voice of peace and joy

thrilled my heart.

Free and joyous, however, as I was, joy was not the only

sensation I experienced. It was like the quick blaze, beautiful

at the first, but which subsiding, leaves the building charred

and desolate. I was soon taught that I was still in an enemy’s

land. A sense of loneliness and insecurity oppressed me sadly.

I had been but a few hours in New York, before I was met in

the streets by a fugitive slave, well known to me, and the

information I got from him respecting New York, did noth-

ing to lessen my apprehension of danger. The fugitive in

question was “Allender’s Jake,” in Baltimore; but, said he, I

am “WILLIAM DIXON,” in New York! I knew Jake well,

and knew when Tolly Allender and Mr. Price (for the latter

224

My Bondage and My Freedom

employed Master Hugh as his foreman, in his shipyard on

Fell’s Point) made an attempt to recapture Jake, and failed.

Jake told me all about his circumstances, and how narrowly

he escaped being taken back to slavery; that the city was now

full of southerners, returning from the springs; that the black

people in New York were not to be trusted; that there were

hired men on the lookout for fugitives from slavery, and who,

for a few dollars, would betray me into the hands of the

slave-catchers; that I must trust no man with my secret; that

I must not think of going either on the wharves to work, or

to a boarding-house to board; and, worse still, this same Jake

told me it was not in his power to help me. He seemed, even

while cautioning me, to be fearing lest, after all, I might be a

party to a second attempt to recapture him. Under the inspi-

ration of this thought, I must suppose it was, he gave signs

of a wish to get rid of me, and soon left me his whitewash

brush in hand—as he said, for his work. He was soon lost to

sight among the throng, and I was alone again, an easy prey

to the kidnappers, if any should happen to be on my track.

New York, seventeen years ago, was less a place of safety

for a runaway slave than now, and all know how unsafe it

now is, under the new fugitive slave bill. I was much troubled.

I had very little money enough to buy me a few loaves of

bread, but not enough to pay board, outside a lumber yard.

I saw the wisdom of keeping away from the ship yards, for if

Master Hugh pursued me, he would naturally expect to find

me looking for work among the calkers. For a time, every

door seemed closed against me. A sense of my loneliness and

helplessness crept over me, and covered me with something

bordering on despair. In the midst of thousands of my fel-

lowmen, and yet a perfect stranger! In the midst of human

brothers, and yet more fearful of them than of hungry wolves!

I was without home, without friends, without work, with-

out money, and without any definite knowledge of which

way to go, or where to look for succor.

Some apology can easily be made for the few slaves who

have, after making good their escape, turned back to slavery,

preferring the actual rule of their masters, to the life of lone-

liness, apprehension, hunger, and anxiety, which meets them

on their first arrival in a free state. It is difficult for a freeman

to enter into the feelings of such fugitives. He cannot see

things in the same light with the slave, because he does not,

225

Frederick Douglas

and cannot, look from the same point from which the slave

does. “Why do you tremble,” he says to the slave “you are in

a free state;” but the difficulty is, in realizing that he is in a

free state, the slave might reply. A freeman cannot under-

stand why the slave-master’s shadow is bigger, to the slave,

than the might and majesty of a free state; but when he re-

flects that the slave knows more about the slavery of his master

than he does of the might and majesty of the free state, he

has the explanation. The slave has been all his life learning

the power of his master—being trained to dread his ap-

proach—and only a few hours learning the power of the state.

The master is to him a stern and flinty reality, but the state is

little more than a dream. He has been accustomed to regard

every white man as the friend of his master, and every col-

ored man as more or less under the control of his master’s

friends—the white people. It takes stout nerves to stand up,

in such circumstances. A man, homeless, shelterless, breadless,

friendless, and moneyless, is not in a condition to assume a

very proud or joyous tone; and in just this condition was I,

while wandering about the streets of New York city and lodg-

ing, at least one night, among the barrels on one of its

wharves. I was not only free from slavery, but I was free from

home, as well. The reader will easily see that I had some-

thing more than the simple fact of being free to think of, in

this extremity.

I kept my secret as long as I could, and at last was forced to

go in search of an honest man—a man sufficiently human

not to betray me into the hands of slave-catchers. I was not a

bad reader of the human face, nor long in selecting the right

man, when once compelled to disclose the facts of my con-

dition to some one.

I found my man in the person of one who said his name

was Stewart. He was a sailor, warm-hearted and generous,

and he listened to my story with a brother’s interest. I told

him I was running for my freedom—knew not where to go—

money almost gone—was hungry—thought it unsafe to go

the shipyards for work, and needed a friend. Stewart promptly

put me in the way of getting out of my trouble. He took me

to his house, and went in search of the late David Ruggles,

who was then the secretary of the New York Vigilance Com-

mittee, and a very active man in all anti-slavery works. Once

in the hands of Mr. Ruggles, I was comparatively safe. I was

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My Bondage and My Freedom

hidden with Mr. Ruggles several days. In the meantime, my

intended wife, Anna, came on from Baltimore—to whom I

had written, informing her of my safe arrival at New York—

and, in the presence of Mrs. Mitchell and Mr. Ruggles, we

were married, by Rev. James W. C. Pennington.

Mr. Ruggles* was the first officer on the under-ground rail-

road with whom I met after reaching the north, and, indeed,

the first of whom I ever heard anything. Learning that I was

a calker by trade, he promptly decided that New Bedford

was the proper place to send me. “Many ships,” said he, “are

there fitted out for the whaling business, and you may there

find work at your trade, and make a good living.” Thus, in

one fortnight after my flight from Maryland, I was safe in

New Bedford, regularly entered upon the exercise of the

rights, responsibilities, and duties of a freeman.

I may mention a little circumstance which annoyed me on

reaching New Bedford. I had not a cent of money, and lacked

two dollars toward paying our fare from Newport, and our

baggage not very costly—was taken by the stage driver, and

held until I could raise the money to redeem it. This diffi-

culty was soon surmounted. Mr. Nathan Johnson, to whom

we had a line from Mr. Ruggles, not only received us kindly

and hospitably, but, on being informed about our baggage,

promptly loaned me two dollars with which to redeem my

little property. I shall ever be deeply grateful, both to Mr.

and Mrs. Nathan Johnson, for the lively interest they were

pleased to take in me, in this hour of my extremest need.

They not only gave myself and wife bread and shelter, but

taught us how to begin to secure those benefits for ourselves.

Long may they live, and may blessings attend them in this

life and in that which is to come!

Once initiated into the new life of freedom, and assured

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

227

Frederick Douglas

by Mr. Johnson that New Bedford was a safe place, the com-

paratively unimportant matter, as to what should be my

name, came up for considertion{sic}. It was necessary to have

a name in my new relations. The name given me by my

beloved mother was no less pretentious than “Frederick

Augustus Washington Bailey.” I had, however, before leav-

ing Maryland, dispensed with the Augustus Washington, and

retained the name Frederick Bailey. Between Baltimore and

New Bedford, however, I had several different names, the

better to avoid being overhauled by the hunters, which I had

good reason to believe would be put on my track. Among

honest men an honest man may well be content with one

name, and to acknowledge it at all times and in all places;

but toward fugitives, Americans are not honest. When I ar-

rived at New Bedford, my name was Johnson; and finding

that the Johnson family in New Bedford were already quite

numerous—sufficiently so to produce some confusion in

attempts to distinguish one from another—there was the

more reason for making another change in my name. In fact,

“Johnson” had been assumed by nearly every slave who had

arrived in New Bedford from Maryland, and this, much to

the annoyance of the original “Johnsons” (of whom there

were many) in that place. Mine host, unwilling to have an-

other of his own name added to the community in this un-

authorized way, after I spent a night and a day at his house,

gave me my present name. He had been reading the “Lady

of the Lake,” and was pleased to regard me as a suitable per-

son to wear this, one of Scotland’s many famous names.

Considering the noble hospitality and manly character of

Nathan Johnson, I have felt that he, better than I, illustrated

the virtues of the great Scottish chief. Sure I am, that had

any slave-catcher entered his domicile, with a view to molest

any one of his household, he would have shown himself like

him of the “stalwart hand.”

The reader will be amused at my ignorance, when I tell

the notions I had of the state of northern wealth, enterprise,

and civilization. Of wealth and refinement, I supposed the

north had none. My Columbian Orator, which was almost

my only book, had not done much to enlighten me con-

cerning northern society. The impressions I had received were

all wide of the truth. New Bedford, especially, took me by

surprise, in the solid wealth and grandeur there exhibited. I

228

My Bondage and My Freedom

had formed my notions respecting the social condition of

the free states, by what I had seen and known of free, white,

non-slaveholding people in the slave states. Regarding sla-

very as the basis of wealth, I fancied that no people could

become very wealthy without slavery. A free white man, hold-

ing no slaves, in the country, I had known to be the most

ignorant and poverty-stricken of men, and the laughing stock

even of slaves themselves—called generally by them, in deri-

sion, “poor white trash.” Like the non-slaveholders at the south,

in holding no slaves, I suppose the northern people like them,

also, in poverty and degradation. Judge, then, of my amaze-

ment and joy, when I found—as I did find—the very labor-

ing population of New Bedford living in better houses, more

elegantly furnished—surrounded by more comfort and re-

finement—than a majority of the slaveholders on the East-

ern Shore of Maryland. There was my friend, Mr. Johnson,

himself a colored man (who at the south would have been

regarded as a proper marketable commodity), who lived in a

better house—dined at a richer board—was the owner of

more books—the reader of more newspapers—was more

conversant with the political and social condition of this

nation and the world—than nine-tenths of all the slaveholders

of Talbot county, Maryland. Yet Mr. Johnson was a working

man, and his hands were hardened by honest toil. Here, then,

was something for observation and study. Whence the dif-

ference? The explanation was soon furnished, in the superi-

ority of mind over simple brute force. Many pages might be

given to the contrast, and in explanation of its causes. But an

incident or two will suffice to show the reader as to how the

mystery gradually vanished before me.

My first afternoon, on reaching New Bedford, was spent

in visiting the wharves and viewing the shipping. The sight

of the broad brim and the plain, Quaker dress, which met

me at every turn, greatly increased my sense of freedom and

security. “I am among the Quakers,” thought I, “and am

safe.” Lying at the wharves and riding in the stream, were

full-rigged ships of finest model, ready to start on whaling

voyages. Upon the right and the left, I was walled in by large

granite-fronted warehouses, crowded with the good things

of this world. On the wharves, I saw industry without bustle,

labor without noise, and heavy toil without the whip. There

was no loud singing, as in southern ports, where ships are

229

Frederick Douglas

loading or unloading—no loud cursing or swearing—but

everything went on as smoothly as the works of a well ad-

justed machine. How different was all this from the nosily

fierce and clumsily absurd manner of labor-life in Baltimore

and St. Michael’s! One of the first incidents which illustrated

the superior mental character of northern labor over that of

the south, was the manner of unloading a ship’s cargo of oil.

In a southern port, twenty or thirty hands would have been

employed to do what five or six did here, with the aid of a

single ox attached to the end of a fall. Main strength, unas-

sisted by skill, is slavery’s method of labor. An old ox, worth

eighty dollars, was doing, in New Bedford, what would have

required fifteen thousand dollars worth of human bones and

muscles to have performed in a southern port. I found that

everything was done here with a scrupulous regard to

economy, both in regard to men and things, time and

strength. The maid servant, instead of spending at least a

tenth part of her time in bringing and carrying water, as in

Baltimore, had the pump at her elbow. The wood was dry,

and snugly piled away for winter. Woodhouses, in-door

pumps, sinks, drains, self-shutting gates, washing machines,

pounding barrels, were all new things, and told me that I was

among a thoughtful and sensible people. To the ship-repair-

ing dock I went, and saw the same wise prudence. The car-

penters struck where they aimed, and the calkers wasted no

blows in idle flourishes of the mallet. I learned that men went

from New Bedford to Baltimore, and bought old ships, and

brought them here to repair, and made them better and more

valuable than they ever were before. Men talked here of going

whaling on a four years’ voyage with more coolness than sail-

ors where I came from talked of going a four months’ voyage.

I now find that I could have landed in no part of the United

States, where I should have found a more striking and grati-

fying contrast to the condition of the free people of color in

Baltimore, than I found here in New Bedford. No colored

man is really free in a slaveholding state. He wears the badge

of bondage while nominally free, and is often subjected to

hardships to which the slave is a stranger; but here in New

Bedford, it was my good fortune to see a pretty near ap-

proach to freedom on the part of the colored people. I was

taken all aback when Mr. Johnson—who lost no time in

making me acquainted with the fact—told me that there

230

My Bondage and My Freedom

was nothing in the constitution of Massachusetts to prevent

a colored man from holding any office in the state. There, in

New Bedford, the black man’s children—although anti-sla-

very was then far from popular—went to school side by side

with the white children, and apparently without objection

from any quarter. To make me at home, Mr. Johnson as-

sured me that no slaveholder could take a slave from New

Bedford; that there were men there who would lay down

their lives, before such an outrage could be perpetrated. The

colored people themselves were of the best metal, and would

fight for liberty to the death.

Soon after my arrival in New Bedford, I was told the fol-

lowing story, which was said to illustrate the spirit of the

colored people in that goodly town: A colored man and a

fugitive slave happened to have a little quarrel, and the former

was heard to threaten the latter with informing his master of

his whereabouts. As soon as this threat became known, a

notice was read from the desk of what was then the only

colored church in the place, stating that business of impor-

tance was to be then and there transacted. Special measures

had been taken to secure the attendance of the would-be

Judas, and had proved successful. Accordingly, at the hour

appointed, the people came, and the betrayer also. All the

usual formalities of public meetings were scrupulously gone

through, even to the offering prayer for Divine direction in

the duties of the occasion. The president himself performed

this part of the ceremony, and I was told that he was unusu-

ally fervent. Yet, at the close of his prayer, the old man (one

of the numerous family of Johnsons) rose from his knees,

deliberately surveyed his audience, and then said, in a tone

of solemn resolution, “Well, friends, we have got him here,

and I would now recommend that you young men should just

take him outside the door and kill him.” With this, a large

body of the congregation, who well understood the business

they had come there to transact, made a rush at the villain,

and doubtless would have killed him, had he not availed

himself of an open sash, and made good his escape. He has

never shown his head in New Bedford since that time. This

little incident is perfectly characteristic of the spirit of the

colored people in New Bedford. A slave could not be taken

from that town seventeen years ago, any more than he could

be so taken away now. The reason is, that the colored people

231

Frederick Douglas

in that city are educated up to the point of fighting for their

freedom, as well as speaking for it.

Once assured of my safety in New Bedford, I put on the

habiliments of a common laborer, and went on the wharf in

search of work. I had no notion of living on the honest and

generous sympathy of my colored brother, Johnson, or that

of the abolitionists. My cry was like that of Hood’s laborer,

“Oh! only give me work.” Happily for me, I was not long in

searching. I found employment, the third day after my ar-

rival in New Bedford, in stowing a sloop with a load of oil

for the New York market. It was new, hard, and dirty work,

even for a calker, but I went at it with a glad heart and a

willing hand. I was now my own master—a tremendous

fact—and the rapturous excitement with which I seized the

job, may not easily be understood, except by some one with

an experience like mine. The thoughts— “I can work! I can

work for a living; I am not afraid of work; I have no Master

Hugh to rob me of my earnings”—placed me in a state of

independence, beyond seeking friendship or support of any

man. That day’s work I considered the real starting point of

something like a new existence. Having finished this job and

got my pay for the same, I went next in pursuit of a job at

calking. It so happened that Mr. Rodney French, late mayor

of the city of New Bedford, had a ship fitting out for sea,

and to which there was a large job of calking and coppering

to be done. I applied to that noblehearted man for employ-

ment, and he promptly told me to go to work; but going on

the float-stage for the purpose, I was informed that every

white man would leave the ship if I struck a blow upon her.

“Well, well,” thought I, “this is a hardship, but yet not a very

serious one for me.” The difference between the wages of a

calker and that of a common day laborer, was an hundred

per cent in favor of the former; but then I was free, and free

to work, though not at my trade. I now prepared myself to

do anything which came to hand in the way of turning an

honest penny; sawed wood—dug cellars—shoveled coal—

swept chimneys with Uncle Lucas Debuty—rolled oil casks

on the wharves—helped to load and unload vessels—worked

in Ricketson’s candle works—in Richmond’s brass foundery,

and elsewhere; and thus supported myself and family for

three years.

The first winter was unusually severe, in consequence of

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My Bondage and My Freedom

the high prices of food; but even during that winter we prob-

ably suffered less than many who had been free all their lives.

During the hardest of the winter, I hired out for nine

dolars{sic} a month; and out of this rented two rooms for

nine dollars per quarter, and supplied my wife—who was

unable to work—with food and some necessary articles of

furniture. We were closely pinched to bring our wants within

our means; but the jail stood over the way, and I had a whole-

some dread of the consequences of running in debt. This

winter past, and I was up with the times—got plenty of

work—got well paid for it—and felt that I had not done a

foolish thing to leave Master Hugh and Master Thomas. I

was now living in a new world, and was wide awake to its

advantages. I early began to attend the meetings of the col-

ored people of New Bedford, and to take part in them. I was

somewhat amazed to see colored men drawing up resolu-

tions and offering them for consideration. Several colored

young men of New Bedford, at that period, gave promise of

great usefulness. They were educated, and possessed what

seemed to me, at the time, very superior talents. Some of

them have been cut down by death, and others have removed

to different parts of the world, and some remain there now,

and justify, in their present activities, my early impressions

of them.

Among my first concerns on reaching New Bedford, was

to become united with the church, for I had never given up,

in reality, my religious faith. I had become lukewarm and in

a backslidden state, but I was still convinced that it was my

duty to join the Methodist church. I was not then aware of

the powerful influence of that religious body in favor of the

enslavement of my race, nor did I see how the northern

churches could be responsible for the conduct of southern

churches; neither did I fully understand how it could be my

duty to remain separate from the church, because bad men

were connected with it. The slaveholding church, with its

Coveys, Weedens, Aulds, and Hopkins, I could see through

at once, but I could not see how Elm Street church, in New

Bedford, could be regarded as sanctioning the Christianity

of these characters in the church at St. Michael’s. I therefore

resolved to join the Methodist church in New Bedford, and

to enjoy the spiritual advantage of public worship. The min-

ister of the Elm Street Methodist church, was the Rev. Mr.

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Frederick Douglas

Bonney; and although I was not allowed a seat in the body

of the house, and was proscribed on account of my color,

regarding this proscription simply as an accommodation of

the uncoverted congregation who had not yet been won to

Christ and his brotherhood, I was willing thus to be pro-

scribed, lest sinners should be driven away form the saving

power of the gospel. Once converted, I thought they would

be sure to treat me as a man and a brother. “Surely,” thought

I, “these Christian people have none of this feeling against

color. They, at least, have renounced this unholy feeling.”

Judge, then, dear reader, of my astonishment and mortifica-

tion, when I found, as soon I did find, all my charitable

assumptions at fault.

An opportunity was soon afforded me for ascertaining the

exact position of Elm Street church on that subject. I had a

chance of seeing the religious part of the congregation by

themselves; and although they disowned, in effect, their black

brothers and sisters, before the world, I did think that where

none but the saints were assembled, and no offense could be

given to the wicked, and the gospel could not be “blamed,”

they would certainly recognize us as children of the same

Father, and heirs of the same salvation, on equal terms with

themselves.

The occasion to which I refer, was the sacrament of the

Lord’s Supper, that most sacred and most solemn of all the

ordinances of the Christian church. Mr. Bonney had preached

a very solemn and searching discourse, which really proved

him to be acquainted with the inmost secerts{sic} of the hu-

man heart. At the close of his discourse, the congregation

was dismissed, and the church remained to partake of the

sacrament. I remained to see, as I thought, this holy sacra-

ment celebrated in the spirit of its great Founder.

There were only about a half dozen colored members at-

tached to the Elm Street church, at this time. After the con-

gregation was dismissed, these descended from the gallery,

and took a seat against the wall most distant from the altar.

Brother Bonney was very animated, and sung very sweetly,

“Salvation ’tis a joyful sound,” and soon began to administer

the sacrament. I was anxious to observe the bearing of the

colored members, and the result was most humiliating. Dur-

ing the whole ceremony, they looked like sheep without a

shepherd. The white members went forward to the altar by

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My Bondage and My Freedom

the bench full; and when it was evident that all the whites

had been served with the bread and wine, Brother Bonney—

pious Brother Bonney—after a long pause, as if inquiring

whether all the whites members had been served, and fully

assuring himself on that important point, then raised his voice

to an unnatural pitch, and looking to the corner where his

black sheep seemed penned, beckoned with his hand, ex-

claiming, “Come forward, colored friends! come forward!

You, too, have an interest in the blood of Christ. God is no

respecter of persons. Come forward, and take this holy sac-

rament to your comfort.” The colored members poor, slav-

ish souls went forward, as invited. I went out, and have never

been in that church since, although I honestly went there

with a view to joining that body. I found it impossible to

respect the religious profession of any who were under the

dominion of this wicked prejudice, and I could not, there-

fore, feel that in joining them, I was joining a Christian

church, at all. I tried other churches in New Bedford, with

the same result, and finally, I attached myself to a small body

of colored Methodists, known as the Zion Methodists. Fa-

vored with the affection and confidence of the members of

this humble communion, I was soon made a classleader and

a local preacher among them. Many seasons of peace and joy

I experienced among them, the remembrance of which is

still precious, although I could not see it to be my duty to

remain with that body, when I found that it consented to

the same spirit which held my brethren in chains.

In four or five months after reaching New Bedford, there

came a young man to me, with a copy of the Liberator, the

paper edited by WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, and pub-

lished by ISAAC KNAPP, and asked me to subscribe for it. I

told him I had but just escaped from slavery, and was of

course very poor, and remarked further, that I was unable to

pay for it then; the agent, however, very willingly took me as

a subscriber, and appeared to be much pleased with securing

my name to his list. From this time I was brought in contact

with the mind of William Lloyd Garrison. His paper took

its place with me next to the bible.

The Liberator was a paper after my own heart. It detested

slavery exposed hypocrisy and wickedness in high places—

made no truce with the traffickers in the bodies and souls of

men; it preached human brotherhood, denounced oppres-

235

Frederick Douglas

sion, and, with all the solemnity of God’s word, demanded

the complete emancipation of my race. I not only liked—I

loved this paper, and its editor. He seemed a match for all the

oponents{sic} of emancipation, whether they spoke in the

name of the law, or the gospel. His words were few, full of

holy fire, and straight to the point. Learning to love him,

through his paper, I was prepared to be pleased with his pres-

ence. Something of a hero worshiper, by nature, here was

one, on first sight, to excite my love and reverence.

Seventeen years ago, few men possessed a more heavenly

countenance than William Lloyd Garrison, and few men

evinced a more genuine or a more exalted piety. The bible

was his text book—held sacred, as the word of the Eternal

Father—sinless perfection—complete submission to insults

and injuries—literal obedience to the injunction, if smitten

on one side to turn the other also. Not only was Sunday a

Sabbath, but all days were Sabbaths, and to be kept holy. All

sectarism false and mischievous—the regenerated, through-

out the world, members of one body, and the HEAD Christ

Jesus. Prejudice against color was rebellion against God. Of

all men beneath the sky, the slaves, because most neglected

and despised, were nearest and dearest to his great heart.

Those ministers who defended slavery from the bible, were of

their “father the devil”; and those churches which fellowshiped

slaveholders as Christians, were synagogues of Satan, and our

nation was a nation of liars. Never loud or noisy—calm and

serene as a summer sky, and as pure. “You are the man, the

Moses, raised up by God, to deliver his modern Israel from

bondage,” was the spontaneous feeling of my heart, as I sat

away back in the hall and listened to his mighty words; mighty

in truth—mighty in their simple earnestness.

I had not long been a reader of the Liberator, and listener to

its editor, before I got a clear apprehension of the principles of

the anti-slavery movement. I had already the spirit of the

movement, and only needed to understand its principles and

measures. These I got from the Liberator, and from those who

believed in that paper. My acquaintance with the movement

increased my hope for the ultimate freedom of my race, and I

united with it from a sense of delight, as well as duty.

Every week the Liberator came, and every week I made

myself master of its contents. All the anti-slavery meetings

held in New Bedford I promptly attended, my heart burn-

236

My Bondage and My Freedom

ing at every true utterance against the slave system, and ev-

ery rebuke of its friends and supporters. Thus passed the

first three years of my residence in New Bedford. I had not

then dreamed of the posibility{sic} of my becoming a public

advocate of the cause so deeply imbedded in my heart. It

was enough for me to listen—to receive and applaud the

great words of others, and only whisper in private, among

the white laborers on the wharves, and elsewhere, the truths

which burned in my breast.

CHAPTER XXIIICHAPTER XXIIICHAPTER XXIIICHAPTER XXIIICHAPTER XXIII IIIIIntrntrntrntrntroduced to the Aoduced to the Aoduced to the Aoduced to the Aoduced to the Abolitionistsbolitionistsbolitionistsbolitionistsbolitionists

FIRST SPEECH AT NANTUCKET—MUCH SENSA-

TION—EXTRAORDINARY SPEECH OF MR. GARRI-

SON—AUTHOR BECOMES A PUBLIC LECTURER—

FOURTEEN YEARS EXPERIENCE—YOUTHFUL EN-

THUSIASM—A BRAND NEW FACT—MATTER OF

MY AUTHOR’S SPEECH—COULD NOT FOLLOW

THE PROGRAMME—FUGITIVE SL AVESHIP

DOUBTED—TO SETTLE ALL DOUBT I WRITE MY

EXPERIENCE OF SLAVERY—DANGER OF RECAP-

TURE INCREASED.

IN THE SUMMER OF 1841, a grand anti-slavery convention

was held in Nantucket, under the auspices of Mr. Garrison

and his friends. Until now, I had taken no holiday since my

escape from slavery. Having worked very hard that spring

and summer, in Richmond’s brass foundery—sometimes

working all night as well as all day—and needing a day or

two of rest, I attended this convention, never supposing that

237

Frederick Douglas

I should take part in the proceedings. Indeed, I was not aware

that any one connected with the convention even so much

as knew my name. I was, however, quite mistaken. Mr. Wil-

liam C. Coffin, a prominent abolitionst{sic} in those days of

trial, had heard me speaking to my colored friends, in the

little school house on Second street, New Bedford, where we

worshiped. He sought me out in the crowd, and invited me

to say a few words to the convention. Thus sought out, and

thus invited, I was induced to speak out the feelings inspired

by the occasion, and the fresh recollection of the scenes

through which I had passed as a slave. My speech on this

occasion is about the only one I ever made, of which I do

not remember a single connected sentence. It was with the

utmost difficulty that I could stand erect, or that I could

command and articulate two words without hesitation and

stammering. I trembled in every limb. I am not sure that my

embarrassment was not the most effective part of my speech,

if speech it could be called. At any rate, this is about the only

part of my performance that I now distinctly remember. But

excited and convulsed as I was, the audience, though remark-

ably quiet before, became as much excited as myself. Mr.

Garrison followed me, taking me as his text; and now, whether

I had made an eloquent speech in behalf of freedom or not,

his was one never to be forgotten by those who heard it.

Those who had heard Mr. Garrison oftenest, and had known

him longest, were astonished. It was an effort of unequaled

power, sweeping down, like a very tornado, every opposing

barrier, whether of sentiment or opinion. For a moment, he

possessed that almost fabulous inspiration, often referred to

but seldom attained, in which a public meeting is trans-

formed, as it were, into a single individuality—the orator

wielding a thousand heads and hearts at once, and by the

simple majesty of his all controlling thought, converting his

hearers into the express image of his own soul. That night

there were at least one thousand Garrisonians in Nantucket!

A{sic} the close of this great meeting, I was duly waited on

by Mr. John A. Collins—then the general agent of the Mas-

sachusetts anti-slavery society—and urgently solicited by him

to become an agent of that society, and to publicly advocate

its anti-slavery principles. I was reluctant to take the prof-

fered position. I had not been quite three years from sla-

very—was honestly distrustful of my ability—wished to be

238

My Bondage and My Freedom

excused; publicity exposed me to discovery and arrest by my

master; and other objections came up, but Mr. Collins was

not to be put off, and I finally consented to go out for three

months, for I supposed that I should have got to the end of

my story and my usefulness, in that length of time.

Here opened upon me a new life a life for which I had had

no preparation. I was a “graduate from the peculiar institu-

tion,” Mr. Collins used to say, when introducing me, “with

my diploma written on my back!” The three years of my free-

dom had been spent in the hard school of adversity. My hands

had been furnished by nature with something like a solid

leather coating, and I had bravely marked out for myself a

life of rough labor, suited to the hardness of my hands, as a

means of supporting myself and rearing my children.

Now what shall I say of this fourteen years’ experience as a

public advocate of the cause of my enslaved brothers and

sisters? The time is but as a speck, yet large enough to justify

a pause for retrospection—and a pause it must only be.

Young, ardent, and hopeful, I entered upon this new life

in the full gush of unsuspecting enthusiasm. The cause was

good; the men engaged in it were good; the means to attain

its triumph, good; Heaven’s blessing must attend all, and

freedom must soon be given to the pining millions under a

ruthless bondage. My whole heart went with the holy cause,

and my most fervent prayer to the Almighty Disposer of the

hearts of men, were continually offered for its early triumph.

“Who or what,” thought I, “can withstand a cause so good,

so holy, so indescribably glorious. The God of Israel is with

us. The might of the Eternal is on our side. Now let but the

truth be spoken, and a nation will start forth at the sound!” In

this enthusiastic spirit, I dropped into the ranks of freedom’s

friends, and went forth to the battle. For a time I was made to

forget that my skin was dark and my hair crisped. For a time I

regretted that I could not have shared the hardships and dan-

gers endured by the earlier workers for the slave’s release. I

soon, however, found that my enthusiasm had been extrava-

gant; that hardships and dangers were not yet passed; and that

the life now before me, had shadows as well as sunbeams.

Among the first duties assigned me, on entering the ranks,

was to travel, in company with Mr. George Foster, to secure

subscribers to the Anti-slavery Standard and the Liberator.

With him I traveled and lectured through the eastern coun-

239

Frederick Douglas

ties of Massachusetts. Much interest was awakened—large

meetings assembled. Many came, no doubt, from curiosity

to hear what a Negro could say in his own cause. I was gen-

erally introduced as a “chattel”—a “thing”—a piece of south-

ern “property”—the chairman assuring the audience that it

could speak. Fugitive slaves, at that time, were not so plenti-

ful as now; and as a fugitive slave lecturer, I had the advan-

tage of being a “brand new fact”—the first one out. Up to

that time, a colored man was deemed a fool who confessed

himself a runaway slave, not only because of the danger to

which he exposed himself of being retaken, but because it

was a confession of a very low origin! Some of my colored

friends in New Bedford thought very badly of my wisdom

for thus exposing and degrading myself. The only precau-

tion I took, at the beginning, to prevent Master Thomas

from knowing where I was, and what I was about, was the

withholding my former name, my master’s name, and the

name of the state and county from which I came. During

the first three or four months, my speeches were almost ex-

clusively made up of narrations of my own personal experi-

ence as a slave. “Let us have the facts,” said the people. So

also said Friend George Foster, who always wished to pin me

down to my simple narrative. “Give us the facts,” said Collins,

“we will take care of the philosophy.” Just here arose some

embarrassment. It was impossible for me to repeat the same

old story month after month, and to keep up my interest in

it. It was new to the people, it is true, but it was an old story

to me; and to go through with it night after night, was a task

altogether too mechanical for my nature. “Tell your story,

Frederick,” would whisper my then revered friend, William

Lloyd Garrison, as I stepped upon the platform. I could not

always obey, for I was now reading and thinking. New views

of the subject were presented to my mind. It did not entirely

satisfy me to narrate wrongs; I felt like denouncing them. I

could not always curb my moral indignation for the perpe-

trators of slaveholding villainy, long enough for a circum-

stantial statement of the facts which I felt almost everybody

must know. Besides, I was growing, and needed room.

“People won’t believe you ever was a slave, Frederick, if you

keep on this way,” said Friend Foster. “Be yourself,” said

Collins, “and tell your story.” It was said to me, “Better have

a little of the plantation manner of speech than not; ’tis not

240

My Bondage and My Freedom

best that you seem too learned.” These excellent friends were

actuated by the best of motives, and were not altogether

wrong in their advice; and still I must speak just the word

that seemed to me the word to be spoken by me.

At last the apprehended trouble came. People doubted if I

had ever been a slave. They said I did not talk like a slave,

look like a slave, nor act like a slave, and that they believed I

had never been south of Mason and Dixon’s line. “He don’t

tell us where he came from—what his master’s name was—

how he got away—nor the story of his experience. Besides,

he is educated, and is, in this, a contradiction of all the facts

we have concerning the ignorance of the slaves.” Thus, I was

in a pretty fair way to be denounced as an impostor. The

committee of the Massachusetts anti-slavery society knew

all the facts in my case, and agreed with me in the prudence

of keeping them private. They, therefore, never doubted my

being a genuine fugitive; but going down the aisles of the

churches in which I spoke, and hearing the free spoken Yan-

kees saying, repeatedly, ”He’s never been a slave, I’ll warrant

ye,” I resolved to dispel all doubt, at no distant day, by such

a revelation of facts as could not be made by any other than

a genuine fugitive.

In a little less than four years, therefore, after becoming a

public lecturer, I was induced to write out the leading facts

connected with my experience in slavery, giving names of

persons, places, and dates—thus putting it in the power of

any who doubted, to ascertain the truth or falsehood of my

story of being a fugitive slave. This statement soon became

known in Maryland, and I had reason to believe that an ef-

fort would be made to recapture me.

It is not probable that any open attempt to secure me as a

slave could have succeeded, further than the obtainment, by

my master, of the money value of my bones and sinews. For-

tunately for me, in the four years of my labors in the aboli-

tion cause, I had gained many friends, who would have suf-

fered themselves to be taxed to almost any extent to save me

from slavery. It was felt that I had committed the double

offense of running away, and exposing the secrets and crimes

of slavery and slaveholders. There was a double motive for

seeking my reenslavement—avarice and vengeance; and

while, as I have said, there was little probability of successful

recapture, if attempted openly, I was constantly in danger of

241

Frederick Douglas

being spirited away, at a moment when my friends could

render me no assistance. In traveling about from place to

place—often alone I was much exposed to this sort of at-

tack. Any one cherishing the design to betray me, could eas-

ily do so, by simply tracing my whereabouts through the

anti-slavery journals, for my meetings and movements were

promptly made known in advance. My true friends, Mr.

Garrison and Mr. Phillips, had no faith in the power of Mas-

sachusetts to protect me in my right to liberty. Public senti-

ment and the law, in their opinion, would hand me over to

the tormentors. Mr. Phillips, especially, considered me in

danger, and said, when I showed him the manuscript of my

story, if in my place, he would throw it into the fire. Thus,

the reader will observe, the settling of one difficulty only

opened the way for another; and that though I had reached

a free state, and had attained position for public usefulness,

I ws{sic} still tormented with the liability of losing my lib-

erty. How this liability was dispelled, will be related, with

other incidents, in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXIVCHAPTER XXIVCHAPTER XXIVCHAPTER XXIVCHAPTER XXIV TTTTTwwwwwenty-Oenty-Oenty-Oenty-Oenty-One Mne Mne Mne Mne Months in Gonths in Gonths in Gonths in Gonths in Grrrrreat Beat Beat Beat Beat Britainritainritainritainritain

GOOD ARISING OUT OF UNPROPITIOUS

EVENTS—DENIED CABIN PASSAGE—PROSCRIP-

TION TURNED TO GOOD ACCOUNT—THE

HUTCHINSON FAMILY—THE MOB ON BOARD

THE “CAMBRIA”—HAPPY INTRODUCTION TO

THE BRITISH PUBLIC—LETTER ADDRESSED TO

WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON—TIME AND LABORS

WHILE ABROAD—FREEDOM PURCHASED—MRS.

HENRY RICHARDSON—FREE PAPERS—ABOLI-

TIONISTS DISPLEASED WITH THE RANSOM—

HOW MY ENERGIES WERE DIRECTED—RECEP-

TION SPEECH IN LONDON—CHARACTER OF THE

SPEECH DEFENDED—CIRCUMSTANCES EX-

PLAINED—CAUSES CONTRIBUTING TO THE SUC-

CESS OF MY MISSION—FREE CHURCH OF SCOT-

LAND—TESTIMONIAL.

THE ALLOTMENTS OF PROVIDENCE, when coupled with trouble

242

My Bondage and My Freedom

and anxiety, often conceal from finite vision the wisdom and

goodness in which they are sent; and, frequently, what seemed

a harsh and invidious dispensation, is converted by after ex-

perience into a happy and beneficial arrangement. Thus, the

painful liability to be returned again to slavery, which haunted

me by day, and troubled my dreams by night, proved to be a

necessary step in the path of knowledge and usefulness. The

writing of my pamphlet, in the spring of 1845, endangered

my liberty, and led me to seek a refuge from republican sla-

very in monarchical England. A rude, uncultivated fugitive

slave was driven, by stern necessity, to that country to which

young American gentlemen go to increase their stock of

knowledge, to seek pleasure, to have their rough, democratic

manners softened by contact with English aristocratic re-

finement. On applying for a passage to England, on board

the “Cambria”, of the Cunard line, my friend, James N.

Buffum, of Lynn, Massachusetts, was informed that I could

not be received on board as a cabin passenger. American preju-

dice against color triumphed over British liberality and civi-

lization, and erected a color test and condition for crossing

the sea in the cabin of a British vessel. The insult was keenly

felt by my white friends, but to me, it was common, ex-

pected, and therefore, a thing of no great consequence,

whether I went in the cabin or in the steerage. Moreover, I

felt that if I could not go into the first cabin, first-cabin pas-

sengers could come into the second cabin, and the result

justified my anticipations to the fullest extent. Indeed, I soon

found myself an object of more general interest than I wished

to be; and so far from being degraded by being placed in the

second cabin, that part of the ship became the scene of as

much pleasure and refinement, during the voyage, as the

cabin itself. The Hutchinson Family, celebrated vocalists—

fellow-passengers—often came to my rude forecastle deck,

and sung their sweetest songs, enlivening the place with elo-

quent music, as well as spirited conversation, during the voy-

age. In two days after leaving Boston, one part of the ship

was about as free to me as another. My fellow-passengers not

only visited me, but invited me to visit them, on the saloon

deck. My visits there, however, were but seldom. I preferred

to live within my privileges, and keep upon my own pre-

mises. I found this quite as much in accordance with good

policy, as with my own feelings. The effect was, that with the

243

Frederick Douglas

majority of the passengers, all color distinctions were flung

to the winds, and I found myself treated with every mark of

respect, from the beginning to the end of the voyage, except

in a single instance; and in that, I came near being mobbed,

for complying with an invitation given me by the passen-

gers, and the captain of the “Cambria,” to deliver a lecture

on slavery. Our New Orleans and Georgia passengers were

pleased to regard my lecture as an insult offered to them,

and swore I should not speak. They went so far as to threaten

to throw me overboard, and but for the firmness of Captain

Judkins, probably would have (under the inspiration of sla-

very and brandy) attempted to put their threats into execu-

tion. I have no space to describe this scene, although its tragic

and comic peculiarities are well worth describing. An end

was put to the melee, by the captain’s calling the ship’s com-

pany to put the salt water mobocrats in irons. At this deter-

mined order, the gentlemen of the lash scampered, and for

the rest of the voyage conducted themselves very decorously.

This incident of the voyage, in two days after landing at

Liverpool, brought me at once before the British public, and

that by no act of my own. The gentlemen so promptly

snubbed in their meditated violence, flew to the press to jus-

tify their conduct, and to denounce me as a worthless and

insolent Negro. This course was even less wise than the con-

duct it was intended to sustain; for, besides awakening some-

thing like a national interest in me, and securing me an au-

dience, it brought out counter statements, and threw the

blame upon themselves, which they had sought to fasten

upon me and the gallant captain of the ship.

Some notion may be formed of the difference in my feel-

ings and circumstances, while abroad, from the following

extract from one of a series of letters addressed by me to Mr.

Garrison, and published in the Liberator. It was written on

the first day of January, 1846:

MY DEAR FRIEND GARRISON: Up to this time, I have

given no direct expression of the views, feelings, and opin-

ions which I have formed, respecting the character and con-

dition of the people of this land. I have refrained thus, pur-

posely. I wish to speak advisedly, and in order to do this, I

have waited till, I trust, experience has brought my opinions

to an intelligent maturity. I have been thus careful, not be-

244

My Bondage and My Freedom

cause I think what I say will have much effect in shaping the

opinions of the world, but because whatever of influence I

may possess, whether little or much, I wish it to go in the

right direction, and according to truth. I hardly need say

that, in speaking of Ireland, I shall be influenced by no preju-

dices in favor of America. I think my circumstances all for-

bid that. I have no end to serve, no creed to uphold, no

government to defend; and as to nation, I belong to none. I

have no protection at home, or resting-place abroad. The

land of my birth welcomes me to her shores only as a slave,

and spurns with contempt the idea of treating me differ-

ently; so that I am an outcast from the society of my child-

hood, and an outlaw in the land of my birth. “I am a stranger

with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.” That men

should be patriotic, is to me perfectly natural; and as a philo-

sophical fact, I am able to give it an intellectual recognition.

But no further can I go. If ever I had any patriotism, or any

capacity for the feeling, it was whipped out of me long since,

by the lash of the American soul-drivers.

In thinking of America, I sometimes find myself admiring

her bright blue sky, her grand old woods, her fertile fields,

her beautiful rivers, her mighty lakes, and star-crowned

mountains. But my rapture is soon checked, my joy is soon

turned to mourning. When I remember that all is cursed

with the infernal spirit of slaveholding, robbery, and wrong;

when I remember that with the waters of her noblest rivers,

the tears of my brethren are borne to the ocean, disregarded

and forgotten, and that her most fertile fields drink daily of

the warm blood of my outraged sisters; I am filled with unut-

terable loathing, and led to reproach myself that anything could

fall from my lips in praise of such a land. America will not

allow her children to love her. She seems bent on compelling

those who would be her warmest friends, to be her worst en-

emies. May God give her repentance, before it is too late, is

the ardent prayer of my heart. I will continue to pray, labor,

and wait, believing that she cannot always be insensible to the

dictates of justice, or deaf to the voice of humanity.

My opportunities for learning the character and condition

of the people of this land have been very great. I have trav-

eled along the Hill of Howth to the Giant’s Causeway, and

from the Giant’s Causway, to Cape Clear. During these trav-

els, I have met with much in the character and condition of

245

Frederick Douglas

the people to approve, and much to condemn; much that

thrilled me with pleasure, and very much that has filled me

with pain. I […], in this letter, attempt to give any descrip-

tion of those scenes which have given me pain. This I will do

hereafter. I have enough, and more than your subscribers

will be disposed to read at one time, of the bright side of the

picture. I can truly say, I have spent some of the happiest

moments of my life since landing in this country. I seem to

have undergone a transformation. I live a new life. The warm

and generous cooperation extended to me by the friends of

my despised race; the prompt and liberal manner with which

the press has rendered me its aid; the glorious enthusiasm

with which thousands have flocked to hear the cruel wrongs

of my down-trodden and long-enslaved fellow-countrymen

portrayed; the deep sympathy for the slave, and the strong

abhorrence of the slaveholder, everywhere evinced; the cor-

diality with which members and ministers of various reli-

gious bodies, and of various shades of religious opinion, have

embraced me, and lent me their aid; the kind of hospitality

constantly proffered to me by persons of the highest rank in

society; the spirit of freedom that seems to animate all with

whom I come in contact, and the entire absence of every-

thing that looked like prejudice against me, on account of

the color of my skin—contrasted so strongly with my long

and bitter experience in the United States, that I look with

wonder and amazement on the transition. In the southern

part of the United States, I was a slave, thought of and spo-

ken of as property; in the language of the LAW, “held, taken,

reputed, and adjudged to be a chattel in the hands of my owners

and possessors, and their executors, administrators, and assigns,

to all intents, constructions, and purposes whatsoever.” (Brev.

Digest, 224). In the northern states, a fugitive slave, liable to

be hunted at any moment, like a felon, and to be hurled into

the terrible jaws of slavery—doomed by an inveterate preju-

dice against color to insult and outrage on every hand (Mas-

sachusetts out of the question)—denied the privileges and

courtesies common to others in the use of the most humble

means of conveyance—shut out from the cabins on steam-

boats—refused admission to respectable hotels—caricatured,

scorned, scoffed, mocked, and maltreated with impunity by

any one (no matter how black his heart), so he has a white

skin. But now behold the change! Eleven days and a half

246

My Bondage and My Freedom

gone, and I have crossed three thousand miles of the peril-

ous deep. Instead of a democratic government, I am under a

monarchical government. Instead of the bright, blue sky of

America, I am covered with the soft, grey fog of the Emerald

Isle. I breathe, and lo! the chattel becomes a man. I gaze

around in vain for one who will question my equal human-

ity, claim me as his slave, or offer me an insult. I employ a

cab—I am seated beside white people—I reach the hotel—I

enter the same door—I am shown into the same parlor—I

dine at the same table and no one is offended. No delicate

nose grows deformed in my presence. I find no difficulty

here in obtaining admission into any place of worship, in-

struction, or amusement, on equal terms with people as white

as any I ever saw in the United States. I meet nothing to

remind me of my complexion. I find myself regarded and

treated at every turn with the kindness and deference paid to

white people. When I go to church, I am met by no up-

turned nose and scornful lip to tell me, “We don’t allow niggers

in here!”

I remember, about two years ago, there was in Boston,

near the south-west corner of Boston Common, a menag-

erie. I had long desired to see such a collection as I under-

stood was being exhibited there. Never having had an op-

portunity while a slave, I resolved to seize this, my first, since

my escape. I went, and as I approached the entrance to gain

admission, I was met and told by the door-keeper, in a harsh

and contemptuous tone, “We don’t allow niggers in here.” I

also remember attending a revival meeting in the Rev. Henry

Jackson’s meeting-house, at New Bedford, and going up the

broad aisle to find a seat, I was met by a good deacon, who

told me, in a pious tone, “We don’t allow niggers in here!”

Soon after my arrival in New Bedford, from the south, I had

a strong desire to attend the Lyceum, but was told, “They

don’t allow niggers in here!” While passing from New York to

Boston, on the steamer Massachusetts, on the night of the

9th of December, 1843, when chilled almost through with

the cold, I went into the cabin to get a little warm. I was

soon touched upon the shoulder, and told, “We don’t allow

niggers in here!” On arriving in Boston, from an anti-slavery

tour, hungry and tired, I went into an eating-house, near my

friend, Mr. Campbell’s to get some refreshments. I was met

by a lad in a white apron, “We don’t allow niggers in here!” A

247

Frederick Douglas

week or two before leaving the United States, I had a meet-

ing appointed at Weymouth, the home of that glorious band

of true abolitionists, the Weston family, and others. On at-

tempting to take a seat in the omnibus to that place, I was

told by the driver (and I never shall forget his fiendish hate).

“I don’t allow niggers in here!” Thank heaven for the respite I

now enjoy! I had been in Dublin but a few days, when a

gentleman of great respectability kindly offered to conduct

me through all the public buildings of that beautiful city;

and a little afterward, I found myself dining with the lord

mayor of Dublin. What a pity there was not some American

democratic Christian at the door of his splendid mansion,

to bark out at my approach, “They don’t allow niggers in here!”

The truth is, the people here know nothing of the republi-

can Negro hate prevalent in our glorious land. They mea-

sure and esteem men according to their moral and intellec-

tual worth, and not according to the color of their skin.

Whatever may be said of the aristocracies here, there is none

based on the color of a man’s skin. This species of aristocracy

belongs preeminently to “the land of the free, and the home

of the brave.” I have never found it abroad, in any but Ameri-

cans. It sticks to them wherever they go. They find it almost

as hard to get rid of, as to get rid of their skins.

The second day after my arrival at Liverpool, in company

with my friend, Buffum, and several other friends, I went to

Eaton Hall, the residence of the Marquis of Westminster,

one of the most splendid buildings in England. On approach-

ing the door, I found several of our American passengers,

who came out with us in the “Cambria,” waiting for admis-

sion, as but one party was allowed in the house at a time. We

all had to wait till the company within came out. And of all

the faces, expressive of chagrin, those of the Americans were

preeminent. They looked as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as

gall, when they found I was to be admitted on equal terms

with themselves. When the door was opened, I walked in,

on an equal footing with my white fellow-citizens, and from

all I could see, I had as much attention paid me by the ser-

vants that showed us through the house, as any with a paler

skin. As I walked through the building, the statuary did not

fall down, the pictures did not leap from their places, the

doors did not refuse to open, and the servants did not say,

“We don’t allow niggers in here!”

248

My Bondage and My Freedom

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

My time and labors, while abroad were divided between

England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Upon this experi-

ence alone, I might write a book twice the size of this, My

Bondage and My Freedom. I visited and lectured in nearly all

the large towns and cities in the United Kingdom, and en-

joyed many favorable opportunities for observation and in-

formation. But books on England are abundant, and the

public may, therefore, dismiss any fear that I am meditating

another infliction in that line; though, in truth, I should like

much to write a book on those countries, if for nothing else,

to make grateful mention of the many dear friends, whose

benevolent actions toward me are ineffaceably stamped upon

my memory, and warmly treasured in my heart. To these

friends I owe my freedom in the United States. On their

own motion, without any solicitation from me (Mrs. Henry

Richardson, a clever lady, remarkable for her devotion to

every good work, taking the lead), they raised a fund suffi-

cient to purchase my freedom, and actually paid it over, and

placed the papers* of my manumission in my hands, before * The following is a copy of these curious papers, both of my

transfer from Thomas to Hugh Auld, and from Hugh to myself:

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

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

249

Frederick Douglas

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

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

“In witness whereof, I, the said Hugh Auld, have hereunto set my hand and seal the fifth of December, in the year one thousand eight hundred and forty-six. Hugh Auld “Sealed and delivered in presence of T. Hanson Belt. “JAMES N. S. T. WRIGHT”

they would tolerate the idea of my returning to this, my na-

tive country. To this commercial transaction I owe my ex-

emption from the democratic operation of the Fugitive Slave

Bill of 1850. But for this, I might at any time become a

victim of this most cruel and scandalous enactment, and be

doomed to end my life, as I began it, a slave. The sum paid

for my freedom was one hundred and fifty pounds sterling.

Some of my uncompromising anti-slavery friends in this

country failed to see the wisdom of this arrangement, and

were not pleased that I consented to it, even by my silence.

They thought it a violation of anti-slavery principles—con-

ceding a right of property in man—and a wasteful expendi-

ture of money. On the other hand, viewing it simply in the

light of a ransom, or as money extorted by a robber, and my

liberty of more value than one hundred and fifty pounds

sterling, I could not see either a violation of the laws of mo-

rality, or those of economy, in the transaction.

It is true, I was not in the possession of my claimants, and

could have easily remained in England, for the same friends

who had so generously purchased my freedom, would have

assisted me in establishing myself in that country. To this,

250

My Bondage and My Freedom

however, I could not consent. I felt that I had a duty to per-

form—and that was, to labor and suffer with the oppressed

in my native land. Considering, therefore, all the circum-

stances—the fugitive slave bill included—I think the very

best thing was done in letting Master Hugh have the hundred

and fifty pounds sterling, and leaving me free to return to my

appropriate field of labor. Had I been a private person, having

no other relations or duties than those of a personal and fam-

ily nature, I should never have consented to the payment of so

large a sum for the privilege of living securely under our glori-

ous republican form of government. I could have remained in

England, or have gone to some other country; and perhaps I

could even have lived unobserved in this. But to this I could

not consent. I had already become somewhat notorious, and

withal quite as unpopular as notorious; and I was, therefore,

much exposed to arrest and recapture.

The main object to which my labors in Great Britain were

directed, was the concentration of the moral and religious

sentiment of its people against American slavery. England is

often charged with having established slavery in the United

States, and if there were no other justification than this, for

appealing to her people to lend their moral aid for the aboli-

tion of slavery, I should be justified. My speeches in Great

Britain were wholly extemporaneous, and I may not always

have been so guarded in my expressions, as I otherwise should

have been. I was ten years younger then than now, and only

seven years from slavery. I cannot give the reader a better

idea of the nature of my discourses, than by republishing

one of them, delivered in Finsbury chapel, London, to an

audience of about two thousand persons, and which was

published in the London Universe, at the time.*

Those in the United States who may regard this speech as

being harsh in its spirit and unjust in its statements, because

delivered before an audience supposed to be anti-republican

in their principles and feelings, may view the matter differ-

ently, when they learn that the case supposed did not exist.

It so happened that the great mass of the people in England

who attended and patronized my anti-slavery meetings, were,

in truth, about as good republicans as the mass of Ameri-

cans, and with this decided advantage over the latter—they

are lovers of republicanism for all men, for black men as well

* See Appendix to this volume.

251

Frederick Douglas

as for white men. They are the people who sympathize with

Louis Kossuth and Mazzini, and with the oppressed and

enslaved, of every color and nation, the world over. They

constitute the democratic element in British politics, and

are as much opposed to the union of church and state as we,

in America, are to such an union. At the meeting where this

speech was delivered, Joseph Sturge—a world-wide philan

thropist, and a member of the society of Friends—presided,

and addressed the meeting. George William Alexander, an-

other Friend, who has spent more than an Ameriacn{sic}

fortune in promoting the anti-slavery cause in different sec-

tions of the world, was on the platform; and also Dr.

Campbell (now of the British Banner) who combines all the

humane tenderness of Melanchthon, with the directness and

boldness of Luther. He is in the very front ranks of non-

conformists, and looks with no unfriendly eye upon America.

George Thompson, too, was there; and America will yet own

that he did a true man’s work in relighting the rapidly dying-

out fire of true republicanism in the American heart, and be

ashamed of the treatment he met at her hands. Coming gen-

erations in this country will applaud the spirit of this much

abused republican friend of freedom. There were others of

note seated on the platform, who would gladly ingraft upon

English institutions all that is purely republican in the insti-

tutions of America. Nothing, therefore, must be set down

against this speech on the score that it was delivered in the

presence of those who cannot appreciate the many excellent

things belonging to our system of government, and with a

view to stir up prejudice against republican institutions.

Again, let it also be remembered—for it is the simple

truth—that neither in this speech, nor in any other which I

delivered in England, did I ever allow myself to address En-

glishmen as against Americans. I took my stand on the high

ground of human brotherhood, and spoke to Englishmen as

men, in behalf of men. Slavery is a crime, not against En-

glishmen, but against God, and all the members of the hu-

man family; and it belongs to the whole human family to

seek its suppression. In a letter to Mr. Greeley, of the New

York Tribune, written while abroad, I said:

I am, nevertheless aware that the wisdom of exposing the

sins of one nation in the ear of another, has been seriously

252

My Bondage and My Freedom

questioned by good and clear-sighted people, both on this

and on your side of the Atlantic. And the thought is not

without weight on my own mind. I am satisfied that there

are many evils which can be best removed by confining our

efforts to the immediate locality where such evils exist. This,

however, is by no means the case with the system of slavery.

It is such a giant sin—such a monstrous aggregation of iniq-

uity—so hardening to the human heart—so destructive to

the moral sense, and so well calculated to beget a character,

in every one around it, favorable to its own continuance,—

that I feel not only at liberty, but abundantly justified, in

appealing to the whole world to aid in its removal.

But, even if I had—as has been often charged—labored to

bring American institutions generally into disrepute, and had

not confined my labors strictly within the limits of human-

ity and morality, I should not have been without illustrious

examples to support me. Driven into semi-exile by civil and

barbarous laws, and by a system which cannot be thought of

without a shudder, I was fully justified in turning, if pos-

sible, the tide of the moral universe against the heaven-dar-

ing outrage.

Four circumstances greatly assisted me in getting the ques-

tion of American slavery before the British public. First, the

mob on board the “Cambria,” already referred to, which was

a sort of national announcement of my arrival in England.

Secondly, the highly reprehensible course pursued by the Free

Church of Scotland, in soliciting, receiving, and retaining

money in its sustentation fund for supporting the gospel in

Scotland, which was evidently the ill-gotten gain of

slaveholders and slave-traders. Third, the great Evangelical

Alliance—or rather the attempt to form such an alliance,

which should include slaveholders of a certain description—

added immensely to the interest felt in the slavery question.

About the same time, there was the World’s Temperance

Convention, where I had the misfortune to come in colli-

sion with sundry American doctors of divinity—Dr. Cox

among the number—with whom I had a small controversy.

It has happened to me—as it has happened to most other

men engaged in a good cause—often to be more indebted to

my enemies than to my own skill or to the assistance of my

friends, for whatever success has attended my labors. Great

253

Frederick Douglas

surprise was expressed by American newspapers, north and

south, during my stay in Great Britain, that a person so illit-

erate and insignificant as myself could awaken an interest so

marked in England. These papers were not the only parties

surprised. I was myself not far behind them in surprise. But

the very contempt and scorn, the systematic and extravagant

disparagement of which I was the object, served, perhaps, to

magnify my few merits, and to render me of some account,

whether deserving or not. A man is sometimes made great,

by the greatness of the abuse a portion of mankind may think

proper to heap upon him. Whether I was of as much conse-

quence as the English papers made me out to be, or not, it

was easily seen, in England, that I could not be the ignorant

and worthless creature, some of the American papers would

have them believe I was. Men, in their senses, do not take

bowie-knives to kill mosquitoes, nor pistols to shoot flies;

and the American passengers who thought proper to get up

a mob to silence me, on board the “Cambria,” took the most

effective method of telling the British public that I had some-

thing to say.

But to the second circumstance, namely, the position of

the Free Church of Scotland, with the great Doctors

Chalmers, Cunningham, and Candlish at its head. That

church, with its leaders, put it out of the power of the Scotch

people to ask the old question, which we in the north have

often most wickedly asked—“What have we to do with sla-

very?” That church had taken the price of blood into its trea-

sury, with which to build free churches, and to pay free church

ministers for preaching the gospel; and, worse still, when

honest John Murray, of Bowlien Bay—now gone to his re-

ward in heaven—with William Smeal, Andrew Paton,

Frederick Card, and other sterling anti-slavery men in

Glasgow, denounced the transaction as disgraceful and shock-

ing to the religious sentiment of Scotland, this church,

through its leading divines, instead of repenting and seeking

to mend the mistake into which it had fallen, made it a fla-

grant sin, by undertaking to defend, in the name of God

and the bible, the principle not only of taking the money of

slave-dealers to build churches, but of holding fellowship

with the holders and traffickers in human flesh. This, the

reader will see, brought up the whole question of slavery,

and opened the way to its full discussion, without any agency

254

My Bondage and My Freedom

of mine. I have never seen a people more deeply moved than

were the people of Scotland, on this very question. Public

meeting succeeded public meeting. Speech after speech, pam-

phlet after pamphlet, editorial after editorial, sermon after

sermon, soon lashed the conscientious Scotch people into a

perfect furore. “SEND BACK THE MONEY!” was indig-

nantly cried out, from Greenock to Edinburgh, and from

Edinburgh to Aberdeen. George Thompson, of London,

Henry C. Wright, of the United States, James N. Buffum, of

Lynn, Massachusetts, and myself were on the anti-slavery

side; and Doctors Chalmers, Cunningham, and Candlish

on the other. In a conflict where the latter could have had

even the show of right, the truth, in our hands as against

them, must have been driven to the wall; and while I believe

we were able to carry the conscience of the country against

the action of the Free Church, the battle, it must be con-

fessed, was a hard-fought one. Abler defenders of the doc-

trine of fellowshiping slaveholders as christians, have not been

met with. In defending this doctrine, it was necessary to deny

that slavery is a sin. If driven from this position, they were

compelled to deny that slaveholders were responsible for the

sin; and if driven from both these positions, they must deny

that it is a sin in such a sense, and that slaveholders are sin-

ners in such a sense, as to make it wrong, in the circum-

stances in which they were placed, to recognize them as

Christians. Dr. Cunningham was the most powerful debater

on the slavery side of the question; Mr. Thompson was the

ablest on the anti-slavery side. A scene occurred between these

two men, a parallel to which I think I never witnessed be-

fore, and I know I never have since. The scene was caused by

a single exclamation on the part of Mr. Thompson.

The general assembly of the Free Church was in progress

at Cannon Mills, Edinburgh. The building would hold about

twenty-five hundred persons; and on this occasion it was

densely packed, notice having been given that Doctors

Cunningham and Candlish would speak, that day, in de-

fense of the relations of the Free Church of Scotland to sla-

very in America. Messrs. Thompson, Buffum, myself, and a

few anti-slavery friends, attended, but sat at such a distance,

and in such a position, that, perhaps we were not observed

from the platform. The excitement was intense, having been

greatly increased by a series of meetings held by Messrs. Th-

255

Frederick Douglas

ompson, Wright, Buffum, and myself, in the most splendid

hall in that most beautiful city, just previous to the meetings

of the general assembly. “SEND BACK THE MONEY!”

stared at us from every street corner; “SEND BACK THE

MONEY!” in large capitals, adorned the broad flags of the

pavement; “SEND BACK THE MONEY!” was the chorus

of the popular street songs; “SEND BACK THE MONEY!”

was the heading of leading editorials in the daily newspa-

pers. This day, at Cannon Mills, the great doctors of the

church were to give an answer to this loud and stern de-

mand. Men of all parties and all sects were most eager to

hear. Something great was expected. The occasion was great,

the men great, and great speeches were expected from them.

In addition to the outside pressure upon Doctors

Cunningham and Candlish, there was wavering in their own

ranks. The conscience of the church itself was not at ease. A

dissatisfaction with the position of the church touching sla-

very, was sensibly manifest among the members, and some-

thing must be done to counteract this untoward influence.

The great Dr. Chalmers was in feeble health, at the time.

His most potent eloquence could not now be summoned to

Cannon Mills, as formerly. He whose voice was able to rend

asunder and dash down the granite walls of the established

church of Scotland, and to lead a host in solemn procession

from it, as from a doomed city, was now old and enfeebled.

Besides, he had said his word on this very question; and his

word had not silenced the clamor without, nor stilled the

anxious heavings within. The occasion was momentous, and

felt to be so. The church was in a perilous condition. A change

of some sort must take place in her condition, or she must

go to pieces. To stand where she did, was impossible. The

whole weight of the matter fell on Cunningham and

Candlish. No shoulders in the church were broader than

theirs; and I must say, badly as I detest the principles laid

down and defended by them, I was compelled to acknowl-

edge the vast mental endowments of the men. Cunningham

rose; and his rising was the signal for almost tumultous ap-

plause. You will say this was scarcely in keeping with the

solemnity of the occasion, but to me it served to increase its

grandeur and gravity. The applause, though tumultuous, was

not joyous. It seemed to me, as it thundered up from the

vast audience, like the fall of an immense shaft, flung from

256

My Bondage and My Freedom

shoulders already galled by its crushing weight. It was like

saying, “Doctor, we have borne this burden long enough,

and willingly fling it upon you. Since it was you who brought

it upon us, take it now, and do what you will with it, for we

are too weary to bear it.{no close”}

Doctor Cunningham proceeded with his speech, abound-

ing in logic, learning, and eloquence, and apparently bear-

ing down all opposition; but at the moment—the fatal mo-

ment—when he was just bringing all his arguments to a point,

and that point being, that neither Jesus Christ nor his holy

apostles regarded slaveholding as a sin, George Thompson,

in a clear, sonorous, but rebuking voice, broke the deep still-

ness of the audience, exclaiming, HEAR! HEAR! HEAR!

The effect of this simple and common exclamation is almost

incredible. It was as if a granite wall had been suddenly flung

up against the advancing current of a mighty river. For a

moment, speaker and audience were brought to a dead si-

lence. Both the doctor and his hearers seemed appalled by

the audacity, as well as the fitness of the rebuke. At length a

shout went up to the cry of “Put him out!” Happily, no one

attempted to execute this cowardly order, and the doctor

proceeded with his discourse. Not, however, as before, did

the learned doctor proceed. The exclamation of Thompson

must have reechoed itself a thousand times in his memory,

during the remainder of his speech, for the doctor never re-

covered from the blow.

The deed was done, however; the pillars of the church—

the proud, Free Church of Scotland—were committed and the

humility of repentance was absent. The Free Church held

on to the blood-stained money, and continued to justify it-

self in its position—and of course to apologize for slavery—

and does so till this day. She lost a glorious opportunity for

giving her voice, her vote, and her example to the cause of

humanity; and to-day she is staggering under the curse of

the enslaved, whose blood is in her skirts. The people of Scot-

land are, to this day, deeply grieved at the course pursued by

the Free Church, and would hail, as a relief from a deep and

blighting shame, the “sending back the money” to the

slaveholders from whom it was gathered.

One good result followed the conduct of the Free Church;

it furnished an occasion for making the people of Scotland

thoroughly acquainted with the character of slavery, and for

257

Frederick Douglas

arraying against the system the moral and religious senti-

ment of that country. Therefore, while we did not succeed

in accomplishing the specific object of our mission, namely—

procure the sending back of the money—we were amply jus-

tified by the good which really did result from our labors.

Next comes the Evangelical Alliance. This was an attempt

to form a union of all evangelical Christians throughout the

world. Sixty or seventy American divines attended, and some

of them went there merely to weave a world-wide garment

with which to clothe evangelical slaveholders. Foremost

among these divines, was the Rev. Samuel Hanson Cox,

moderator of the New School Presbyterian General Assem-

bly. He and his friends spared no pains to secure a platform

broad enough to hold American slaveholders, and in this

partly succeeded. But the question of slavery is too large a

question to be finally disposed of, even by the Evangelical

Alliance. We appealed from the judgment of the Alliance, to

the judgment of the people of Great Britain, and with the

happiest effect. This controversy with the Alliance might be

made the subject of extended remark, but I must forbear,

except to say, that this effort to shield the Christian charac-

ter of slaveholders greatly served to open a way to the British

ear for anti-slavery discussion, and that it was well improved.

The fourth and last circumstance that assisted me in get-

ting before the British public, was an attempt on the part of

certain doctors of divinity to silence me on the platform of

the World’s Temperance Convention. Here I was brought

into point blank collison with Rev. Dr. Cox, who made me

the subject not only of bitter remark in the convention, but

also of a long denunciatory letter published in the New York

Evangelist and other American papers. I replied to the doc-

tor as well as I could, and was successful in getting a respect-

ful hearing before the British public, who are by nature and

practice ardent lovers of fair play, especially in a conflict be-

tween the weak and the strong.

Thus did circumstances favor me, and favor the cause of

which I strove to be the advocate. After such distinguished

notice, the public in both countries was compelled to attach

some importance to my labors. By the very ill usage I re-

ceived at the hands of Dr. Cox and his party, by the mob on

board the “Cambria,” by the attacks made upon me in the

American newspapers, and by the aspersions cast upon me

258

My Bondage and My Freedom

through the organs of the Free Church of Scotland, I be-

came one of that class of men, who, for the moment, at least,

“have greatness forced upon them.” People became the more

anxious to hear for themselves, and to judge for themselves,

of the truth which I had to unfold. While, therefore, it is by

no means easy for a stranger to get fairly before the British

public, it was my lot to accomplish it in the easiest manner

possible.

Having continued in Great Britain and Ireland nearly two

years, and being about to return to America—not as I left it,

a slave, but a freeman—leading friends of the cause of eman-

cipation in that country intimated their intention to make

me a testimonial, not only on grounds of personal regard to

myself, but also to the cause to which they were so ardently

devoted. How far any such thing could have succeeded, I do

not know; but many reasons led me to prefer that my friends

should simply give me the means of obtaining a printing

press and printing materials, to enable me to start a paper,

devoted to the interests of my enslaved and oppressed people.

I told them that perhaps the greatest hinderance to the adop-

tion of abolition principles by the people of the United States,

was the low estimate, everywhere in that country, placed upon

the Negro, as a man; that because of his assumed natural

inferiority, people reconciled themselves to his enslavement

and oppression, as things inevitable, if not desirable. The

grand thing to be done, therefore, was to change the estima-

tion in which the colored people of the United States were

held; to remove the prejudice which depreciated and de-

pressed them; to prove them worthy of a higher consider-

ation; to disprove their alleged inferiority, and demonstrate

their capacity for a more exalted civilization than slavery and

prejudice had assigned to them. I further stated, that, in my

judgment, a tolerably well conducted press, in the hands of

persons of the despised race, by calling out the mental ener-

gies of the race itself; by making them acquainted with their

own latent powers; by enkindling among them the hope that

for them there is a future; by developing their moral power;

by combining and reflecting their talents—would prove a

most powerful means of removing prejudice, and of awak-

ening an interest in them. I further informed them—and at

that time the statement was true—that there was not, in the

United States, a single newspaper regularly published by the

259

Frederick Douglas

colored people; that many attempts had been made to estab-

lish such papers; but that, up to that time, they had all failed.

These views I laid before my friends. The result was, nearly

two thousand five hundred dollars were speedily raised to-

ward starting my paper. For this prompt and generous as-

sistance, rendered upon my bare suggestion, without any

personal efforts on my part, I shall never cease to feel deeply

grateful; and the thought of fulfilling the noble expecta-

tions of the dear friends who gave me this evidence of their

confidence, will never cease to be a motive for persevering

exertion.

Proposing to leave England, and turning my face toward

America, in the spring of 1847, I was met, on the threshold,

with something which painfully reminded me of the kind of

life which awaited me in my native land. For the first time in

the many months spent abroad, I was met with proscription

on account of my color. A few weeks before departing from

England, while in London, I was careful to purchase a ticket,

and secure a berth for returning home, in the “Cambria”—

the steamer in which I left the United States—paying there-

for the round sum of forty pounds and nineteen shillings

sterling. This was first cabin fare. But on going aboard the

Cambria, I found that the Liverpool agent had ordered my

berth to be given to another, and had forbidden my entering

the saloon! This contemptible conduct met with stern re-

buke from the British press. For, upon the point of leaving

England, I took occasion to expose the disgusting tyranny,

in the columns of the London Times. That journal, and other

leading journals throughout the United Kingdom, held up

the outrage to unmitigated condemnation. So good an op-

portunity for calling out a full expression of British senti-

ment on the subject, had not before occurred, and it was

most fully embraced. The result was, that Mr. Cunard came

out in a letter to the public journals, assuring them of his

regret at the outrage, and promising that the like should never

occur again on board his steamers; and the like, we believe,

has never since occurred on board the steamships of the

Cunard line.

It is not very pleasant to be made the subject of such in-

sults; but if all such necessarily resulted as this one did, I

should be very happy to bear, patiently, many more than I

have borne, of the same sort. Albeit, the lash of proscription,

260

My Bondage and My Freedom

to a man accustomed to equal social position, even for a

time, as I was, has a sting for the soul hardly less severe than

that which bites the flesh and draws the blood from the back

of the plantation slave. It was rather hard, after having en-

joyed nearly two years of equal social privileges in England,

often dining with gentlemen of great literary, social, politi-

cal, and religious eminence never, during the whole time,

having met with a single word, look, or gesture, which gave

me the slightest reason to think my color was an offense to

anybody—now to be cooped up in the stern of the

“Cambria,” and denied the right to enter the saloon, lest my

dark presence should be deemed an offense to some of my

democratic fellow-passengers. The reader will easily imagine

what must have been my feelings.

CHAPTER XXVCHAPTER XXVCHAPTER XXVCHAPTER XXVCHAPTER XXV VVVVVarious Iarious Iarious Iarious Iarious Incidentsncidentsncidentsncidentsncidents

NEWSPAPER ENTERPRISE—UNEXPECTED OPPO-

SITION—THE OBJECTIONS TO IT—THEIR PLAU-

SIBILITY ADMITTED—MOTIVES FOR COMING TO

ROCHESTER—DISCIPLE OF MR. GARRISON—

CHANGE OF OPINION—CAUSES LEADING TO

IT—THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE CHANGE—

PREJUDICE AGAINST COLOR—AMUSING CONDE-

SCENSION— “JIM CROW CARS”—COLLISIONS

WITH CONDUCTORS AND BRAKEMEN—TRAINS

ORDERED NOT TO STOP AT LYNN—AMUSING

DOMESTIC SCENE—SEPARATE TABLES FOR MAS-

TER AND MAN—PREJUDICE UNNATURAL—IL-

LUSTRATIONS—IN HIGH COMPANY—ELEVA-

TION OF THE FREE PEOPLE OF COLOR—PLEDGE

FOR THE FUTURE.

I HAVE NOW GIVEN THE READER an imperfect sketch of nine

years’ experience in freedom—three years as a common la-

261

Frederick Douglas

borer on the wharves of New Bedford, four years as a lecturer

in New England, and two years of semi-exile in Great Britain

and Ireland. A single ray of light remains to be flung upon my

life during the last eight years, and my story will be done.

A trial awaited me on my return from England to the

United States, for which I was but very imperfectly prepared.

My plans for my then future usefulness as an anti-slavery

advocate were all settled. My friends in England had resolved

to raise a given sum to purchase for me a press and printing

materials; and I already saw myself wielding my pen, as well

as my voice, in the great work of renovating the public mind,

and building up a public sentiment which should, at least,

send slavery and oppression to the grave, and restore to “lib-

erty and the pursuit of happiness” the people with whom I

had suffered, both as a slave and as a freeman. Intimation

had reached my friends in Boston of what I intended to do,

before my arrival, and I was prepared to find them favorably

disposed toward my much cherished enterprise. In this I was

mistaken. I found them very earnestly opposed to the idea

of my starting a paper, and for several reasons. First, the pa-

per was not needed; secondly, it would interfere with my

usefulness as a lecturer; thirdly, I was better fitted to speak

than to write; fourthly, the paper could not succeed. This

opposition, from a quarter so highly esteemed, and to which

I had been accustomed to look for advice and direction,

caused me not only to hesitate, but inclined me to abandon

the enterprise. All previous attempts to establish such a jour-

nal having failed, I felt that probably I should but add an-

other to the list of failures, and thus contribute another proof

of the mental and moral deficiencies of my race. Very much

that was said to me in respect to my imperfect literary ac-

quirements, I felt to be most painfully true. The unsuccess-

ful projectors of all the previous colored newspapers were

my superiors in point of education, and if they failed, how

could I hope for success? Yet I did hope for success, and

persisted in the undertaking. Some of my English friends

greatly encouraged me to go forward, and I shall never cease

to be grateful for their words of cheer and generous deeds.

I can easily pardon those who have denounced me as am-

bitious and presumptuous, in view of my persistence in this

enterprise. I was but nine years from slavery. In point of

mental experience, I was but nine years old. That one, in

262

My Bondage and My Freedom

such circumstances, should aspire to establish a printing press,

among an educated people, might well be considered, if not

ambitious, quite silly. My American friends looked at me

with astonishment! “A wood-sawyer” offering himself to the

public as an editor! A slave, brought up in the very depths of

ignorance, assuming to instruct the highly civilized people

of the north in the principles of liberty, justice, and human-

ity! The thing looked absurd. Nevertheless, I persevered. I

felt that the want of education, great as it was, could be over-

come by study, and that knowledge would come by experi-

ence; and further (which was perhaps the most controlling

consideration). I thought that an intelligent public, know-

ing my early history, would easily pardon a large share of the

deficiencies which I was sure that my paper would exhibit.

The most distressing thing, however, was the offense which

I was about to give my Boston friends, by what seemed to

them a reckless disregard of their sage advice. I am not sure

that I was not under the influence of something like a slavish

adoration of my Boston friends, and I labored hard to con-

vince them of the wisdom of my undertaking, but without

success. Indeed, I never expect to succeed, although time has

answered all their original objections. The paper has been

successful. It is a large sheet, costing eighty dollars per week—

has three thousand subscribers—has been published regu-

larly nearly eight years—and bids fair to stand eight years

longer. At any rate, the eight years to come are as full of

promise as were the eight that are past.

It is not to be concealed, however, that the maintenance of

such a journal, under the circumstances, has been a work of

much difficulty; and could all the perplexity, anxiety, and

trouble attending it, have been clearly foreseen, I might have

shrunk from the undertaking. As it is, I rejoice in having

engaged in the enterprise, and count it joy to have been able

to suffer, in many ways, for its success, and for the success of

the cause to which it has been faithfully devoted. I look upon

the time, money, and labor bestowed upon it, as being am-

ply rewarded, in the development of my own mental and

moral energies, and in the corresponding development of

my deeply injured and oppressed people.

From motives of peace, instead of issuing my paper in Bos-

ton, among my New England friends, I came to Rochester,

western New York, among strangers, where the circulation

263

Frederick Douglas

of my paper could not interfere with the local circulation of

the Liberator and the Standard; for at that time I was, on the

anti-slavery question, a faithful disciple of William Lloyd

Garrison, and fully committed to his doctrine touching the

pro-slavery character of the constitution of the United States,

and the non-voting principle, of which he is the known and

distinguished advocate. With Mr. Garrison, I held it to be

the first duty of the non-slaveholding states to dissolve the

union with the slaveholding states; and hence my cry, like

his, was, “No union with slaveholders.” With these views, I

came into western New York; and during the first four years

of my labor here, I advocated them with pen and tongue,

according to the best of my ability.

About four years ago, upon a reconsideration of the whole

subject, I became convinced that there was no necessity for

dissolving the “union between the northern and southern

states;” that to seek this dissolution was no part of my duty

as an abolitionist; that to abstain from voting, was to refuse

to exercise a legitimate and powerful means for abolishing

slavery; and that the constitution of the United States not

only contained no guarantees in favor of slavery, but, on the

contrary, it is, in its letter and spirit, an anti-slavery instru-

ment, demanding the abolition of slavery as a condition of

its own existence, as the supreme law of the land.

Here was a radical change in my opinions, and in the ac-

tion logically resulting from that change. To those with whom

I had been in agreement and in sympathy, I was now in op-

position. What they held to be a great and important truth,

I now looked upon as a dangerous error. A very painful, and

yet a very natural, thing now happened. Those who could

not see any honest reasons for changing their views, as I had

done, could not easily see any such reasons for my change,

and the common punishment of apostates was mine.

The opinions first entertained were naturally derived and

honestly entertained, and I trust that my present opinions

have the same claims to respect. Brought directly, when I

escaped from slavery, into contact with a class of abolition-

ists regarding the constitution as a slaveholding instrument,

and finding their views supported by the united and entire

history of every department of the government, it is not

strange that I assumed the constitution to be just what their

interpretation made it. I was bound, not only by their supe-

264

My Bondage and My Freedom

rior knowledge, to take their opinions as the true ones, in re-

spect to the subject, but also because I had no means of show-

ing their unsoundness. But for the responsibility of conduct-

ing a public journal, and the necessity imposed upon me of

meeting opposite views from abolitionists in this state, I should

in all probability have remained as firm in my disunion views

as any other disciple of William Lloyd Garrison.

My new circumstances compelled me to re-think the whole

subject, and to study, with some care, not only the just and

proper rules of legal interpretation, but the origin, design,

nature, rights, powers, and duties of civil government, and

also the relations which human beings sustain to it. By such

a course of thought and reading, I was conducted to the

conclusion that the constitution of the United States—in-

augurated “to form a more perfect union, establish justice,

insure domestic tranquillity, provide for the common de-

fense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessing

of liberty”—could not well have been designed at the same

time to maintain and perpetuate a system of rapine and

murder, like slavery; especially, as not one word can be found

in the constitution to authorize such a belief. Then, again, if

the declared purposes of an instrument are to govern the

meaning of all its parts and details, as they clearly should,

the constitution of our country is our warrant for the aboli-

tion of slavery in every state in the American Union. I mean,

however, not to argue, but simply to state my views. It would

require very many pages of a volume like this, to set forth

the arguments demonstrating the unconstitutionality and the

complete illegality of slavery in our land; and as my experi-

ence, and not my arguments, is within the scope and con-

templation of this volume, I omit the latter and proceed with

the former.

I will now ask the kind reader to go back a little in my

story, while I bring up a thread left behind for convenience

sake, but which, small as it is, cannot be properly omitted

altogether; and that thread is American prejudice against

color, and its varied illustrations in my own experience.

When I first went among the abolitionists of New En-

gland, and began to travel, I found this prejudice very strong

and very annoying. The abolitionists themselves were not

entirely free from it, and I could see that they were nobly

struggling against it. In their eagerness, sometimes, to show

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Frederick Douglas

their contempt for the feeling, they proved that they had not

entirely recovered from it; often illustrating the saying, in

their conduct, that a man may “stand up so straight as to

lean backward.” When it was said to me, “Mr. Douglass, I

will walk to meeting with you; I am not afraid of a black

man,” I could not help thinking—seeing nothing very fright-

ful in my appearance—“And why should you be?” The chil-

dren at the north had all been educated to believe that if

they were bad, the old black man—not the old devil—would

get them; and it was evidence of some courage, for any so

educated to get the better of their fears.

The custom of providing separate cars for the accommo-

dation of colored travelers, was established on nearly all the

railroads of New England, a dozen years ago. Regarding this

custom as fostering the spirit of caste, I made it a rule to seat

myself in the cars for the accommodation of passengers gen-

erally. Thus seated, I was sure to be called upon to betake

myself to the “Jim Crow car.” Refusing to obey, I was often

dragged out of my seat, beaten, and severely bruised, by con-

ductors and brakemen. Attempting to start from Lynn, one

day, for Newburyport, on the Eastern railroad, I went, as my

custom was, into one of the best railroad carriages on the

road. The seats were very luxuriant and beautiful. I was soon

waited upon by the conductor, and ordered out; whereupon

I demanded the reason for my invidious removal. After a

good deal of parleying, I was told that it was because I was

black. This I denied, and appealed to the company to sus-

tain my denial; but they were evidently unwilling to commit

themselves, on a point so delicate, and requiring such nice

powers of discrimination, for they remained as dumb as death.

I was soon waited on by half a dozen fellows of the baser sort

(just such as would volunteer to take a bull-dog out of a

meeting-house in time of public worship), and told that I

must move out of that seat, and if I did not, they would drag

me out. I refused to move, and they clutched me, head, neck,

and shoulders. But, in anticipation of the stretching to which

I was about to be subjected, I had interwoven myself among

the seats. In dragging me out, on this occasion, it must have

cost the company twenty-five or thirty dollars, for I tore up

seats and all. So great was the excitement in Lynn, on the

subject, that the superintendent, Mr. Stephen A. Chase, or-

dered the trains to run through Lynn without stopping, while

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My Bondage and My Freedom

I remained in that town; and this ridiculous farce was en-

acted. For several days the trains went dashing through Lynn

without stopping. At the same time that they excluded a free

colored man from their cars, this same company allowed

slaves, in company with their masters and mistresses, to ride

unmolested.

After many battles with the railroad conductors, and being

roughly handled in not a few instances, proscription was at

last abandoned; and the “Jim Crow car”—set up for the deg-

radation of colored people—is nowhere found in New En-

gland. This result was not brought about without the inter-

vention of the people, and the threatened enactment of a law

compelling railroad companies to respect the rights of travel-

ers. Hon. Charles Francis Adams performed signal service in

the Massachusetts legislature, in bringing this reformation; and

to him the colored citizens of that state are deeply indebted.

Although often annoyed, and sometimes outraged, by this

prejudice against color, I am indebted to it for many pas-

sages of quiet amusement. A half-cured subject of it is some-

times driven into awkward straits, especially if he happens to

get a genuine specimen of the race into his house.

In the summer of 1843, I was traveling and lecturing, in

company with William A. White, Esq., through the state of

Indiana. Anti-slavery friends were not very abundant in In-

diana, at that time, and beds were not more plentiful than

friends. We often slept out, in preference to sleeping in the

houses, at some points. At the close of one of our meetings,

we were invited home with a kindly-disposed old farmer,

who, in the generous enthusiasm of the moment, seemed to

have forgotten that he had but one spare bed, and that his

guests were an ill-matched pair. All went on pretty well, till

near bed time, when signs of uneasiness began to show them-

selves, among the unsophisticated sons and daughters. White

is remarkably fine looking, and very evidently a born gentle-

man; the idea of putting us in the same bed was hardly to be

tolerated; and yet, there we were, and but the one bed for us,

and that, by the way, was in the same room occupied by the

other members of the family. White, as well as I, perceived

the difficulty, for yonder slept the old folks, there the sons,

and a little farther along slept the daughters; and but one

other bed remained. Who should have this bed, was the puz-

zling question. There was some whispering between the old

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Frederick Douglas

folks, some confused looks among the young, as the time for

going to bed approached. After witnessing the confusion as

long as I liked, I relieved the kindly-disposed family by play-

fully saying, “Friend White, having got entirely rid of my

prejudice against color, I think, as a proof of it, I must allow

you to sleep with me to-night.” White kept up the joke, by

seeming to esteem himself the favored party, and thus the

difficulty was removed. If we went to a hotel, and called for

dinner, the landlord was sure to set one table for White and

another for me, always taking him to be master, and me the

servant. Large eyes were generally made when the order was

given to remove the dishes from my table to that of White’s.

In those days, it was thought strange that a white man and a

colored man could dine peaceably at the same table, and in

some parts the strangeness of such a sight has not entirely

subsided.

Some people will have it that there is a natural, an inher-

ent, and an invincible repugnance in the breast of the white

race toward dark-colored people; and some very intelligent

colored men think that their proscription is owing solely to

the color which nature has given them. They hold that they

are rated according to their color, and that it is impossible

for white people ever to look upon dark races of men, or

men belonging to the African race, with other than feelings

of aversion. My experience, both serious and mirthful, com-

bats this conclusion. Leaving out of sight, for a moment,

grave facts, to this point, I will state one or two, which illus-

trate a very interesting feature of American character as well

as American prejudice. Riding from Boston to Albany, a few

years ago, I found myself in a large car, well filled with pas-

sengers. The seat next to me was about the only vacant one.

At every stopping place we took in new passengers, all of

whom, on reaching the seat next to me, cast a disdainful

glance upon it, and passed to another car, leaving me in the

full enjoyment of a hole form. For a time, I did not know

but that my riding there was prejudicial to the interest of the

railroad company. A circumstance occurred, however, which

gave me an elevated position at once. Among the passengers

on this train was Gov. George N. Briggs. I was not acquainted

with him, and had no idea that I was known to him, how-

ever, I was, for upon observing me, the governor left his place,

and making his way toward me, respectfully asked the privi-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

lege of a seat by my side; and upon introducing himself, we

entered into a conversation very pleasant and instructive to

me. The despised seat now became honored. His excellency

had removed all the prejudice against sitting by the side of a

Negro; and upon his leaving it, as he did, on reaching Pittsfield,

there were at least one dozen applicants for the place. The

governor had, without changing my skin a single shade, made

the place respectable which before was despicable.

A similar incident happened to me once on the Boston

and New Bedford railroad, and the leading party to it has

since been governor of the state of Massachusetts. I allude to

Col. John Henry Clifford. Lest the reader may fancy I am

aiming to elevate myself, by claiming too much intimacy

with great men, I must state that my only acquaintance with

Col. Clifford was formed while I was his hired servant, dur-

ing the first winter of my escape from slavery. I owe it him to

say, that in that relation I found him always kind and gentle-

manly. But to the incident. I entered a car at Boston, for

New Bedford, which, with the exception of a single seat was

full, and found I must occupy this, or stand up, during the

journey. Having no mind to do this, I stepped up to the man

having the next seat, and who had a few parcels on the seat,

and gently asked leave to take a seat by his side. My fellow-

passenger gave me a look made up of reproach and indigna-

tion, and asked me why I should come to that particular

seat. I assured him, in the gentlest manner, that of all others

this was the seat for me. Finding that I was actually about to

sit down, he sang out, “O! stop, stop! and let me get out!”

Suiting the action to the word, up the agitated man got, and

sauntered to the other end of the car, and was compelled to

stand for most of the way thereafter. Halfway to New Bedford,

or more, Col. Clifford, recognizing me, left his seat, and not

having seen me before since I had ceased to wait on him (in

everything except hard arguments against his pro-slavery

position), apparently forgetful of his rank, manifested, in

greeting me, something of the feeling of an old friend. This

demonstration was not lost on the gentleman whose dignity

I had, an hour before, most seriously offended. Col. Clifford

was known to be about the most aristocratic gentleman in

Bristol county; and it was evidently thought that I must be

somebody, else I should not have been thus noticed, by a

person so distinguished. Sure enough, after Col. Clifford left

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Frederick Douglas

me, I found myself surrounded with friends; and among the

number, my offended friend stood nearest, and with an apol-

ogy for his rudeness, which I could not resist, although it

was one of the lamest ever offered. With such facts as these

before me—and I have many of them—I am inclined to

think that pride and fashion have much to do with the treat-

ment commonly extended to colored people in the United

States. I once heard a very plain man say (and he was cross-

eyed, and awkwardly flung together in other respects) that

he should be a handsome man when public opinion shall be

changed.

Since I have been editing and publishing a journal devoted

to the cause of liberty and progress, I have had my mind

more directed to the condition and circumstances of the free

colored people than when I was the agent of an abolition

society. The result has been a corresponding change in the

disposition of my time and labors. I have felt it to be a part

of my mission—under a gracious Providence to impress my

sable brothers in this country with the conviction that, not-

withstanding the ten thousand discouragements and the

powerful hinderances, which beset their existence in this

country—notwithstanding the blood-written history of Af-

rica, and her children, from whom we have descended, or

the clouds and darkness (whose stillness and gloom are made

only more awful by wrathful thunder and lightning) now

overshadowing them—progress is yet possible, and bright

skies shall yet shine upon their pathway; and that “Ethiopia

shall yet reach forth her hand unto God.”

Believing that one of the best means of emancipating the

slaves of the south is to improve and elevate the character of

the free colored people of the north I shall labor in the future,

as I have labored in the past, to promote the moral, social,

religious, and intellectual elevation of the free colored people;

never forgetting my own humble orgin{sic}, nor refusing, while

Heaven lends me ability, to use my voice, my pen, or my vote,

to advocate the great and primary work of the universal and

unconditional emancipation of my entire race.

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My Bondage and My Freedom

APPAPPAPPAPPAPPENDIXENDIXENDIXENDIXENDIX Containing EContaining EContaining EContaining EContaining Extrxtrxtrxtrxtracts fracts fracts fracts fracts from Som Som Som Som Speeches, etcpeeches, etcpeeches, etcpeeches, etcpeeches, etc.....

RECEPTION SPRECEPTION SPRECEPTION SPRECEPTION SPRECEPTION SPEECHEECHEECHEECHEECH*****

AAAAAt Ft Ft Ft Ft Finsburinsburinsburinsburinsbury Chapel, My Chapel, My Chapel, My Chapel, My Chapel, Moorooroorooroorfields, Efields, Efields, Efields, Efields, England, Mngland, Mngland, Mngland, Mngland, May 12, 1846ay 12, 1846ay 12, 1846ay 12, 1846ay 12, 1846

Mr. Douglass rose amid loud cheers, and said: I feel exceed-

ingly glad of the opportunity now afforded me of presenting

the claims of my brethren in bonds in the United States, to

so many in London and from various parts of Britain, who

have assembled here on the present occasion. I have nothing

to commend me to your consideration in the way of learn-

ing, nothing in the way of education, to entitle me to your

attention; and you are aware that slavery is a very bad school

for rearing teachers of morality and religion. Twenty-one years

of my life have been spent in slavery—personal slavery—

surrounded by degrading influences, such as can exist no-

where beyond the pale of slavery; and it will not be strange,

if under such circumstances, I should betray, in what I have

to say to you, a deficiency of that refinement which is sel-

dom or ever found, except among persons that have experi-

enced superior advantages to those which I have enjoyed.

But I will take it for granted that you know something about

the degrading influences of slavery, and that you will not

expect great things from me this evening, but simply such

facts as I may be able to advance immediately in connection

with my own experience of slavery.

Now, what is this system of slavery? This is the subject of

my lecture this evening—what is the character of this insti-

tution? I am about to answer the inquiry, what is American

slavery? I do this the more readily, since I have found per-

sons in this country who have identified the term slavery

with that which I think it is not, and in some instances, I

have feared, in so doing, have rather (unwittingly, I know)

detracted much from the horror with which the term slavery

is contemplated. It is common in this country to distinguish

every bad thing by the name of slavery. Intemperance is sla-

* Mr. Douglass’ published speeches alone, would fill two volumes of the size of this. Our space will only permit the insertion of the extracts which follow; and which, for origi- nality of thought, beauty and force of expression, and for impassioned, indignatory eloquence, have seldom been equaled.

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Frederick Douglas

very; to be deprived of the right to vote is slavery, says one;

to have to work hard is slavery, says another; and I do not

know but that if we should let them go on, they would say

that to eat when we are hungry, to walk when we desire to

have exercise, or to minister to our necessities, or have neces-

sities at all, is slavery. I do not wish for a moment to detract

from the horror with which the evil of intemperance is con-

templated—not at all; nor do I wish to throw the slightest

obstruction in the way of any political freedom that any class

of persons in this country may desire to obtain. But I am

here to say that I think the term slavery is sometimes abused

by identifying it with that which it is not. Slavery in the

United States is the granting of that power by which one

man exercises and enforces a right of property in the body

and soul of another. The condition of a slave is simply that

of the brute beast. He is a piece of property—a marketable

commodity, in the language of the law, to be bought or sold

at the will and caprice of the master who claims him to be

his property; he is spoken of, thought of, and treated as prop-

erty. His own good, his conscience, his intellect, his affec-

tions, are all set aside by the master. The will and the wishes

of the master are the law of the slave. He is as much a piece

of property as a horse. If he is fed, he is fed because he is

property. If he is clothed, it is with a view to the increase of

his value as property. Whatever of comfort is necessary to

him for his body or soul that is inconsistent with his being

property, is carefully wrested from him, not only by public

opinion, but by the law of the country. He is carefully de-

prived of everything that tends in the slightest degree to de-

tract from his value as property. He is deprived of education.

God has given him an intellect; the slaveholder declares it

shall not be cultivated. If his moral perception leads him in a

course contrary to his value as property, the slaveholder de-

clares he shall not exercise it. The marriage institution can-

not exist among slaves, and one-sixth of the population of

democratic America is denied its privileges by the law of the

land. What is to be thought of a nation boasting of its lib-

erty, boasting of its humanity, boasting of its Christianity,

boasting of its love of justice and purity, and yet having within

its own borders three millions of persons denied by law the

right of marriage?—what must be the condition of that

people? I need not lift up the veil by giving you any experi-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

ence of my own. Every one that can put two ideas together,

must see the most fearful results from such a state of things

as I have just mentioned. If any of these three millions find

for themselves companions, and prove themselves honest,

upright, virtuous persons to each other, yet in these cases—

few as I am bound to confess they are—the virtuous live in

constant apprehension of being torn asunder by the merci-

less men-stealers that claim them as their property. This is

American slavery; no marriage—no education—the light of

the gospel shut out from the dark mind of the bondman—

and he forbidden by law to learn to read. If a mother shall

teach her children to read, the law in Louisiana proclaims

that she may be hanged by the neck. If the father attempt to

give his son a knowledge of letters, he may be punished by

the whip in one instance, and in another be killed, at the

discretion of the court. Three millions of people shut out

from the light of knowledge! It is easy for you to conceive

the evil that must result from such a state of things.

I now come to the physical evils of slavery. I do not wish to

dwell at length upon these, but it seems right to speak of

them, not so much to influence your minds on this ques-

tion, as to let the slaveholders of America know that the cur-

tain which conceals their crimes is being lifted abroad; that

we are opening the dark cell, and leading the people into the

horrible recesses of what they are pleased to call their domes-

tic institution. We want them to know that a knowledge of

their whippings, their scourgings, their brandings, their

chainings, is not confined to their plantations, but that some

Negro of theirs has broken loose from his chains—has burst

through the dark incrustation of slavery, and is now expos-

ing their deeds of deep damnation to the gaze of the christian

people of England.

The slaveholders resort to all kinds of cruelty. If I were

disposed, I have matter enough to interest you on this ques-

tion for five or six evenings, but I will not dwell at length

upon these cruelties. Suffice it to say, that all of the peculiar

modes of torture that were resorted to in the West India is-

lands, are resorted to, I believe, even more frequently, in the

United States of America. Starvation, the bloody whip, the

chain, the gag, the thumb-screw, cat-hauling, the cat-o’-nine-

tails, the dungeon, the blood-hound, are all in requisition to

keep the slave in his condition as a slave in the United States.

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Frederick Douglas

If any one has a doubt upon this point, I would ask him to

read the chapter on slavery in Dickens’s Notes on America. If

any man has a doubt upon it, I have here the “testimony of a

thousand witnesses,” which I can give at any length, all go-

ing to prove the truth of my statement. The blood-hound is

regularly trained in the United States, and advertisements

are to be found in the southern papers of the Union, from

persons advertising themselves as blood-hound trainers, and

offering to hunt down slaves at fifteen dollars a piece, rec-

ommending their hounds as the fleetest in the neighborhood,

never known to fail. Advertisements are from time to time

inserted, stating that slaves have escaped with iron collars

about their necks, with bands of iron about their feet, marked

with the lash, branded with red-hot irons, the initials of their

master’s name burned into their flesh; and the masters ad-

vertise the fact of their being thus branded with their own

signature, thereby proving to the world, that, however damn-

ing it may appear to non-slavers, such practices are not re-

garded discreditable among the slaveholders themselves. Why,

I believe if a man should brand his horse in this country—

burn the initials of his name into any of his cattle, and pub-

lish the ferocious deed here—that the united execrations of

Christians in Britain would descend upon him. Yet in the

United States, human beings are thus branded. As Whittier

says—

… Our countrymen in chains,

The whip on woman’s shrinking flesh,

Our soil yet reddening with the stains

Caught from her scourgings warm and fresh.

The slave-dealer boldly publishes his infamous acts to the

world. Of all things that have been said of slavery to which

exception has been taken by slaveholders, this, the charge of

cruelty, stands foremost, and yet there is no charge capable

of clearer demonstration, than that of the most barbarous

inhumanity on the part of the slaveholders toward their slaves.

And all this is necessary; it is necessary to resort to these

cruelties, in order to make the slave a slave, and to keep him a

slave. Why, my experience all goes to prove the truth of what

you will call a marvelous proposition, that the better you

treat a slave, the more you destroy his value as a slave, and

enhance the probability of his eluding the grasp of the

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My Bondage and My Freedom

slaveholder; the more kindly you treat him, the more

wretched you make him, while you keep him in the condi-

tion of a slave. My experience, I say, confirms the truth of

this proposition. When I was treated exceedingly ill; when

my back was being scourged daily; when I was whipped

within an inch of my life—life was all I cared for. “Spare my

life,” was my continual prayer. When I was looking for the

blow about to be inflicted upon my head, I was not thinking

of my liberty; it was my life. But, as soon as the blow was not

to be feared, then came the longing for liberty. If a slave has

a bad master, his ambition is to get a better; when he gets a

better, he aspires to have the best; and when he gets the best,

he aspires to be his own master. But the slave must be brutal-

ized to keep him as a slave. The slaveholder feels this neces-

sity. I admit this necessity. If it be right to hold slaves at all, it

is right to hold them in the only way in which they can be

held; and this can be done only by shutting out the light of

education from their minds, and brutalizing their persons.

The whip, the chain, the gag, the thumb-screw, the blood-

hound, the stocks, and all the other bloody paraphernalia of

the slave system, are indispensably necessary to the relation

of master and slave. The slave must be subjected to these, or

he ceases to be a slave. Let him know that the whip is burned;

that the fetters have been turned to some useful and profit-

able employment; that the chain is no longer for his limbs;

that the blood-hound is no longer to be put upon his track;

that his master’s authority over him is no longer to be en-

forced by taking his life—and immediately he walks out from

the house of bondage and asserts his freedom as a man. The

slaveholder finds it necessary to have these implements to

keep the slave in bondage; finds it necessary to be able to say,

“Unless you do so and so; unless you do as I bid you—I will

take away your life!”

Some of the most awful scenes of cruelty are constantly

taking place in the middle states of the Union. We have in

those states what are called the slave-breeding states. Allow

me to speak plainly. Although it is harrowing to your feel-

ings, it is necessary that the facts of the case should be stated.

We have in the United States slave-breeding states. The very

state from which the minister from our court to yours comes,

is one of these states—Maryland, where men, women, and

children are reared for the market, just as horses, sheep, and

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Frederick Douglas

swine are raised for the market. Slave-rearing is there looked

upon as a legitimate trade; the law sanctions it, public opin-

ion upholds it, the church does not condemn it. It goes on

in all its bloody horrors, sustained by the auctioneer’s block.

If you would see the cruelties of this system, hear the follow-

ing narrative. Not long since the following scene occurred.

A slave-woman and a slaveman had united themselves as man

and wife in the absence of any law to protect them as man

and wife. They had lived together by the permission, not by

right, of their master, and they had reared a family. The mas-

ter found it expedient, and for his interest, to sell them. He

did not ask them their wishes in regard to the matter at all;

they were not consulted. The man and woman were brought

to the auctioneer’s block, under the sound of the hammer.

The cry was raised, “Here goes; who bids cash?” Think of

it—a man and wife to be sold! The woman was placed on

the auctioneer’s block; her limbs, as is customary, were bru-

tally exposed to the purchasers, who examined her with all

the freedom with which they would examine a horse. There

stood the husband, powerless; no right to his wife; the master’s

right preeminent. She was sold. He was next brought to the

auctioneer’s block. His eyes followed his wife in the distance;

and he looked beseechingly, imploringly, to the man that

had bought his wife, to buy him also. But he was at length

bid off to another person. He was about to be separated for-

ever from her he loved. No word of his, no work of his,

could save him from this separation. He asked permission of

his new master to go and take the hand of his wife at part-

ing. It was denied him. In the agony of his soul he rushed

from the man who had just bought him, that he might take

a farewell of his wife; but his way was obstructed, he was

struck over the head with a loaded whip, and was held for a

moment; but his agony was too great. When he was let go,

he fell a corpse at the feet of his master. His heart was bro-

ken. Such scenes are the everyday fruits of American slavery.

Some two years since, the Hon. Seth. M. Gates, an anti-

slavery gentleman of the state of New York, a representative

in the congress of the United States, told me he saw with his

own eyes the following circumstances. In the national Dis-

trict of Columbia, over which the star-spangled emblem is

constantly waving, where orators are ever holding forth on

the subject of American liberty, American democracy, Ameri-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

can republicanism, there are two slave prisons. When going

across a bridge, leading to one of these prisons, he saw a

young woman run out, bare-footed and bare-headed, and

with very little clothing on. She was running with all speed

to the bridge he was approaching. His eye was fixed upon

her, and he stopped to see what was the matter. He had not

paused long before he saw three men run out after her. He

now knew what the nature of the case was; a slave escaping

from her chains—a young woman, a sister—escaping from

the bondage in which she had been held. She made her way

to the bridge, but had not reached, ere from the Virginia

side there came two slaveholders. As soon as they saw them,

her pursuers called out, “Stop her!” True to their Virginian

instincts, they came to the rescue of their brother kidnappers,

across the bridge. The poor girl now saw that there was no

chance for her. It was a trying time. She knew if she went

back, she must be a slave forever—she must be dragged down

to the scenes of pollution which the slaveholders continually

provide for most of the poor, sinking, wretched young women,

whom they call their property. She formed her resolution; and

just as those who were about to take her, were going to put

hands upon her, to drag her back, she leaped over the balus-

trades of the bridge, and down she went to rise no more. She

chose death, rather than to go back into the hands of those

christian slaveholders from whom she had escaped.

Can it be possible that such things as these exist in the

United States? Are not these the exceptions? Are any such

scenes as this general? Are not such deeds condemned by the

law and denounced by public opinion? Let me read to you a

few of the laws of the slaveholding states of America. I think

no better exposure of slavery can be made than is made by

the laws of the states in which slavery exists. I prefer reading

the laws to making any statement in confirmation of what I

have said myself; for the slaveholders cannot object to this

testimony, since it is the calm, the cool, the deliberate enact-

ment of their wisest heads, of their most clear-sighted, their

own constituted representatives. “If more than seven slaves

together are found in any road without a white person, twenty

lashes a piece; for visiting a plantation without a written pass,

ten lashes; for letting loose a boat from where it is made fast,

thirty-nine lashes for the first offense; and for the second,

shall have cut off from his head one ear; for keeping or car-

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Frederick Douglas

rying a club, thirty-nine lashes; for having any article for

sale, without a ticket from his master, ten lashes; for travel-

ing in any other than the most usual and accustomed road,

when going alone to any place, forty lashes; for traveling in

the night without a pass, forty lashes.” I am afraid you do

not understand the awful character of these lashes. You must

bring it before your mind. A human being in a perfect state

of nudity, tied hand and foot to a stake, and a strong man

standing behind with a heavy whip, knotted at the end, each

blow cutting into the flesh, and leaving the warm blood drip-

ping to the feet; and for these trifles. “For being found in

another person’s negro-quarters, forty lashes; for hunting with

dogs in the woods, thirty lashes; for being on horseback with-

out the written permission of his master, twenty-five lashes;

for riding or going abroad in the night, or riding horses in

the day time, without leave, a slave may be whipped, cropped,

or branded in the cheek with the letter R. or otherwise pun-

ished, such punishment not extending to life, or so as to

render him unfit for labor.” The laws referred to, may be

found by consulting Brevard’s Digest; Haywood’s Manual;

Virginia Revised Code; Prince’s Digest; Missouri Laws; Missis-

sippi Revised Code. A man, for going to visit his brethren,

without the permission of his master—and in many instances

he may not have that permission; his master, from caprice or

other reasons, may not be willing to allow it—may be caught

on his way, dragged to a post, the branding-iron heated, and

the name of his master or the letter R branded into his cheek

or on his forehead. They treat slaves thus, on the principle

that they must punish for light offenses, in order to prevent

the commission of larger ones. I wish you to mark that in

the single state of Virginia there are seventy-one crimes for

which a colored man may be executed; while there are only

three of these crimes, which, when committed by a white

man, will subject him to that punishment. There are many

of these crimes which if the white man did not commit, he

would be regarded as a scoundrel and a coward. In the state

of Maryland, there is a law to this effect: that if a slave shall

strike his master, he may be hanged, his head severed from

his body, his body quartered, and his head and quarters set

up in the most prominent places in the neighborhood. If a

colored woman, in the defense of her own virtue, in defense

of her own person, should shield herself from the brutal at-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

tacks of her tyrannical master, or make the slightest resis-

tance, she may be killed on the spot. No law whatever will

bring the guilty man to justice for the crime.

But you will ask me, can these things be possible in a land

professing Christianity? Yes, they are so; and this is not the

worst. No; a darker feature is yet to be presented than the

mere existence of these facts. I have to inform you that the

religion of the southern states, at this time, is the great sup-

porter, the great sanctioner of the bloody atrocities to which

I have referred. While America is printing tracts and bibles;

sending missionaries abroad to convert the heathen; expend-

ing her money in various ways for the promotion of the gos-

pel in foreign lands—the slave not only lies forgotten, uncared

for, but is trampled under foot by the very churches of the

land. What have we in America? Why, we have slavery made

part of the religion of the land. Yes, the pulpit there stands

up as the great defender of this cursed institution, as it is

called. Ministers of religion come forward and torture the

hallowed pages of inspired wisdom to sanction the bloody

deed. They stand forth as the foremost, the strongest de-

fenders of this “institution.” As a proof of this, I need not do

more than state the general fact, that slavery has existed un-

der the droppings of the sanctuary of the south for the last

two hundred years, and there has not been any war between

the religion and the slavery of the south. Whips, chains, gags,

and thumb-screws have all lain under the droppings of the

sanctuary, and instead of rusting from off the limbs of the

bondman, those droppings have served to preserve them in

all their strength. Instead of preaching the gospel against this

tyranny, rebuke, and wrong, ministers of religion have sought,

by all and every means, to throw in the back-ground what-

ever in the bible could be construed into opposition to sla-

very, and to bring forward that which they could torture

into its support. This I conceive to be the darkest feature of

slavery, and the most difficult to attack, because it is identi-

fied with religion, and exposes those who denounce it to the

charge of infidelity. Yes, those with whom I have been labor-

ing, namely, the old organization anti-slavery society of

America, have been again and again stigmatized as infidels,

and for what reason? Why, solely in consequence of the faith-

fulness of their attacks upon the slaveholding religion of the

southern states, and the northern religion that sympathizes

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Frederick Douglas

with it. I have found it difficult to speak on this matter with-

out persons coming forward and saying, “Douglass, are you

not afraid of injuring the cause of Christ? You do not desire

to do so, we know; but are you not undermining religion?”

This has been said to me again and again, even since I came

to this country, but I cannot be induced to leave off these

exposures. I love the religion of our blessed Savior. I love

that religion that comes from above, in the “wisdom of God,

which is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be

entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality

and without hypocrisy. I love that religion that sends its vo-

taries to bind up the wounds of him that has fallen among

thieves. I love that religion that makes it the duty of its dis-

ciples to visit the father less and the widow in their afflic-

tion. I love that religion that is based upon the glorious prin-

ciple, of love to God and love to man; which makes its fol-

lowers do unto others as they themselves would be done by.

If you demand liberty to yourself, it says, grant it to your

neighbors. If you claim a right to think for yourself, it says,

allow your neighbors the same right. If you claim to act for

yourself, it says, allow your neighbors the same right. It is

because I love this religion that I hate the slaveholding, the

woman-whipping, the mind-darkening, the soul-destroying

religion that exists in the southern states of America. It is

because I regard the one as good, and pure, and holy, that I

cannot but regard the other as bad, corrupt, and wicked.

Loving the one I must hate the other; holding to the one I

must reject the other.

I may be asked, why I am so anxious to bring this subject

before the British public—why I do not confine my efforts

to the United States? My answer is, first, that slavery is the

common enemy of mankind, and all mankind should be

made acquainted with its abominable character. My next

answer is, that the slave is a man, and, as such, is entitled to

your sympathy as a brother. All the feelings, all the suscepti-

bilities, all the capacities, which you have, he has. He is a

part of the human family. He has been the prey—the com-

mon prey—of Christendom for the last three hundred years,

and it is but right, it is but just, it is but proper, that his

wrongs should be known throughout the world. I have an-

other reason for bringing this matter before the British pub-

lic, and it is this: slavery is a system of wrong, so blinding to

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My Bondage and My Freedom

all around, so hardening to the heart, so corrupting to the

morals, so deleterious to religion, so sapping to all the prin-

ciples of justice in its immediate vicinity, that the commu-

nity surrounding it lack the moral stamina necessary to its

removal. It is a system of such gigantic evil, so strong, so

overwhelming in its power, that no one nation is equal to its

removal. It requires the humanity of Christianity, the moral-

ity of the world to remove it. Hence, I call upon the people

of Britain to look at this matter, and to exert the influence I

am about to show they possess, for the removal of slavery

from America. I can appeal to them, as strongly by their

regard for the slaveholder as for the slave, to labor in this

cause. I am here, because you have an influence on America

that no other nation can have. You have been drawn together

by the power of steam to a marvelous extent; the distance

between London and Boston is now reduced to some twelve

or fourteen days, so that the denunciations against slavery,

uttered in London this week, may be heard in a fortnight in

the streets of Boston, and reverberating amidst the hills of

Massachusetts. There is nothing said here against slavery that

will not be recorded in the United States. I am here, also,

because the slaveholders do not want me to be here; they

would rather that I were not here. I have adopted a maxim

laid down by Napoleon, never to occupy ground which the

enemy would like me to occupy. The slaveholders would

much rather have me, if I will denounce slavery, denounce it

in the northern states, where their friends and supporters

are, who will stand by and mob me for denouncing it. They

feel something as the man felt, when he uttered his prayer,

in which he made out a most horrible case for himself, and

one of his neighbors touched him and said, “My friend, I

always had the opinion of you that you have now expressed

for yourself—that you are a very great sinner.” Coming from

himself, it was all very well, but coming from a stranger it

was rather cutting. The slaveholders felt that when slavery

was denounced among themselves, it was not so bad; but let

one of the slaves get loose, let him summon the people of

Britain, and make known to them the conduct of the

slaveholders toward their slaves, and it cuts them to the quick,

and produces a sensation such as would be produced by noth-

ing else. The power I exert now is something like the power

that is exerted by the man at the end of the lever; my influ-

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Frederick Douglas

ence now is just in proportion to the distance that I am from

the United States. My exposure of slavery abroad will tell

more upon the hearts and consciences of slaveholders, than

if I was attacking them in America; for almost every paper

that I now receive from the United States, comes teeming

with statements about this fugitive Negro, calling him a “glib-

tongued scoundrel,” and saying that he is running out against

the institutions and people of America. I deny the charge

that I am saying a word against the institutions of America,

or the people, as such. What I have to say is against slavery

and slaveholders. I feel at liberty to speak on this subject. I

have on my back the marks of the lash; I have four sisters

and one brother now under the galling chain. I feel it my

duty to cry aloud and spare not. I am not averse to having

the good opinion of my fellow creatures. I am not averse to

being kindly regarded by all men; but I am bound, even at

the hazard of making a large class of religionists in this coun-

try hate me, oppose me, and malign me as they have done—

I am bound by the prayers, and tears, and entreaties of three

millions of kneeling bondsmen, to have no compromise with

men who are in any shape or form connected with the

slaveholders of America. I expose slavery in this country,

because to expose it is to kill it. Slavery is one of those mon-

sters of darkness to whom the light of truth is death. Expose

slavery, and it dies. Light is to slavery what the heat of the

sun is to the root of a tree; it must die under it. All the

slaveholder asks of me is silence. He does not ask me to go

abroad and preach in favor of slavery; he does not ask any

one to do that. He would not say that slavery is a good thing,

but the best under the circumstances. The slaveholders want

total darkness on the subject. They want the hatchway shut

down, that the monster may crawl in his den of darkness,

crushing human hopes and happiness, destroying the bond-

man at will, and having no one to reprove or rebuke him.

Slavery shrinks from the light; it hateth the light, neither

cometh to the light, lest its deeds should be reproved. To tear

off the mask from this abominable system, to expose it to

the light of heaven, aye, to the heat of the sun, that it may

burn and wither it out of existence, is my object in coming

to this country. I want the slaveholder surrounded, as by a

wall of anti-slavery fire, so that he may see the condemna-

tion of himself and his system glaring down in letters of light.

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My Bondage and My Freedom

I want him to feel that he has no sympathy in England, Scot-

land, or Ireland; that he has none in Canada, none in Mexico,

none among the poor wild Indians; that the voice of the

civilized, aye, and savage world is against him. I would have

condemnation blaze down upon him in every direction, till,

stunned and overwhelmed with shame and confusion, he is

compelled to let go the grasp he holds upon the persons of

his victims, and restore them to their long-lost rights.

DrDrDrDrDr. C. C. C. C. Campbellampbellampbellampbellampbell’’’’’s Rs Rs Rs Rs Replyeplyeplyeplyeply

From Rev. Dr. Campbell’s brilliant reply we extract the fol-

lowing: FREDERICK DOUGLASS, the beast of burden,”

the portion of “goods and chattels,” the representative of three

millions of men, has been raised up! Shall I say the man? If

there is a man on earth, he is a man. My blood boiled within

me when I heard his address tonight, and thought that he

had left behind him three millions of such men.

We must see more of this man; we must have more of this

man. One would have taken a voyage round the globe some

forty years back—especially since the introduction of steam—

to have heard such an exposure of slavery from the lips of a

slave. It will be an era in the individual history of the present

assembly. Our children—our boys and girls—I have tonight

seen the delightful sympathy of their hearts evinced by their

heaving breasts, while their eyes sparkled with wonder and

admiration, that this black man—this slave—had so much

logic, so much wit, so much fancy, so much eloquence. He

was something more than a man, according to their little

notions. Then, I say, we must hear him again. We have got a

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Frederick Douglas

purpose to accomplish. He has appealed to the pulpit of

England. The English pulpit is with him. He has appealed

to the press of England; the press of England is conducted

by English hearts, and that press will do him justice. About

ten days hence, and his second master, who may well prize

“such a piece of goods,” will have the pleasure of reading his

burning words, and his first master will bless himself that he

has got quit of him. We have to create public opinion, or

rather, not to create it, for it is created already; but we have

to foster it; and when tonight I heard those magnificent

words—the words of Curran, by which my heart, from boy-

hood, has ofttimes been deeply moved—I rejoice to think

that they embody an instinct of an Englishman’s nature. I

heard, with inexpressible delight, how they told on this

mighty mass of the citizens of the metropolis.

Britain has now no slaves; we can therefore talk to the other

nations now, as we could not have talked a dozen years ago.

I want the whole of the London ministry to meet Douglass.

For as his appeal is to England, and throughout England, I

should rejoice in the idea of churchmen and dissenters merg-

ing all sectional distinctions in this cause. Let us have a pub-

lic breakfast. Let the ministers meet him; let them hear him;

let them grasp his hand; and let him enlist their sympathies on

behalf of the slave. Let him inspire them with abhorrence of

the man-stealer—the slaveholder. No slaveholding American

shall ever my cross my door. No slaveholding or slavery-sup-

porting minister shall ever pollute my pulpit. While I have a

tongue to speak, or a hand to write, I will, to the utmost of my

power, oppose these slaveholding men. We must have Douglass

amongst us to aid in fostering public opinion.

The great conflict with slavery must now take place in

America; and while they are adding other slave states to the

Union, our business is to step forward and help the aboli-

tionists there. It is a pleasing circumstance that such a body

of men has risen in America, and whilst we hurl our thun-

ders against her slavers, let us make a distinction between

those who advocate slavery and those who oppose it. George

Thompson has been there. This man, Frederick Douglass,

has been there, and has been compelled to flee. I wish, when

he first set foot on our shores, he had made a solemn vow,

and said, “Now that I am free, and in the sanctuary of free-

dom, I will never return till I have seen the emancipation of

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My Bondage and My Freedom

my country completed.” He wants to surround these men,

the slaveholders, as by a wall of fire; and he himself may do

much toward kindling it. Let him travel over the island—

east, west, north, and south—everywhere diffusing knowl-

edge and awakening principle, till the whole nation become

a body of petitioners to America. He will, he must, do it. He

must for a season make England his home. He must send for

his wife. He must send for his children. I want to see the sons

and daughters of such a sire. We, too, must do something for

him and them worthy of the English name. I do not like the

idea of a man of such mental dimensions, such moral cour-

age, and all but incomparable talent, having his own small

wants, and the wants of a distant wife and children, supplied

by the poor profits of his publication, the sketch of his life. Let

the pamphlet be bought by tens of thousands. But we will do

something more for him, shall we not?

It only remains that we pass a resolution of thanks to

Frederick Douglass, the slave that was, the man that is! He

that was covered with chains, and that is now being covered

with glory, and whom we will send back a gentleman.

LETLETLETLETLETTER TER TER TER TER TTTTTO HIS OLD MASTER.O HIS OLD MASTER.O HIS OLD MASTER.O HIS OLD MASTER.O HIS OLD MASTER.*****

TTTTTo Mo Mo Mo Mo My Oy Oy Oy Oy Old Mld Mld Mld Mld Masterasterasterasteraster, , , , , Thomas AThomas AThomas AThomas AThomas Auldulduldulduld

SIR—The long and intimate, though by no means friendly,

relation which unhappily subsisted between you and myself,

leads me to hope that you will easily account for the great

liberty which I now take in addressing you in this open and

public manner. The same fact may remove any disagreeable

surprise which you may experience on again finding your

name coupled with mine, in any other way than in an adver-

tisement, accurately describing my person, and offering a

large sum for my arrest. In thus dragging you again before

the public, I am aware that I shall subject myself to no in-

considerable amount of censure. I shall probably be charged

with an unwarrantable, if not a wanton and reckless disre-

gard of the rights and properties of private life. There are

those north as well as south who entertain a much higher

respect for rights which are merely conventional, than they

do for rights which are personal and essential. Not a few

* It is not often that chattels address their owners. The fol- lowing letter is unique; and probably the only specimen of the kind extant. It was written while in England.

285

Frederick Douglas

there are in our country, who, while they have no scruples

against robbing the laborer of the hard earned results of his

patient industry, will be shocked by the extremely indelicate

manner of bringing your name before the public. Believing

this to be the case, and wishing to meet every reasonable or

plausible objection to my conduct, I will frankly state the

ground upon which I justfy{sic} myself in this instance, as

well as on former occasions when I have thought proper to

mention your name in public. All will agree that a man guilty

of theft, robbery, or murder, has forfeited the right to con-

cealment and private life; that the community have a right

to subject such persons to the most complete exposure. How-

ever much they may desire retirement, and aim to conceal

themselves and their movements from the popular gaze, the

public have a right to ferret them out, and bring their con-

duct before the proper tribunals of the country for investiga-

tion. Sir, you will undoubtedly make the proper application

of these generally admitted principles, and will easily see the

light in which you are regarded by me; I will not therefore

manifest ill temper, by calling you hard names. I know you

to be a man of some intelligence, and can readily determine

the precise estimate which I entertain of your character. I

may therefore indulge in language which may seem to oth-

ers indirect and ambiguous, and yet be quite well under-

stood by yourself.

I have selected this day on which to address you, because it

is the anniversary of my emancipation; and knowing no bet-

ter way, I am led to this as the best mode of celebrating that

truly important events. Just ten years ago this beautiful Sep-

tember morning, yon bright sun beheld me a slave—a poor

degraded chattel—trembling at the sound of your voice, la-

menting that I was a man, and wishing myself a brute. The

hopes which I had treasured up for weeks of a safe and suc-

cessful escape from your grasp, were powerfully confronted

at this last hour by dark clouds of doubt and fear, making

my person shake and my bosom to heave with the heavy

contest between hope and fear. I have no words to describe

to you the deep agony of soul which I experienced on that

never-to-be-forgotten morning—for I left by daylight. I was

making a leap in the dark. The probabilities, so far as I could

by reason determine them, were stoutly against the under-

taking. The preliminaries and precautions I had adopted

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My Bondage and My Freedom

previously, all worked badly. I was like one going to war with-

out weapons—ten chances of defeat to one of victory. One

in whom I had confided, and one who had promised me

assistance, appalled by fear at the trial hour, deserted me,

thus leaving the responsibility of success or failure solely with

myself. You, sir, can never know my feelings. As I look back

to them, I can scarcely realize that I have passed through a

scene so trying. Trying, however, as they were, and gloomy

as was the prospect, thanks be to the Most High, who is ever

the God of the oppressed, at the moment which was to de-

termine my whole earthly career, His grace was sufficient;

my mind was made up. I embraced the golden opportunity,

took the morning tide at the flood, and a free man, young,

active, and strong, is the result.

I have often thought I should like to explain to you the

grounds upon which I have justified myself in running away

from you. I am almost ashamed to do so now, for by this

time you may have discovered them yourself. I will, how-

ever, glance at them. When yet but a child about six years

old, I imbibed the determination to run away. The very first

mental effort that I now remember on my part, was an at-

tempt to solve the mystery—why am I a slave? and with this

question my youthful mind was troubled for many days,

pressing upon me more heavily at times than others. When I

saw the slave-driver whip a slave-woman, cut the blood out

of her neck, and heard her piteous cries, I went away into

the corner of the fence, wept and pondered over the mys-

tery. I had, through some medium, I know not what, got

some idea of God, the Creator of all mankind, the black and

the white, and that he had made the blacks to serve the whites

as slaves. How he could do this and be good, I could not tell.

I was not satisfied with this theory, which made God re-

sponsible for slavery, for it pained me greatly, and I have

wept over it long and often. At one time, your first wife,

Mrs. Lucretia, heard me sighing and saw me shedding tears,

and asked of me the matter, but I was afraid to tell her. I was

puzzled with this question, till one night while sitting in the

kitchen, I heard some of the old slaves talking of their par-

ents having been stolen from Africa by white men, and were

sold here as slaves. The whole mystery was solved at once.

Very soon after this, my Aunt Jinny and Uncle Noah ran

away, and the great noise made about it by your father-in-

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Frederick Douglas

law, made me for the first time acquainted with the fact, that

there were free states as well as slave states. From that time, I

resolved that I would some day run away. The morality of

the act I dispose of as follows: I am myself; you are yourself;

we are two distinct persons, equal persons. What you are, I

am. You are a man, and so am I. God created both, and

made us separate beings. I am not by nature bond to you, or

you to me. Nature does not make your existence depend

upon me, or mine to depend upon yours. I cannot walk upon

your legs, or you upon mine. I cannot breathe for you, or

you for me; I must breathe for myself, and you for yourself.

We are distinct persons, and are each equally provided with

faculties necessary to our individual existence. In leaving you,

I took nothing but what belonged to me, and in no way

lessened your means for obtaining an honest living. Your fac-

ulties remained yours, and mine became useful to their right-

ful owner. I therefore see no wrong in any part of the trans-

action. It is true, I went off secretly; but that was more your

fault than mine. Had I let you into the secret, you would

have defeated the enterprise entirely; but for this, I should

have been really glad to have made you acquainted with my

intentions to leave.

You may perhaps want to know how I like my present

condition. I am free to say, I greatly prefer it to that which I

occupied in Maryland. I am, however, by no means preju-

diced against the state as such. Its geography, climate, fertil-

ity, and products, are such as to make it a very desirable abode

for any man; and but for the existence of slavery there, it is

not impossible that I might again take up my abode in that

state. It is not that I love Maryland less, but freedom more.

You will be surprised to learn that people at the north labor

under the strange delusion that if the slaves were emanci-

pated at the south, they would flock to the north. So far

from this being the case, in that event, you would see many

old and familiar faces back again to the south. The fact is,

there are few here who would not return to the south in the

event of emancipation. We want to live in the land of our

birth, and to lay our bones by the side of our fathers; and

nothing short of an intense love of personal freedom keeps

us from the south. For the sake of this, most of us would live

on a crust of bread and a cup of cold water.

Since I left you, I have had a rich experience. I have occu-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

pied stations which I never dreamed of when a slave. Three

out of the ten years since I left you, I spent as a common

laborer on the wharves of New Bedford, Massachusetts. It

was there I earned my first free dollar. It was mine. I could

spend it as I pleased. I could buy hams or herring with it,

without asking any odds of anybody. That was a precious

dollar to me. You remember when I used to make seven, or

eight, or even nine dollars a week in Baltimore, you would

take every cent of it from me every Saturday night, saying

that I belonged to you, and my earnings also. I never liked

this conduct on your part—to say the best, I thought it a

little mean. I would not have served you so. But let that pass.

I was a little awkward about counting money in New En-

gland fashion when I first landed in New Bedford. I came

near betraying myself several times. I caught myself saying

phip, for fourpence; and at one time a man actually charged

me with being a runaway, whereupon I was silly enough to

become one by running away from him, for I was greatly

afraid he might adopt measures to get me again into slavery,

a condition I then dreaded more than death.

I soon learned, however, to count money, as well as to make

it, and got on swimmingly. I married soon after leaving you;

in fact, I was engaged to be married before I left you; and

instead of finding my companion a burden, she was truly a

helpmate. She went to live at service, and I to work on the

wharf, and though we toiled hard the first winter, we never

lived more happily. After remaining in New Bedford for three

years, I met with William Lloyd Garrison, a person of whom

you have possibly heard, as he is pretty generally known among

slaveholders. He put it into my head that I might make my-

self serviceable to the cause of the slave, by devoting a por-

tion of my time to telling my own sorrows, and those of

other slaves, which had come under my observation. This

was the commencement of a higher state of existence than

any to which I had ever aspired. I was thrown into society

the most pure, enlightened, and benevolent, that the coun-

try affords. Among these I have never forgotten you, but

have invariably made you the topic of conversation—thus

giving you all the notoriety I could do. I need not tell you

that the opinion formed of you in these circles is far from

being favorable. They have little respect for your honesty,

and less for your religion.

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Frederick Douglas

But I was going on to relate to you something of my inter-

esting experience. I had not long enjoyed the excellent soci-

ety to which I have referred, before the light of its excellence

exerted a beneficial influence on my mind and heart. Much

of my early dislike of white persons was removed, and their

manners, habits, and customs, so entirely unlike what I had

been used to in the kitchen-quarters on the plantations of

the south, fairly charmed me, and gave me a strong disrelish

for the coarse and degrading customs of my former condi-

tion. I therefore made an effort so to improve my mind and

deportment, as to be somewhat fitted to the station to which

I seemed almost providentially called. The transition from

degradation to respectability was indeed great, and to get

from one to the other without carrying some marks of one’s

former condition, is truly a difficult matter. I would not have

you think that I am now entirely clear of all plantation pecu-

liarities, but my friends here, while they entertain the stron-

gest dislike to them, regard me with that charity to which

my past life somewhat entitles me, so that my condition in

this respect is exceedingly pleasant. So far as my domestic

affairs are concerned, I can boast of as comfortable a dwell-

ing as your own. I have an industrious and neat companion,

and four dear children—the oldest a girl of nine years, and

three fine boys, the oldest eight, the next six, and the young-

est four years old. The three oldest are now going regularly

to school—two can read and write, and the other can spell,

with tolerable correctness, words of two syllables. Dear fel-

lows! they are all in comfortable beds, and are sound asleep,

perfectly secure under my own roof. There are no slaveholders

here to rend my heart by snatching them from my arms, or

blast a mother’s dearest hopes by tearing them from her bo-

som. These dear children are ours—not to work up into rice,

sugar, and tobacco, but to watch over, regard, and protect,

and to rear them up in the nurture and admonition of the

gospel—to train them up in the paths of wisdom and virtue,

and, as far as we can, to make them useful to the world and

to themselves. Oh! sir, a slaveholder never appears to me so

completely an agent of hell, as when I think of and look

upon my dear children. It is then that my feelings rise above

my control. I meant to have said more with respect to my

own prosperity and happiness, but thoughts and feelings

which this recital has quickened, unfit me to proceed fur-

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My Bondage and My Freedom

ther in that direction. The grim horrors of slavery rise in all

their ghastly terror before me; the wails of millions pierce

my heart and chill my blood. I remember the chain, the gag,

the bloody whip; the death-like gloom overshadowing the

broken spirit of the fettered bondman; the appalling liability

of his being torn away from wife and children, and sold like

a beast in the market. Say not that this is a picture of fancy.

You well know that I wear stripes on my back, inflicted by

your direction; and that you, while we were brothers in the

same church, caused this right hand, with which I am now

penning this letter, to be closely tied to my left, and my per-

son dragged, at the pistol’s mouth, fifteen miles, from the

Bay Side to Easton, to be sold like a beast in the market, for

the alleged crime of intending to escape from your posses-

sion. All this, and more, you remember, and know to be

perfectly true, not only of yourself, but of nearly all of the

slaveholders around you.

At this moment, you are probably the guilty holder of at

least three of my own dear sisters, and my only brother, in

bondage. These you regard as your property. They are re-

corded on your ledger, or perhaps have been sold to human

flesh-mongers, with a view to filling our own ever-hungry

purse. Sir, I desire to know how and where these dear sisters

are. Have you sold them? or are they still in your possession?

What has become of them? are they living or dead? And my

dear old grandmother, whom you turned out like an old horse

to die in the woods—is she still alive? Write and let me know

all about them. If my grandmother be still alive, she is of no

service to you, for by this time she must be nearly eighty

years old—too old to be cared for by one to whom she has

ceased to be of service; send her to me at Rochester, or bring

her to Philadelphia, and it shall be the crowning happiness

of my life to take care of her in her old age. Oh! she was to

me a mother and a father, so far as hard toil for my comfort

could make her such. Send me my grandmother! that I may

watch over and take care of her in her old age. And my sis-

ters—let me know all about them. I would write to them,

and learn all I want to know of them, without disturbing

you in any way, but that, through your unrighteous con-

duct, they have been entirely deprived of the power to read

and write. You have kept them in utter ignorance, and have

therefore robbed them of the sweet enjoyments of writing or

291

Frederick Douglas

receiving letters from absent friends and relatives. Your wick-

edness and cruelty, committed in this respect on your fel-

low-creatures, are greater than all the stripes you have laid

upon my back or theirs. It is an outrage upon the soul, a war

upon the immortal spirit, and one for which you must give

account at the bar of our common Father and Creator.

The responsibility which you have assumed in this regard

is truly awful, and how you could stagger under it these many

years is marvelous. Your mind must have become darkened,

your heart hardened, your conscience seared and petrified,

or you would have long since thrown off the accursed load,

and sought relief at the hands of a sin-forgiving God. How,

let me ask, would you look upon me, were I, some dark night,

in company with a band of hardened villains, to enter the

precincts of your elegant dwelling, and seize the person of

your own lovely daughter, Amanda, and carry her off from

your family, friends, and all the loved ones of her youth—

make her my slave—compel her to work, and I take her

wages—place her name on my ledger as property—disre-

gard her personal rights—fetter the powers of her immortal

soul by denying her the right and privilege of learning to

read and write—feed her coarsely—clothe her scantily, and

whip her on the naked back occasionally; more, and still

more horrible, leave her unprotected—a degraded victim to

the brutal lust of fiendish overseers, who would pollute,

blight, and blast her fair soul—rob her of all dignity—de-

stroy her virtue, and annihilate in her person all the graces

that adorn the character of virtuous womanhood? I ask, how

would you regard me, if such were my conduct? Oh! the

vocabulary of the damned would not afford a word suffi-

ciently infernal to express your idea of my God-provoking

wickedness. Yet, sir, your treatment of my beloved sisters is

in all essential points precisely like the case I have now sup-

posed. Damning as would be such a deed on my part, it

would be no more so than that which you have committed

against me and my sisters.

I will now bring this letter to a close; you shall hear from

me again unless you let me hear from you. I intend to make

use of you as a weapon with which to assail the system of

slavery—as a means of concentrating public attention on

the system, and deepening the horror of trafficking in the

souls and bodies of men. I shall make use of you as a means

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My Bondage and My Freedom

of exposing the character of the American church and

clergy—and as a means of bringing this guilty nation, with

yourself, to repentance. In doing this, I entertain no malice

toward you personally. There is no roof under which you

would be more safe than mine, and there is nothing in my

house which you might need for your comfort, which I would

not readily grant. Indeed, I should esteem it a privilege to set

you an example as to how mankind ought to treat each other.

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

THE NATHE NATHE NATHE NATHE NATURE OF SLTURE OF SLTURE OF SLTURE OF SLTURE OF SLAAAAAVERVERVERVERVERYYYYY

EEEEExtrxtrxtrxtrxtract fract fract fract fract from a Lecturom a Lecturom a Lecturom a Lecturom a Lecture on Se on Se on Se on Se on Slavlavlavlavlaverererereryyyyy, at R, at R, at R, at R, at Rochesterochesterochesterochesterochester,,,,,

DDDDDecember 1, 1850ecember 1, 1850ecember 1, 1850ecember 1, 1850ecember 1, 1850

More than twenty years of my life were consumed in a state

of slavery. My childhood was environed by the baneful pe-

culiarities of the slave system. I grew up to manhood in the

presence of this hydra headed monster—not as a master—

not as an idle spectator—not as the guest of the slaveholder—

but as A SLAVE, eating the bread and drinking the cup of

slavery with the most degraded of my brother-bondmen, and

sharing with them all the painful conditions of their wretched

lot. In consideration of these facts, I feel that I have a right

to speak, and to speak strongly. Yet, my friends, I feel bound

to speak truly.

Goading as have been the cruelties to which I have been

subjected—bitter as have been the trials through which I

have passed—exasperating as have been, and still are, the

indignities offered to my manhood—I find in them no ex-

cuse for the slightest departure from truth in dealing with

any branch of this subject.

293

Frederick Douglas

First of all, I will state, as well as I can, the legal and social

relation of master and slave. A master is one—to speak in

the vocabulary of the southern states—who claims and exer-

cises a right of property in the person of a fellow-man. This

he does with the force of the law and the sanction of south-

ern religion. The law gives the master absolute power over

the slave. He may work him, flog him, hire him out, sell

him, and, in certain contingencies, kill him, with perfect

impunity. The slave is a human being, divested of all rights—

reduced to the level of a brute—a mere “chattel” in the eye

of the law—placed beyond the circle of human brother-

hood—cut off from his kind—his name, which the “record-

ing angel” may have enrolled in heaven, among the blest, is

impiously inserted in a master’s ledger, with horses, sheep,

and swine. In law, the slave has no wife, no children, no

country, and no home. He can own nothing, possess noth-

ing, acquire nothing, but what must belong to another. To

eat the fruit of his own toil, to clothe his person with the

work of his own hands, is considered stealing. He toils that

another may reap the fruit; he is industrious that another

may live in idleness; he eats unbolted meal that another may

eat the bread of fine flour; he labors in chains at home, un-

der a burning sun and biting lash, that another may ride in

ease and splendor abroad; he lives in ignorance that another

may be educated; he is abused that another may be exalted;

he rests his toil-worn limbs on the cold, damp ground that

another may repose on the softest pillow; he is clad in coarse

and tattered raiment that another may be arrayed in purple

and fine linen; he is sheltered only by the wretched hovel

that a master may dwell in a magnificent mansion; and to

this condition he is bound down as by an arm of iron.

From this monstrous relation there springs an unceasing

stream of most revolting cruelties. The very accompaniments

of the slave system stamp it as the offspring of hell itself. To

ensure good behavior, the slaveholder relies on the whip; to

induce proper humility, he relies on the whip; to rebuke what

he is pleased to term insolence, he relies on the whip; to

supply the place of wages as an incentive to toil, he relies on

the whip; to bind down the spirit of the slave, to imbrute

and destroy his manhood, he relies on the whip, the chain,

the gag, the thumb-screw, the pillory, the bowie knife the

pistol, and the blood-hound. These are the necessary and

294

My Bondage and My Freedom

unvarying accompaniments of the system. Wherever slavery

is found, these horrid instruments are also found. Whether

on the coast of Africa, among the savage tribes, or in South

Carolina, among the refined and civilized, slavery is the same,

and its accompaniments one and the same. It makes no dif-

ference whether the slaveholder worships the God of the

Christians, or is a follower of Mahomet, he is the minister of

the same cruelty, and the author of the same misery. Slavery

is always slavery; always the same foul, haggard, and damn-

ing scourge, whether found in the eastern or in the western

hemisphere.

There is a still deeper shade to be given to this picture. The

physical cruelties are indeed sufficiently harassing and re-

volting; but they are as a few grains of sand on the sea shore,

or a few drops of water in the great ocean, compared with

the stupendous wrongs which it inflicts upon the mental,

moral, and religious nature of its hapless victims. It is only

when we contemplate the slave as a moral and intellectual

being, that we can adequately comprehend the unparalleled

enormity of slavery, and the intense criminality of the

slaveholder. I have said that the slave was a man. “What a

piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in

faculties! In form and moving how express and admirable!

In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a God!

The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!”

The slave is a man, “the image of God,” but “a little lower

than the angels;” possessing a soul, eternal and indestruc-

tible; capable of endless happiness, or immeasurable woe; a

creature of hopes and fears, of affections and passions, of

joys and sorrows, and he is endowed with those mysterious

powers by which man soars above the things of time and

sense, and grasps, with undying tenacity, the elevating and

sublimely glorious idea of a God. It is such a being that is

smitten and blasted. The first work of slavery is to mar and

deface those characteristics of its victims which distinguish

men from things, and persons from property. Its first aim is to

destroy all sense of high moral and religious responsibility. It

reduces man to a mere machine. It cuts him off from his

Maker, it hides from him the laws of God, and leaves him to

grope his way from time to eternity in the dark, under the

arbitrary and despotic control of a frail, depraved, and sinful

fellow-man. As the serpent-charmer of India is compelled to

295

Frederick Douglas

extract the deadly teeth of his venomous prey before he is

able to handle him with impunity, so the slaveholder must

strike down the conscience of the slave before he can obtain

the entire mastery over his victim.

It is, then, the first business of the enslaver of men to blunt,

deaden, and destroy the central principle of human respon-

sibility. Conscience is, to the individual soul, and to society,

what the law of gravitation is to the universe. It holds society

together; it is the basis of all trust and confidence; it is the

pillar of all moral rectitude. Without it, suspicion would take

the place of trust; vice would be more than a match for vir-

tue; men would prey upon each other, like the wild beasts of

the desert; and earth would become a hell.

Nor is slavery more adverse to the conscience than it is to

the mind. This is shown by the fact, that in every state of the

American Union, where slavery exists, except the state of

Kentucky, there are laws absolutely prohibitory of education

among the slaves. The crime of teaching a slave to read is

punishable with severe fines and imprisonment, and, in some

instances, with death itself.

Nor are the laws respecting this matter a dead letter. Cases

may occur in which they are disregarded, and a few instances

may be found where slaves may have learned to read; but

such are isolated cases, and only prove the rule. The great

mass of slaveholders look upon education among the slaves

as utterly subversive of the slave system. I well remember

when my mistress first announced to my master that she

had discovered that I could read. His face colored at once

with surprise and chagrin. He said that “I was ruined, and

my value as a slave destroyed; that a slave should know noth-

ing but to obey his master; that to give a negro an inch would

lead him to take an ell; that having learned how to read, I

would soon want to know how to write; and that by-and-by

I would be running away.” I think my audience will bear

witness to the correctness of this philosophy, and to the lit-

eral fulfillment of this prophecy.

It is perfectly well understood at the south, that to educate

a slave is to make him discontened{sic} with slavery, and to

invest him with a power which shall open to him the trea-

sures of freedom; and since the object of the slaveholder is to

maintain complete authority over his slave, his constant vigi-

lance is exercised to prevent everything which militates

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My Bondage and My Freedom

against, or endangers, the stability of his authority. Educa-

tion being among the menacing influences, and, perhaps,

the most dangerous, is, therefore, the most cautiously guarded

against.

It is true that we do not often hear of the enforcement of

the law, punishing as a crime the teaching of slaves to read,

but this is not because of a want of disposition to enforce it.

The true reason or explanation of the matter is this: there is

the greatest unanimity of opinion among the white popula-

tion in the south in favor of the policy of keeping the slave in

ignorance. There is, perhaps, another reason why the law

against education is so seldom violated. The slave is too poor

to be able to offer a temptation sufficiently strong to induce

a white man to violate it; and it is not to be supposed that in

a community where the moral and religious sentiment is in

favor of slavery, many martyrs will be found sacrificing their

liberty and lives by violating those prohibitory enactments.

As a general rule, then, darkness reigns over the abodes of

the enslaved, and “how great is that darkness!”

We are sometimes told of the contentment of the slaves,

and are entertained with vivid pictures of their happiness.

We are told that they often dance and sing; that their mas-

ters frequently give them wherewith to make merry; in fine,

that they have little of which to complain. I admit that the

slave does sometimes sing, dance, and appear to be merry.

But what does this prove? It only proves to my mind, that

though slavery is armed with a thousand stings, it is not able

entirely to kill the elastic spirit of the bondman. That spirit

will rise and walk abroad, despite of whips and chains, and

extract from the cup of nature occasional drops of joy and

gladness. No thanks to the slaveholder, nor to slavery, that

the vivacious captive may sometimes dance in his chains; his

very mirth in such circumstances stands before God as an

accusing angel against his enslaver.

It is often said, by the opponents of the anti-slavery cause,

that the condition of the people of Ireland is more deplor-

able than that of the American slaves. Far be it from me to

underrate the sufferings of the Irish people. They have been

long oppressed; and the same heart that prompts me to plead

the cause of the American bondman, makes it impossible for

me not to sympathize with the oppressed of all lands. Yet I

must say that there is no analogy between the two cases. The

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Frederick Douglas

Irishman is poor, but he is not a slave. He may be in rags,

but he is not a slave. He is still the master of his own body,

and can say with the poet, “The hand of Douglass is his

own.” “The world is all before him, where to choose;” and

poor as may be my opinion of the British parliament, I can-

not believe that it will ever sink to such a depth of infamy as

to pass a law for the recapture of fugitive Irishmen! The shame

and scandal of kidnapping will long remain wholly monopo-

lized by the American congress. The Irishman has not only

the liberty to emigrate from his country, but he has liberty at

home. He can write, and speak, and cooperate for the at-

tainment of his rights and the redress of his wrongs.

The multitude can assemble upon all the green hills and

fertile plains of the Emerald Isle; they can pour out their

grievances, and proclaim their wants without molestation;

and the press, that “swift-winged messenger,” can bear the

tidings of their doings to the extreme bounds of the civilized

world. They have their “Conciliation Hall,” on the banks of

the Liffey, their reform clubs, and their newspapers; they

pass resolutions, send forth addresses, and enjoy the right of

petition. But how is it with the American slave? Where may

he assemble? Where is his Conciliation Hall? Where are his

newspapers? Where is his right of petition? Where is his free-

dom of speech? his liberty of the press? and his right of loco-

motion? He is said to be happy; happy men can speak. But

ask the slave what is his condition—what his state of mind—

what he thinks of enslavement? and you had as well address

your inquiries to the silent dead. There comes no voice from

the enslaved. We are left to gather his feelings by imagining

what ours would be, were our souls in his soul’s stead.

If there were no other fact descriptive of slavery, than that

the slave is dumb, this alone would be sufficient to mark the

slave system as a grand aggregation of human horrors.

Most who are present, will have observed that leading men

in this country have been putting forth their skill to secure

quiet to the nation. A system of measures to promote this

object was adopted a few months ago in congress. The result

of those measures is known. Instead of quiet, they have pro-

duced alarm; instead of peace, they have brought us war;

and so it must ever be.

While this nation is guilty of the enslavement of three mil-

lions of innocent men and women, it is as idle to think of

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My Bondage and My Freedom

having a sound and lasting peace, as it is to think there is no

God to take cognizance of the affairs of men. There can be

no peace to the wicked while slavery continues in the land.

It will be condemned; and while it is condemned there will

be agitation. Nature must cease to be nature; men must be-

come monsters; humanity must be transformed; Christian-

ity must be exterminated; all ideas of justice and the laws of

eternal goodness must be utterly blotted out from the hu-

man soul—ere a system so foul and infernal can escape con-

demnation, or this guilty republic can have a sound, endur-

ing peace.

INHUMANITINHUMANITINHUMANITINHUMANITINHUMANITY OF SLY OF SLY OF SLY OF SLY OF SLAAAAAVERVERVERVERVERYYYYY

EEEEExtrxtrxtrxtrxtract fract fract fract fract from A Lecturom A Lecturom A Lecturom A Lecturom A Lecture on Se on Se on Se on Se on Slavlavlavlavlaverererereryyyyy, at R, at R, at R, at R, at Rochesterochesterochesterochesterochester,,,,,

DDDDDecember 8, 1850ecember 8, 1850ecember 8, 1850ecember 8, 1850ecember 8, 1850

The relation of master and slave has been called patriarchal,

and only second in benignity and tenderness to that of the

parent and child. This representation is doubtless believed

by many northern people; and this may account, in part, for

the lack of interest which we find among persons whom we

are bound to believe to be honest and humane. What, then,

are the facts? Here I will not quote my own experience in

slavery; for this you might call one-sided testimony. I will

not cite the declarations of abolitionists; for these you might

pronounce exaggerations. I will not rely upon advertisements

cut from newspapers; for these you might call isolated cases.

But I will refer you to the laws adopted by the legislatures of

the slave states. I give you such evidence, because it cannot

be invalidated nor denied. I hold in my hand sundry ex-

tracts from the slave codes of our country, from which I will

quote.

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Frederick Douglas

Now, if the foregoing be an indication of kindness, what is

cruelty? If this be parental affection, what is bitter malignity?

A more atrocious and blood-thirsty string of laws could not

well be conceived of. And yet I am bound to say that they

fall short of indicating the horrible cruelties constantly prac-

ticed in the slave states.

I admit that there are individual slaveholders less cruel

and barbarous than is allowed by law; but these form the

exception. The majority of slaveholders find it necessary,

to insure obedience, at times, to avail themselves of the

utmost extent of the law, and many go beyond it. If kind-

ness were the rule, we should not see advertisements filling

the columns of almost every southern newspaper, offering

large rewards for fugitive slaves, and describing them as

being branded with irons, loaded with chains, and scarred

by the whip. One of the most telling testimonies against

the pretended kindness of slaveholders, is the fact that un-

counted numbers of fugitives are now inhabiting the Dis-

mal Swamp, preferring the untamed wilderness to their

cultivated homes—choosing rather to encounter hunger

and thirst, and to roam with the wild beasts of the forest,

running the hazard of being hunted and shot down, than

to submit to the authority of kind masters.

I tell you, my friends, humanity is never driven to such an

unnatural course of life, without great wrong. The slave finds

more of the milk of human kindness in the bosom of the

savage Indian, than in the heart of his Christian master. He

leaves the man of the bible, and takes refuge with the man of

the tomahawk. He rushes from the praying slaveholder into

the paws of the bear. He quits the homes of men for the

haunts of wolves. He prefers to encounter a life of trial, how-

ever bitter, or death, however terrible, to dragging out his

existence under the dominion of these kind masters.

The apologists for slavery often speak of the abuses of sla-

very; and they tell us that they are as much opposed to those

abuses as we are; and that they would go as far to correct

those abuses and to ameliorate the condition of the slave as

anybody. The answer to that view is, that slavery is itself an

abuse; that it lives by abuse; and dies by the absence of abuse.

Grant that slavery is right; grant that the relations of master

and slave may innocently exist; and there is not a single out-

rage which was ever committed against the slave but what

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My Bondage and My Freedom

finds an apology in the very necessity of the case. As we said

by a slaveholder (the Rev. A. G. Few) to the Methodist con-

ference, “If the relation be right, the means to maintain it

are also right;” for without those means slavery could not

exist. Remove the dreadful scourge—the plaited thong—the

galling fetter—the accursed chain—and let the slaveholder

rely solely upon moral and religious power, by which to se-

cure obedience to his orders, and how long do you suppose a

slave would remain on his plantation? The case only needs

to be stated; it carries its own refutation with it.

Absolute and arbitrary power can never be maintained by

one man over the body and soul of another man, without

brutal chastisement and enormous cruelty.

To talk of kindness entering into a relation in which one

party is robbed of wife, of children, of his hard earnings, of

home, of friends, of society, of knowledge, and of all that

makes this life desirable, is most absurd, wicked, and pre-

posterous.

I have shown that slavery is wicked—wicked, in that it vio-

lates the great law of liberty, written on every human heart—

wicked, in that it violates the first command of the decalogue—

wicked, in that it fosters the most disgusting licentiousness—

wicked, in that it mars and defaces the image of God by cruel

and barbarous inflictions—wicked, in that it contravenes the

laws of eternal justice, and tramples in the dust all the humane

and heavenly precepts of the New Testament.

The evils resulting from this huge system of iniquity are

not confined to the states south of Mason and Dixon’s line.

Its noxious influence can easily be traced throughout our

northern borders. It comes even as far north as the state of

New York. Traces of it may be seen even in Rochester; and

travelers have told me it casts its gloomy shadows across the

lake, approaching the very shores of Queen Victoria’s do-

minions.

The presence of slavery may be explained by—as it is the

explanation of—the mobocratic violence which lately dis-

graced New York, and which still more recently disgraced

the city of Boston. These violent demonstrations, these out-

rageous invasions of human rights, faintly indicate the pres-

ence and power of slavery here. It is a significant fact, that

while meetings for almost any purpose under heaven may be

held unmolested in the city of Boston, that in the same city,

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Frederick Douglas

a meeting cannot be peaceably held for the purpose of preach-

ing the doctrine of the American Declaration of Indepen-

dence, “that all men are created equal.” The pestiferous breath

of slavery taints the whole moral atmosphere of the north,

and enervates the moral energies of the whole people.

The moment a foreigner ventures upon our soil, and ut-

ters a natural repugnance to oppression, that moment he is

made to feel that there is little sympathy in this land for him.

If he were greeted with smiles before, he meets with frowns

now; and it shall go well with him if he be not subjected to

that peculiarly fining method of showing fealty to slavery,

the assaults of a mob.

Now, will any man tell me that such a state of things is

natural, and that such conduct on the part of the people

of the north, springs from a consciousness of rectitude?

No! every fibre of the human heart unites in detestation

of tyranny, and it is only when the human mind has be-

come familiarized with slavery, is accustomed to its injus-

tice, and corrupted by its selfishness, that it fails to record

its abhorrence of slavery, and does not exult in the tri-

umphs of liberty.

The northern people have been long connected with sla-

very; they have been linked to a decaying corpse, which has

destroyed the moral health. The union of the government;

the union of the north and south, in the political parties; the

union in the religious organizations of the land, have all served

to deaden the moral sense of the northern people, and to

impregnate them with sentiments and ideas forever in con-

flict with what as a nation we call genius of American institu-

tions. Rightly viewed, this is an alarming fact, and ought to

rally all that is pure, just, and holy in one determined effort

to crush the monster of corruption, and to scatter “its guilty

profits” to the winds. In a high moral sense, as well as in a

national sense, the whole American people are responsible

for slavery, and must share, in its guilt and shame, with the

most obdurate men-stealers of the south.

While slavery exists, and the union of these states endures,

every American citizen must bear the chagrin of hearing his

country branded before the world as a nation of liars and

hypocrites; and behold his cherished flag pointed at with the

utmost scorn and derision. Even now an American abroad is

pointed out in the crowd, as coming from a land where men

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gain their fortunes by “the blood of souls,” from a land of

slave markets, of blood-hounds, and slave-hunters; and, in

some circles, such a man is shunned altogether, as a moral

pest. Is it not time, then, for every American to awake, and

inquire into his duty with respect to this subject?

Wendell Phillips—the eloquent New England orator—on

his return from Europe, in 1842, said, “As I stood upon the

shores of Genoa, and saw floating on the placid waters of the

Mediterranean, the beautiful American war ship Ohio, with

her masts tapering proportionately aloft, and an eastern sun

reflecting her noble form upon the sparkling waters, attract-

ing the gaze of the multitude, my first impulse was of pride,

to think myself an American; but when I thought that the

first time that gallant ship would gird on her gorgeous ap-

parel, and wake from beneath her sides her dormant thun-

ders, it would be in defense of the African slave trade, I

blushed in utter shame for my country.”

Let me say again, slavery is alike the sin and the shame of the

American people; it is a blot upon the American name, and the

only national reproach which need make an American hang his

head in shame, in the presence of monarchical governments.

With this gigantic evil in the land, we are constantly told

to look at home; if we say ought against crowned heads, we

are pointed to our enslaved millions; if we talk of sending

missionaries and bibles abroad, we are pointed to three mil-

lions now lying in worse than heathen darkness; if we ex-

press a word of sympathy for Kossuth and his Hungarian

fugitive brethren, we are pointed to that horrible and hell-

black enactment, “the fugitive slave bill.”

Slavery blunts the edge of all our rebukes of tyranny

abroad—the criticisms that we make upon other nations,

only call forth ridicule, contempt, and scorn. In a word, we

are made a reproach and a by-word to a mocking earth, and

we must continue to be so made, so long as slavery contin-

ues to pollute our soil.

We have heard much of late of the virtue of patriotism, the

love of country, &c., and this sentiment, so natural and so

strong, has been impiously appealed to, by all the powers of

human selfishness, to cherish the viper which is stinging our

national life away. In its name, we have been called upon to

deepen our infamy before the world, to rivet the fetter more

firmly on the limbs of the enslaved, and to become utterly

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Frederick Douglas

insensible to the voice of human woe that is wafted to us on

every southern gale. We have been called upon, in its name,

to desecrate our whole land by the footprints of slave-hunt-

ers, and even to engage ourselves in the horrible business of

kidnapping.

I, too, would invoke the spirit of patriotism; not in a nar-

row and restricted sense, but, I trust, with a broad and manly

signification; not to cover up our national sins, but to in-

spire us with sincere repentance; not to hide our shame from

the the{sic} world’s gaze, but utterly to abolish the cause of

that shame; not to explain away our gross inconsistencies as

a nation, but to remove the hateful, jarring, and incongru-

ous elements from the land; not to sustain an egregious

wrong, but to unite all our energies in the grand effort to

remedy that wrong.

I would invoke the spirit of patriotism, in the name of the

law of the living God, natural and revealed, and in the full

belief that “righteousness exalteth a nation, while sin is a

reproach to any people.” “He that walketh righteously, and

speaketh uprightly; he that despiseth the gain of oppressions,

that shaketh his hands from the holding of bribes, he shall

dwell on high, his place of defense shall be the munitions of

rocks, bread shall be given him, his water shall be sure.”

We have not only heard much lately of patriotism, and of its

aid being invoked on the side of slavery and injustice, but the

very prosperity of this people has been called in to deafen them

to the voice of duty, and to lead them onward in the pathway

of sin. Thus has the blessing of God been converted into a

curse. In the spirit of genuine patriotism, I warn the American

people, by all that is just and honorable, to BEWARE!

I warn them that, strong, proud, and prosperous though

we be, there is a power above us that can “bring down high

looks; at the breath of whose mouth our wealth may take

wings; and before whom every knee shall bow;” and who

can tell how soon the avenging angel may pass over our land,

and the sable bondmen now in chains, may become the in-

struments of our nation’s chastisement! Without appealing

to any higher feeling, I would warn the American people,

and the American government, to be wise in their day and

generation. I exhort them to remember the history of other

nations; and I remind them that America cannot always sit

“as a queen,” in peace and repose; that prouder and stronger

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My Bondage and My Freedom

governments than this have been shattered by the bolts of a

just God; that the time may come when those they now de-

spise and hate, may be needed; when those whom they now

compel by oppression to be enemies, may be wanted as

friends. What has been, may be again. There is a point be-

yond which human endurance cannot go. The crushed worm

may yet turn under the heel of the oppressor. I warn them,

then, with all solemnity, and in the name of retributive jus-

tice, to look to their ways; for in an evil hour, those sable arms

that have, for the last two centuries, been engaged in culti-

vating and adorning the fair fields of our country, may yet

become the instruments of terror, desolation, and death,

throughout our borders.

It was the sage of the Old Dominion that said—while

speaking of the possibility of a conflict between the slaves

and the slaveholders—“God has no attribute that could take

sides with the oppressor in such a contest. I tremble for my

country when I reflect that God is just, and that his justice

cannot sleep forever.” Such is the warning voice of Thomas

Jefferson; and every day’s experience since its utterance until

now, confirms its wisdom, and commends its truth.

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Fellow-Citizens—Pardon me, and allow me to ask, why am

I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I

represent, to do with your national independence? Are the

great principles of political freedom and of natural justice,

embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to

us? and am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble

offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits,

and express devout gratitude for the blessings, resulting from

your independence to us?

Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affir-

mative answer could be truthfully returned to these ques-

tions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and

delightful. For who is there so cold that a nation’s sympathy

could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims

of gratitude, that would not thankfully acknowledge such

priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish, that would not

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Frederick Douglas

give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation’s jubilee,

when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs?

I am not that man. In a case like that, the dumb might elo-

quently speak, and the “lame man leap as an hart.”

But, such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad

sense of the disparity between us. I am not included within

the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence

only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The bless-

ings in which you this day rejoice, are not enjoyed in com-

mon. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and

independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you,

not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to

you, has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of

July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To

drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of

liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems,

were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean,

citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day? If so,

there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that

it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes,

towering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of

the Almighty, burying that nation in irrecoverable ruin! I

can to-day take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-

smitten people.

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! we wept

when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the

willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us

away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us

required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of

Zion. How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land? If

I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cun-

ning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the

roof of my mouth.”

Fellow-citizens, above your national, tumultous joy, I hear

the mournful wail of millions, whose chains, heavy and griev-

ous yesterday, are to-day rendered more intolerable by the

jubilant shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not

faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorrow this

day, “may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my

tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!” To forget them, to

pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popu-

lar theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking,

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My Bondage and My Freedom

and would make me a reproach before God and the world.

My subject, then, fellow-citizens, is AMERICAN SLAVERY.

I shall see this day and its popular characteristics from the

slave’s point of view. Standing there, identified with the

American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not hesi-

tate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and con-

duct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this

Fourth of July. Whether we turn to the declarations of the

past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the

nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false

to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself

to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed

and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of

humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is

fettered, in the name of the constitution and the bible, which

are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question

and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command,

everything that serves to perpetuate slavery—the great sin

and shame of America! “I will not equivocate; I will not ex-

cuse;” I will use the severest language I can command; and

yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judg-

ment is not blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a

slaveholder, shall not confess to be right and just.

But I fancy I hear some one of my audience say, it is just in

this circumstance that you and your brother abolitionists fail

to make a favorable impression on the public mind. Would

you argue more, and denounce less, would you persuade more

and rebuke less, your cause would be much more likely to

succeed. But, I submit, where all is plain there is nothing to

be argued. What point in the anti-slavery creed would you

have me argue? On what branch of the subject do the people

of this country need light? Must I undertake to prove that

the slave is a man? That point is conceded already. Nobody

doubts it. The slaveholders themselves acknowledge it in the

enactment of laws for their government. They acknowledge

it when they punish disobedience on the part of the slave.

There are seventy-two crimes in the state of Virginia, which,

if committed by a black man (no matter how ignorant he

be), subject him to the punishment of death; while only two

of these same crimes will subject a white man to the like

punishment. What is this but the acknowledgement that the

slave is a moral, intellectual, and responsible being. The man-

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Frederick Douglas

hood of the slave is conceded. It is admitted in the fact that

southern statute books are covered with enactments forbid-

ding, under severe fines and penalties, the teaching of the

slave to read or write. When you can point to any such laws,

in reference to the beasts of the field, then I may consent to

argue the manhood of the slave. When the dogs in your

streets, when the fowls of the air, when the cattle on your

hills, when the fish of the sea, and the reptiles that crawl,

shall be unable to distinguish the slave from a brute, then

will I argue with you that the slave is a man!

For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood

of the Negro race. Is it not astonishing that, while we are

plowing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds of mechani-

cal tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships,

working in metals of brass, iron, copper, silver, and gold;

that, while we are reading, writing, and cyphering, acting as

clerks, merchants, and secretaries, having among us lawyers,

doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and teach-

ers; that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises

common to other men—digging gold in California, captur-

ing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the

hillside, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in

families as husbands, wives, and children, and, above all,

confessing and worshiping the Christian’s God, and looking

hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave—we are

called upon to prove that we are men!

Would you have me argue that man is entitled to liberty?

that he is the rightful owner of his own body? You have al-

ready declared it. Must I argue the wrongfulness of slavery?

Is that a question for republicans? Is it to be settled by the

rules of logic and argumentation, as a matter beset with great

difficulty, involving a doubtful application of the principle

of justice, hard to be understood? How should I look to-day

in the presence of Americans, dividing and subdividing a

discourse, to show that men have a natural right to freedom,

speaking of it relatively and positively, negatively and affir-

matively? To do so, would be to make myself ridiculous, and

to offer an insult to your understanding. There is not a man

beneath the canopy of heaven that does not know that sla-

very is wrong for him.

What! am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes,

to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to

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My Bondage and My Freedom

keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow-men, to

beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the lash, to

load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell

them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock out their

teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and

submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system, thus

marked with blood and stained with pollution, is wrong?

No; I will not. I have better employment for my time and

strength than such arguments would imply.

What, then, remains to be argued? Is it that slavery is not

divine; that God did not establish it; that our doctors of

divinity are mistaken? There is blasphemy in the thought.

That which is inhuman cannot be divine. Who can reason

on such a proposition! They that can, may! I cannot. The

time for such argument is past.

At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argu-

ment, is needed. Oh! had I the ability, and could I reach the

nation’s ear, I would to-day pour out a fiery stream of biting

ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern re-

buke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the

gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirl-

wind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be

quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the

propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the

nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man

must be proclaimed and denounced.

What to the American slave is your Fourth of July? I an-

swer, a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in

the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the

constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your

boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness,

swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heart-

less; your denunciations of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence;

your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your

prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with

all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him mere bom-

bast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy—a thin veil

to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages.

There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more

shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United

States, at this very hour.

Go where you may, search where you will, roam through

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Frederick Douglas

all the monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel

through South America, search out every abuse, and when

you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the

every-day practices of this nation, and you will say with me,

that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America

reigns without a rival.

THE INTERNAL SLTHE INTERNAL SLTHE INTERNAL SLTHE INTERNAL SLTHE INTERNAL SLAAAAAVE VE VE VE VE TRADETRADETRADETRADETRADE

Take the American slave trade, which, we are told by the

papers, is especially prosperous just now. Ex-senator Benton

tells us that the price of men was never higher than now. He

mentions the fact to show that slavery is in no danger. This

trade is one of the peculiarities of American institutions. It is

carried on in all the large towns and cities in one-half of this

confederacy; and millions are pocketed every year by dealers

in this horrid traffic. In several states this trade is a chief

source of wealth. It is called (in contradistinction to the for-

eign slave trade) “the internal slave trade.” It is, probably, called

so, too, in order to divert from it the horror with which the

foreign slave trade is contemplated. That trade has long since

been denounced by this government as piracy. It has been

denounced with burning words, from the high places of the

nation, as an execrable traffic. To arrest it, to put an end to

it, this nation keeps a squadron, at immense cost, on the

coast of Africa. Everywhere in this country, it is safe to speak

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My Bondage and My Freedom

of this foreign slave trade as a most inhuman traffic, op-

posed alike to the laws of God and of man. The duty to

extirpate and destroy it is admitted even by our doctors of

divinity. In order to put an end to it, some of these last have

consented that their colored brethren (nominally free) should

leave this country, and establish themselves on the western

coast of Africa. It is, however, a notable fact, that, while so

much execration is poured out by Americans, upon those

engaged in the foreign slave trade, the men engaged in the

slave trade between the states pass without condemnation,

and their business is deemed honorable.

Behold the practical operation of this internal slave trade—

the American slave trade sustained by American politics and

American religion! Here you will see men and women reared

like swine for the market. You know what is a swine-drover?

I will show you a man-drover. They inhabit all our southern

states. They perambulate the country, and crowd the high-

ways of the nation with droves of human stock. You will see

one of these human-flesh-jobbers, armed with pistol, whip,

and bowie-knife, driving a company of a hundred men,

women, and children, from the Potomac to the slave market

at New Orleans. These wretched people are to be sold singly,

or in lots, to suit purchasers. They are food for the cotton-

field and the deadly sugar-mill. Mark the sad procession as it

moves wearily along, and the inhuman wretch who drives

them. Hear his savage yells and his blood-chilling oaths, as

he hurries on his affrighted captives. There, see the old man,

with locks thinned and gray. Cast one glance, if you please,

upon that young mother, whose shoulders are bare to the

scorching sun, her briny tears falling on the brow of the babe

in her arms. See, too, that girl of thirteen, weeping, yes, weep-

ing, as she thinks of the mother from whom she has been

torn. The drove moves tardily. Heat and sorrow have nearly

consumed their strength. Suddenly you hear a quick snap,

like the discharge of a rifle; the fetters clank, and the chain

rattles simultaneously; your ears are saluted with a scream

that seems to have torn its way to the center of your soul.

The crack you heard was the sound of the slave whip; the

scream you heard was from the woman you saw with the

babe. Her speed had faltered under the weight of her child

and her chains; that gash on her shoulder tells her to move

on. Follow this drove to New Orleans. Attend the auction;

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Frederick Douglas

see men examined like horses; see the forms of women rudely

and brutally exposed to the shocking gaze of American slave-

buyers. See this drove sold and separated forever; and never

forget the deep, sad sobs that arose from that scattered mul-

titude. Tell me, citizens, where, under the sun, can you wit-

ness a spectacle more fiendish and shocking. Yet this is but a

glance at the American slave trade, as it exists at this mo-

ment, in the ruling part of the United States.

I was born amid such sights and scenes. To me the Ameri-

can slave trade is a terrible reality. When a child, my soul was

often pierced with a sense of its horrors. I lived on Philpot

street, Fell’s Point, Baltimore, and have watched from the

wharves the slave ships in the basin, anchored from the shore,

with their cargoes of human flesh, waiting for favorable winds

to waft them down the Chesapeake. There was, at that time, a

grand slave mart kept at the head of Pratt street, by Austin

Woldfolk. His agents were sent into every town and county in

Maryland, announcing their arrival through the papers, and

on flaming hand-bills, headed, “cash for negroes.” These men

were generally well dressed, and very captivating in their man-

ners; ever ready to drink, to treat, and to gamble. The fate of

many a slave has depended upon the turn of a single card; and

many a child has been snatched from the arms of its mothers

by bargains arranged in a state of brutal drunkenness.

The flesh-mongers gather up their victims by dozens, and

drive them, chained, to the general depot at Baltimore. When

a sufficient number have been collected here, a ship is char-

tered, for the purpose of conveying the forlorn crew to Mo-

bile or to New Orleans. From the slave-prison to the ship,

they are usually driven in the darkness of night; for since the

anti-slavery agitation a certain caution is observed.

In the deep, still darkness of midnight, I have been often

aroused by the dead, heavy footsteps and the piteous cries of

the chained gangs that passed our door. The anguish of my

boyish heart was intense; and I was often consoled, when

speaking to my mistress in the morning, to hear her say that

the custom was very wicked; that she hated to hear the rattle

of the chains, and the heart-rending cries. I was glad to find

one who sympathized with me in my horror.

Fellow citizens, this murderous traffic is to-day in active

operation in this boasted republic. In the solitude of my spirit,

I see clouds of dust raised on the highways of the south; I see

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the bleeding footsteps; I hear the doleful wail of fettered

humanity, on the way to the slave markets, where the vic-

tims are to be sold like horses, sheep, and swine, knocked off

to the highest bidder. There I see the tenderest ties ruthlessly

broken, to gratify the lust, caprice, and rapacity of the buy-

ers and sellers of men. My soul sickens at the sight.

Is this the land your fathers loved?

The freedom which they toiled to win?

Is this the earth whereon they moved?

Are these the graves they slumber in?

But a still more inhuman, disgraceful, and scandalous state

of things remains to be presented. By an act of the American

congress, not yet two years old, slavery has been national-

ized in its most horrible and revolting form. By that act,

Mason and Dixon’s line has been obliterated; New York has

become as Virginia; and the power to hold, hunt, and sell

men, women, and children as slaves, remains no longer a

mere state institution, but is now an institution of the whole

United States. The power is coextensive with the star-spangled

banner and American christianity. Where these go, may also

go the merciless slave-hunter. Where these are, man is not

sacred. He is a bird for the sportsman’s gun. By that most

foul and fiendish of all human decrees, the liberty and per-

son of every man are put in peril. Your broad republican

domain is a hunting-ground for men. Not for thieves and

robbers, enemies of society, merely, but for men guilty of no

crime. Your law-makers have commanded all good citizens

to engage in this hellish sport. Your president, your secretary

of state, your lords, nobles, and ecclesiastics, enforce as a

duty you owe to your free and glorious country and to your

God, that you do this accursed thing. Not fewer than forty

Americans have within the past two years been hunted down,

and without a moment’s warning, hurried away in chains,

and consigned to slavery and excruciating torture. Some of

these have had wives and children dependent on them for

bread; but of this no account was made. The right of the

hunter to his prey, stands superior to the right of marriage,

and to all rights in this republic, the rights of God included!

For black men there are neither law, justice, humanity, nor

religion. The fugitive slave law makes MERCY TO THEM

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Frederick Douglas

A CRIME; and bribes the judge who tries them. An Ameri-

can judge GETS TEN DOLLARS FOR EVERY VICTIM

HE CONSIGNS to slavery, and five, when he fails to do so.

The oath of an{sic} two villains is sufficient, under this hell-

black enactment, to send the most pious and exemplary black

man into the remorseless jaws of slavery! His own testimony

is nothing. He can bring no witnesses for himself. The min-

ister of American justice is bound by the law to hear but one

side, and that side is the side of the oppressor. Let this damn-

ing fact be perpetually told. Let it be thundered around the

world, that, in tyrant-killing, king hating, people-loving,

democratic, Christian America, the seats of justice are filled

with judges, who hold their office under an open and pal-

pable bribe, and are bound, in deciding in the case of a man’s

liberty, to hear only his accusers!

In glaring violation of justice, in shameless disregard of

the forms of administering law, in cunning arrangement to

entrap the defenseless, and in diabolical intent, this fugitive

slave law stands alone in the annals of tyrannical legislation.

I doubt if there be another nation on the globe having the

brass and the baseness to put such a law on the statute-book.

If any man in this assembly thinks differently from me in

this matter, and feels able to disprove my statements, I will

gladly confront him at any suitable time and place he may

select.

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My Bondage and My Freedom

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Sir, it is evident that there is in this country a purely slavery

party—a party which exists for no other earthly purpose but

to promote the interests of slavery. The presence of this party

is felt everywhere in the republic. It is known by no particu-

lar name, and has assumed no definite shape; but its branches

reach far and wide in the church and in the state. This shape-

less and nameless party is not intangible in other and more

important respects. That party, sir, has determined upon a

fixed, definite, and comprehensive policy toward the whole

colored population of the United States. What that policy is,

it becomes us as abolitionists, and especially does it become

the colored people themselves, to consider and to under-

stand fully. We ought to know who our enemies are, where

they are, and what are their objects and measures. Well, sir,

here is my version of it—not original with me—but mine

because I hold it to be true.

I understand this policy to comprehend five cardinal ob-

jects. They are these: 1st. The complete suppression of all

anti-slavery discussion. 2d. The expatriation of the entire free

people of color from the United States. 3d. The unending

perpetuation of slavery in this republic. 4th. The national-

ization of slavery to the extent of making slavery respected

in every state of the Union. 5th. The extension of slavery

over Mexico and the entire South American states.

Sir, these objects are forcibly presented to us in the stern

logic of passing events; in the facts which are and have been

passing around us during the last three years. The country

has been and is now dividing on these grand issues. In their

magnitude, these issues cast all others into the shade, depriv-

ing them of all life and vitality. Old party ties are broken.

Like is finding its like on either side of these great issues, and

the great battle is at hand. For the present, the best represen-

tative of the slavery party in politics is the democratic party.

Its great head for the present is President Pierce, whose boast

it was, before his election, that his whole life had been con-

sistent with the interests of slavery, that he is above reproach

on that score. In his inaugural address, he reassures the south

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Frederick Douglas

on this point. Well, the head of the slave power being in

power, it is natural that the pro slavery elements should clus-

ter around the administration, and this is rapidly being done.

A fraternization is going on. The stringent protectionists and

the free-traders strike hands. The supporters of Fillmore are

becoming the supporters of Pierce. The silver-gray whig

shakes hands with the hunker democrat; the former only

differing from the latter in name. They are of one heart, one

mind, and the union is natural and perhaps inevitable. Both

hate Negroes; both hate progress; both hate the “higher law;”

both hate William H. Seward; both hate the free democratic

party; and upon this hateful basis they are forming a union

of hatred. “Pilate and Herod are thus made friends.” Even

the central organ of the whig party is extending its beggar

hand for a morsel from the table of slavery democracy, and

when spurned from the feast by the more deserving, it pock-

ets the insult; when kicked on one side it turns the other,

and preseveres in its importunities. The fact is, that paper

comprehends the demands of the times; it understands the

age and its issues; it wisely sees that slavery and freedom are

the great antagonistic forces in the country, and it goes to its

own side. Silver grays and hunkers all understand this. They

are, therefore, rapidly sinking all other questions to nothing,

compared with the increasing demands of slavery. They are

collecting, arranging, and consolidating their forces for the

accomplishment of their appointed work.

The keystone to the arch of this grand union of the slavery

party of the United States, is the compromise of 1850. In

that compromise we have all the objects of our slaveholding

policy specified. It is, sir, favorable to this view of the designs

of the slave power, that both the whig and the democratic

party bent lower, sunk deeper, and strained harder, in their

conventions, preparatory to the late presidential election, to

meet the demands of the slavery party than at any previous

time in their history. Never did parties come before the north-

ern people with propositions of such undisguised contempt

for the moral sentiment and the religious ideas of that people.

They virtually asked them to unite in a war upon free speech,

and upon conscience, and to drive the Almighty presence

from the councils of the nation. Resting their platforms upon

the fugitive slave bill, they boldly asked the people for politi-

cal power to execute the horrible and hell-black provisions

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My Bondage and My Freedom

of that bill. The history of that election reveals, with great

clearness, the extent to which slavery has shot its leprous

distillment through the life-blood of the nation. The party

most thoroughly opposed to the cause of justice and hu-

manity, triumphed; while the party suspected of a leaning

toward liberty, was overwhelmingly defeated, some say an-

nihilated.

But here is a still more important fact, illustrating the de-

signs of the slave power. It is a fact full of meaning, that no

sooner did the democratic slavery party come into power,

than a system of legislation was presented to the legislatures

of the northern states, designed to put the states in harmony

with the fugitive slave law, and the malignant bearing of the

national government toward the colored inhabitants of the

country. This whole movement on the part of the states, bears

the evidence of having one origin, emanating from one head,

and urged forward by one power. It was simultaneous, uni-

form, and general, and looked to one end. It was intended to

put thorns under feet already bleeding; to crush a people

already bowed down; to enslave a people already but half

free; in a word, it was intended to discourage, dishearten,

and drive the free colored people out of the country. In look-

ing at the recent black law of Illinois, one is struck dumb

with its enormity. It would seem that the men who enacted

that law, had not only banished from their minds all sense of

justice, but all sense of shame. It coolly proposes to sell the

bodies and souls of the blacks to increase the intelligence

and refinement of the whites; to rob every black stranger

who ventures among them, to increase their literary fund.

While this is going on in the states, a pro-slavery, political

board of health is established at Washington. Senators Hale,

Chase, and Sumner are robbed of a part of their senatorial

dignity and consequence as representing sovereign states,

because they have refused to be inoculated with the slavery

virus. Among the services which a senator is expected by his

state to perform, are many that can only be done efficiently

on committees; and, in saying to these honorable senators,

you shall not serve on the committees of this body, the sla-

very party took the responsibility of robbing and insulting

the states that sent them. It is an attempt at Washington to

decide for the states who shall be sent to the senate. Sir, it

strikes me that this aggression on the part of the slave power

317

Frederick Douglas

did not meet at the hands of the proscribed senators the re-

buke which we had a right to expect would be administered.

It seems to me that an opportunity was lost, that the great

principle of senatorial equality was left undefended, at a time

when its vindication was sternly demanded. But it is not to

the purpose of my present statement to criticise the conduct

of our friends. I am persuaded that much ought to be left to

the discretion of anti slavery men in congress, and charges of

recreancy should never be made but on the most sufficient

grounds. For, of all the places in the world where an anti-

slavery man needs the confidence and encouragement of

friends, I take Washington to be that place.

Let me now call attention to the social influences which

are operating and cooperating with the slavery party of the

country, designed to contribute to one or all of the grand

objects aimed at by that party. We see here the black man

attacked in his vital interests; prejudice and hate are excited

against him; enmity is stirred up between him and other

laborers. The Irish people, warm-hearted, generous, and sym-

pathizing with the oppressed everywhere, when they stand

upon their own green island, are instantly taught, on arriv-

ing in this Christian country, to hate and despise the colored

people. They are taught to believe that we eat the bread which

of right belongs to them. The cruel lie is told the Irish, that

our adversity is essential to their prosperity. Sir, the Irish-

American will find out his mistake one day. He will find that

in assuming our avocation he also has assumed our degrada-

tion. But for the present we are sufferers. The old employ-

ments by which we have heretofore gained our livelihood,

are gradually, and it may be inevitably, passing into other

hands. Every hour sees us elbowed out of some employment

to make room perhaps for some newly-arrived emigrants,

whose hunger and color are thought to give them a title to

especial favor. White men are becoming house-servants,

cooks, and stewards, common laborers, and flunkeys to our

gentry, and, for aught I see, they adjust themselves to their

stations with all becoming obsequiousness. This fact proves

that if we cannot rise to the whites, the whites can fall to us.

Now, sir, look once more. While the colored people are thus

elbowed out of employment; while the enmity of emigrants

is being excited against us; while state after state enacts laws

against us; while we are hunted down, like wild game, and

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My Bondage and My Freedom

oppressed with a general feeling of insecurity—the Ameri-

can colonization society—that old offender against the best

interests and slanderer of the colored people—awakens to

new life, and vigorously presses its scheme upon the consid-

eration of the people and the government. New papers are

started—some for the north and some for the south—and

each in its tone adapting itself to its latitude. Government,

state and national, is called upon for appropriations to en-

able the society to send us out of the country by steam! They

want steamers to carry letters and Negroes to Africa. Evi-

dently, this society looks upon our “extremity as its opportu-

nity,” and we may expect that it will use the occasion well.

They do not deplore, but glory, in our misfortunes.

But, sir, I must hasten. I have thus briefly given my view of

one aspect of the present condition and future prospects of

the colored people of the United States. And what I have

said is far from encouraging to my afflicted people. I have

seen the cloud gather upon the sable brows of some who

hear me. I confess the case looks black enough. Sir, I am not

a hopeful man. I think I am apt even to undercalculate the

benefits of the future. Yet, sir, in this seemingly desperate

case, I do not despair for my people. There is a bright side to

almost every picture of this kind; and ours is no exception to

the general rule. If the influences against us are strong, those

for us are also strong. To the inquiry, will our enemies pre-

vail in the execution of their designs. In my God and in my

soul, I believe they will not. Let us look at the first object

sought for by the slavery party of the country, viz: the sup-

pression of anti slavery discussion. They desire to suppress

discussion on this subject, with a view to the peace of the

slaveholder and the security of slavery. Now, sir, neither the

principle nor the subordinate objects here declared, can be

at all gained by the slave power, and for this reason: It in-

volves the proposition to padlock the lips of the whites, in

order to secure the fetters on the limbs of the blacks. The

right of speech, precious and priceless, cannot, will not, be

surrendered to slavery. Its suppression is asked for, as I have

said, to give peace and security to slaveholders. Sir, that thing

cannot be done. God has interposed an insuperable obstacle

to any such result. “There can be no peace, saith my God, to

the wicked.” Suppose it were possible to put down this dis-

cussion, what would it avail the guilty slaveholder, pillowed

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Frederick Douglas

as he is upon heaving bosoms of ruined souls? He could not

have a peaceful spirit. If every anti-slavery tongue in the na-

tion were silent—every anti-slavery organization dissolved—

every anti-slavery press demolished—every anti slavery peri-

odical, paper, book, pamphlet, or what not, were searched

out, gathered, deliberately burned to ashes, and their ashes

given to the four winds of heaven, still, still the slaveholder

could have “no peace.” In every pulsation of his heart, in ev-

ery throb of his life, in every glance of his eye, in the breeze

that soothes, and in the thunder that startles, would be waked

up an accuser, whose cause is, “Thou art, verily, guilty con-

cerning thy brother.”

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A grand movement on the part of mankind, in any direc-

tion, or for any purpose, moral or political, is an interesting

fact, fit and proper to be studied. It is such, not only for

those who eagerly participate in it, but also for those who

stand aloof from it—even for those by whom it is opposed.

I take the anti-slavery movement to be such an one, and a

movement as sublime and glorious in its character, as it is

holy and beneficent in the ends it aims to accomplish. At

this moment, I deem it safe to say, it is properly engrossing

more minds in this country than any other subject now be-

fore the American people. The late John C. Calhoun—one

of the mightiest men that ever stood up in the American

senate—did not deem it beneath him; and he probably stud-

ied it as deeply, though not as honestly, as Gerrit Smith, or

William Lloyd Garrison. He evinced the greatest familiarity

with the subject; and the greatest efforts of his last years in

320

My Bondage and My Freedom

the senate had direct reference to this movement. His eagle

eye watched every new development connected with it; and

he was ever prompt to inform the south of every important

step in its progress. He never allowed himself to make light

of it; but always spoke of it and treated it as a matter of grave

import; and in this he showed himself a master of the men-

tal, moral, and religious constitution of human society. Daniel

Webster, too, in the better days of his life, before he gave his

assent to the fugitive slave bill, and trampled upon all his

earlier and better convictions—when his eye was yet single—

he clearly comprehended the nature of the elements involved

in this movement; and in his own majestic eloquence, warned

the south, and the country, to have a care how they attempted

to put it down. He is an illustration that it is easier to give,

than to take, good advice. To these two men—the greatest

men to whom the nation has yet given birth—may be traced

the two great facts of the present—the south triumphant,

and the north humbled. Their names may stand thus—

Calhoun and domination—Webster and degradation. Yet

again. If to the enemies of liberty this subject is one of en-

grossing interest, vastly more so should it be such to freedom’s

friends. The latter, it leads to the gates of all valuable knowl-

edge—philanthropic, ethical, and religious; for it brings them

to the study of man, wonderfully and fearfully made—the

proper study of man through all time—the open book, in

which are the records of time and eternity.

Of the existence and power of the anti-slavery movement,

as a fact, you need no evidence. The nation has seen its face,

and felt the controlling pressure of its hand. You have seen it

moving in all directions, and in all weathers, and in all places,

appearing most where desired least, and pressing hardest

where most resisted. No place is exempt. The quiet prayer

meeting, and the stormy halls of national debate, share its

presence alike. It is a common intruder, and of course has

the name of being ungentlemanly. Brethren who had long

sung, in the most affectionate fervor, and with the greatest

sense of security,

Together let us sweetly live—together let us die,

have been suddenly and violently separated by it, and ranged

in hostile attitude toward each other. The Methodist, one of

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Frederick Douglas

the most powerful religious organizations of this country,

has been rent asunder, and its strongest bolts of denomina-

tional brotherhood started at a single surge. It has changed

the tone of the northern pulpit, and modified that of the

press. A celebrated divine, who, four years ago, was for fling-

ing his own mother, or brother, into the remorseless jaws of

the monster slavery, lest he should swallow up the Union,

now recognizes anti-slavery as a characteristic of future civi-

lization. Signs and wonders follow this movement; and the

fact just stated is one of them. Party ties are loosened by it;

and men are compelled to take sides for or against it, whether

they will or not. Come from where he may, or come for

what he may, he is compelled to show his hand. What is this

mighty force? What is its history? and what is its destiny? Is

it ancient or modern, transient or permanent? Has it turned

aside, like a stranger and a sojourner, to tarry for a night? or

has it come to rest with us forever? Excellent chances are

here for speculation; and some of them are quite profound.

We might, for instance, proceed to inquire not only into the

philosophy of the anti-slavery movement, but into the phi-

losophy of the law, in obedience to which that movement

started into existence. We might demand to know what is

that law or power, which, at different times, disposes the

minds of men to this or that particular object—now for peace,

and now for war—now for freedom, and now for slavery;

but this profound question I leave to the abolitionists of the

superior class to answer. The speculations which must pre-

cede such answer, would afford, perhaps, about the same

satisfaction as the learned theories which have rained down

upon the world, from time to time, as to the origin of evil. I

shall, therefore, avoid water in which I cannot swim, and

deal with anti-slavery as a fact, like any other fact in the

history of mankind, capable of being described and under-

stood, both as to its internal forces, and its external phases

and relations.

[After an eloquent, a full, and highly interesting exposi-

tion of the nature, character, and history of the anti-slavery

movement, from the insertion of which want of space pre-

cludes us, he concluded in the following happy manner.]

Present organizations may perish, but the cause will go on.

That cause has a life, distinct and independent of the orga-

nizations patched up from time to time to carry it forward.

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My Bondage and My Freedom

Looked at, apart from the bones and sinews and body, it is a

thing immortal. It is the very essence of justice, liberty, and

love. The moral life of human society, it cannot die while

conscience, honor, and humanity remain. If but one be filled

with it, the cause lives. Its incarnation in any one individual

man, leaves the whole world a priesthood, occupying the

highest moral eminence even that of disinterested benevo-

lence. Whoso has ascended his height, and has the grace to

stand there, has the world at his feet, and is the world’s teacher,

as of divine right. He may set in judgment on the age, upon

the civilization of the age, and upon the religion of the age;

for he has a test, a sure and certain test, by which to try all

institutions, and to measure all men. I say, he may do this,

but this is not the chief business for which he is qualified.

The great work to which he is called is not that of judgment.

Like the Prince of Peace, he may say, if I judge, I judge righ-

teous judgment; still mainly, like him, he may say, this is not

his work. The man who has thoroughly embraced the prin-

ciples of justice, love, and liberty, like the true preacher of

Christianity, is less anxious to reproach the world of its sins,

than to win it to repentance. His great work on earth is to

exemplify, and to illustrate, and to ingraft those principles

upon the living and practical understandings of all men

within the reach of his influence. This is his work; long or

short his years, many or few his adherents, powerful or weak

his instrumentalities, through good report, or through bad

report, this is his work. It is to snatch from the bosom of

nature the latent facts of each individual man’s experience,

and with steady hand to hold them up fresh and glowing,

enforeing, with all his power, their acknowledgment and

practical adoption. If there be but one such man in the land,

no matter what becomes of abolition societies and parties,

there will be an anti-slavery cause, and an anti-slavery move-

ment. Fortunately for that cause, and fortunately for him by

whom it is espoused, it requires no extraordinary amount of

talent to preach it or to receive it when preached. The grand

secret of its power is, that each of its principles is easily ren-

dered appreciable to the faculty of reason in man, and that

the most unenlightened conscience has no difficulty in de-

ciding on which side to register its testimony. It can call its

preachers from among the fishermen, and raise them to

power. In every human breast, it has an advocate which can

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Frederick Douglas

be silent only when the heart is dead. It comes home to ev-

ery man’s understanding, and appeals directly to every man’s

conscience. A man that does not recognize and approve for

himself the rights and privileges contended for, in behalf of

the American slave, has not yet been found. In whatever else

men may differ, they are alike in the apprehension of their

natural and personal rights. The difference between aboli-

tionists and those by whom they are opposed, is not as to

principles. All are agreed in respect to these. The manner of

applying them is the point of difference.

The slaveholder himself, the daily robber of his equal

brother, discourses eloquently as to the excellency of justice,

and the man who employs a brutal driver to flay the flesh of

his negroes, is not offended when kindness and humanity

are commended. Every time the abolitionist speaks of jus-

tice, the anti-abolitionist assents says, yes, I wish the world

were filled with a disposition to render to every man what is

rightfully due him; I should then get what is due me. That’s

right; let us have justice. By all means, let us have justice.

Every time the abolitionist speaks in honor of human lib-

erty, he touches a chord in the heart of the anti-abolitionist,

which responds in harmonious vibrations. Liberty—yes, that

is evidently my right, and let him beware who attempts to

invade or abridge that right. Every time he speaks of love, of

human brotherhood, and the reciprocal duties of man and

man, the anti-abolitionist assents—says, yes, all right—all

true—we cannot have such ideas too often, or too fully ex-

pressed. So he says, and so he feels, and only shows thereby

that he is a man as well as an anti-abolitionist. You have only

to keep out of sight the manner of applying your principles,

to get them endorsed every time. Contemplating himself, he

sees truth with absolute clearness and distinctness. He only

blunders when asked to lose sight of himself. In his own

cause he can beat a Boston lawyer, but he is dumb when

asked to plead the cause of others. He knows very well what-

soever he would have done unto himself, but is quite in doubt

as to having the same thing done unto others. It is just here,

that lions spring up in the path of duty, and the battle once

fought in heaven is refought on the earth. So it is, so hath it

ever been, and so must it ever be, when the claims of justice

and mercy make their demand at the door of human selfish-

ness. Nevertheless, there is that within which ever pleads for

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My Bondage and My Freedom

the right and the just.

In conclusion, I have taken a sober view of the present

anti-slavery movement. I am sober, but not hopeless. There

is no denying, for it is everywhere admitted, that the anti-

slavery question is the great moral and social question now

before the American people. A state of things has gradually

been developed, by which that question has become the first

thing in order. It must be met. Herein is my hope. The great

idea of impartial liberty is now fairly before the American

people. Anti-slavery is no longer a thing to be prevented.

The time for prevention is past. This is great gain. When the

movement was younger and weaker—when it wrought in a

Boston garret to human apprehension, it might have been

silently put out of the way. Things are different now. It has

grown too large—its friends are too numerous—its facilities

too abundant—its ramifications too extended—its power too

omnipotent, to be snuffed out by the contingencies of in-

fancy. A thousand strong men might be struck down, and its

ranks still be invincible. One flash from the heart-supplied

intellect of Harriet Beecher Stowe could light a million camp

fires in front of the embattled host of slavery, which not all

the waters of the Mississippi, mingled as they are with blood,

could extinguish. The present will be looked to by after com-

ing generations, as the age of anti-slavery literature—when

supply on the gallop could not keep pace with the ever grow-

ing demand—when a picture of a Negro on the cover was a

help to the sale of a book—when conservative lyceums and

other American literary associations began first to select their

orators for distinguished occasions from the ranks of the pre-

viously despised abolitionists. If the anti-slavery movement

shall fail now, it will not be from outward opposition, but

from inward decay. Its auxiliaries are everywhere. Scholars,

authors, orators, poets, and statesmen give it their aid. The

most brilliant of American poets volunteer in its service.

Whittier speaks in burning verse to more than thirty thou-

sand, in the National Era. Your own Longfellow whispers, in

every hour of trial and disappointment, “labor and wait.”

James Russell Lowell is reminding us that “men are more

than institutions.” Pierpont cheers the heart of the pilgrim

in search of liberty, by singing the praises of “the north star.”

Bryant, too, is with us; and though chained to the car of

party, and dragged on amidst a whirl of political excitement,

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Frederick Douglas

he snatches a moment for letting drop a smiling verse of

sympathy for the man in chains. The poets are with us. It

would seem almost absurd to say it, considering the use that

has been made of them, that we have allies in the Ethiopian

songs; those songs that constitute our national music, and

without which we have no national music. They are heart

songs, and the finest feelings of human nature are expressed

in them. “Lucy Neal,” “Old Kentucky Home,” and “Uncle

Ned,” can make the heart sad as well as merry, and can call

forth a tear as well as a smile. They awaken the sympathies

for the slave, in which antislavery principles take root, grow,

and flourish. In addition to authors, poets, and scholars at

home, the moral sense of the civilized world is with us. En-

gland, France, and Germany, the three great lights of mod-

ern civilization, are with us, and every American traveler learns

to regret the existence of slavery in his country. The growth

of intelligence, the influence of commerce, steam, wind, and

lightning are our allies. It would be easy to amplify this sum-

mary, and to swell the vast conglomeration of our material

forces; but there is a deeper and truer method of measuring

the power of our cause, and of comprehending its vitality.

This is to be found in its accordance with the best elements

of human nature. It is beyond the power of slavery to anni-

hilate affinities recognized and established by the Almighty.

The slave is bound to mankind by the powerful and inextri-

cable net-work of human brotherhood. His voice is the voice

of a man, and his cry is the cry of a man in distress, and man

must cease to be man before he can become insensible to

that cry. It is the righteous of the cause—the humanity of

the cause—which constitutes its potency. As one genuine

bankbill is worth more than a thousand counterfeits, so is

one man, with right on his side, worth more than a thou-

sand in the wrong. “One may chase a thousand, and put ten

thousand to flight.” It is, therefore, upon the goodness of

our cause, more than upon all other auxiliaries, that we de-

pend for its final triumph.

Another source of congratulations is the fact that, amid all

the efforts made by the church, the government, and the

people at large, to stay the onward progress of this movment,

its course has been onward, steady, straight, unshaken, and

unchecked from the beginning. Slavery has gained victories

large and numerous; but never as against this movement—

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My Bondage and My Freedom

against a temporizing policy, and against northern timidity,

the slave power has been victorious; but against the spread

and prevalence in the country, of a spirit of resistance to its

aggression, and of sentiments favorable to its entire over-

throw, it has yet accomplished nothing. Every measure, yet

devised and executed, having for its object the suppression

of anti-slavery, has been as idle and fruitless as pouring oil to

extinguish fire. A general rejoicing took place on the passage

of “the compromise measures” of 1850. Those measures were

called peace measures, and were afterward termed by both

the great parties of the country, as well as by leading states-

men, a final settlement of the whole question of slavery; but

experience has laughed to scorn the wisdom of pro-slavery

statesmen; and their final settlement of agitation seems to be

the final revival, on a broader and grander scale than ever

before, of the question which they vainly attempted to sup-

press forever. The fugitive slave bill has especially been of

positive service to the anti-slavery movement. It has illus-

trated before all the people the horrible character of slavery

toward the slave, in hunting him down in a free state, and

tearing him away from wife and children, thus setting its

claims higher than marriage or parental claims. It has re-

vealed the arrogant and overbearing spirit of the slave states

toward the free states; despising their principles—shocking

their feelings of humanity, not only by bringing before them

the abominations of slavery, but by attempting to make them

parties to the crime. It has called into exercise among the

colored people, the hunted ones, a spirit of manly resistance

well calculated to surround them with a bulwark of sympa-

thy and respect hitherto unknown. For men are always dis-

posed to respect and defend rights, when the victims of op-

pression stand up manfully for themselves.

There is another element of power added to the anti-sla-

very movement, of great importance; it is the conviction,

becoming every day more general and universal, that slavery

must be abolished at the south, or it will demoralize and

destroy liberty at the north. It is the nature of slavery to be-

get a state of things all around it favorable to its own con-

tinuance. This fact, connected with the system of bondage,

is beginning to be more fully realized. The slave-holder is

not satisfied to associate with men in the church or in the

state, unless he can thereby stain them with the blood of his

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Frederick Douglas

slaves. To be a slave-holder is to be a propagandist from ne-

cessity; for slavery can only live by keeping down the under-

growth morality which nature supplies. Every new-born white

babe comes armed from the Eternal presence, to make war

on slavery. The heart of pity, which would melt in due time

over the brutal chastisements it sees inflicted on the helpless,

must be hardened. And this work goes on every day in the

year, and every hour in the day.

What is done at home is being done also abroad here in

the north. And even now the question may be asked, have

we at this moment a single free state in the Union? The alarm

at this point will become more general. The slave power must

go on in its career of exactions. Give, give, will be its cry, till

the timidity which concedes shall give place to courage, which

shall resist. Such is the voice of experience, such has been the

past, such is the present, and such will be that future, which,

so sure as man is man, will come. Here I leave the subject;

and I leave off where I began, consoling myself and con-

gratulating the friends of freedom upon the fact that the anti-

slavery cause is not a new thing under the sun; not some

moral delusion which a few years’ experience may dispel. It

has appeared among men in all ages, and summoned its ad-

vocates from all ranks. Its foundations are laid in the deepest

and holiest convictions, and from whatever soul the demon,

selfishness, is expelled, there will this cause take up its abode.

Old as the everlasting hills; immovable as the throne of God;

and certain as the purposes of eternal power, against all

hinderances, and against all delays, and despite all the muta-

tions of human instrumentalities, it is the faith of my soul,

that this anti-slavery cause will triumph.

The End

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