Invincible determination, and a right nature, are the levers that move
the world.--PORTER.
Born a slave, with the feelings and possibilities of a man, but with no
rights above the beast of the field, Fred Douglass gave the world one
of the most notable examples of man's power over circumstances.
He had no knowledge of his father, whom he had never seen. He had only
a dim recollection of his mother, from whom he had been separated at
birth. The poor slave mother used to walk twelve miles when her day's
work was done, in order to get an occasional glimpse of her child. Then
she had to walk back to the plantation on which she labored, so as to
be in time to begin to work at dawn next morning.
Under the brutal discipline of the "Aunt Katy" who had charge of the
slaves who were still too young to labor in the fields, he early began
to realize the hardships of his lot, and to rebel against the state of
bondage into which he had been born.
Often hungry, and clothed in hottest summer and coldest winter alike,
in a coarse tow linen shirt, scarcely reaching to the knees, without a
bed to lie on or a blanket to cover him, his only protection, no matter
how cold the night, was an old corn bag, into which he thrust himself,
leaving his feet exposed at one end, and his head at the other.
When about seven years old, he was transferred to new owners in
Baltimore, where his kind-hearted mistress, who did not know that in
doing so she was breaking the law, taught him the alphabet. He thus got
possession of the key which was to unlock his bonds, and, young as he
was, he knew it. It did not matter that his master, when he learned
what had been done, forbade his wife to give the boy further
instructions. He had already tasted of the fruit of the tree of
knowledge. The prohibition was useless. Neither threats nor stripes nor
chains could hold the awakened soul in bondage.
With infinite pains and patience, and by stealth, he enlarged upon his
knowledge of the alphabet. An old copy of "Webster's Spelling Book,"
cast aside by his young master, as his greatest treasure. With the aid
of a few good-natured white boys, who sometimes played with him in the
streets, he quickly mastered its contents. Then he cast about for
further means to satisfy his mental craving. How difficult it was for
the poor, despised slave to do this, we learn from his own pathetic
words. "I have gathered," he says, "scattered pages of the Bible from
the filthy street gutters, and washed and dried them, that, in moments
of leisure, I might get a word or two of wisdom from them."
Think of that, boys and girls of the twentieth century, with your day
schools and evening schools, libraries, colleges, and
universities,--picking reading material from the gutter and mastering
it by stealth! Yet this boy grew up to be the friend and co-worker of
Garrison and Phillips, the eloquent spokesman of his race, the honored
guest of distinguished peers and commoners of England, one of the
noblest examples of a self-made man that the world has ever seen.
Under equal hardships he learned to write. The boy's wits, sharpened
instead of blunted by repression, saw opportunities where more favored
children could see none. He gave himself his first writing lesson in
his master's shipyard, by copying from the various pieces of timber the
letters with which they had been marked by the carpenters, to show the
different parts of the ship for which they were intended. He copied
from posters on fences, from old copy books, from anything and
everything he could get hold of. He practiced his new art on pavements
and rails, and entered into contests in letter making with white boys,
in order to add to his knowledge. "With playmates for my teachers," he
says, "fences and pavements for my copy books, and chalk for my pen and
ink, I learned to write."
While being "broken in" to field labor under the lash of the overseer,
chained and imprisoned for the crime of attempting to escape from
slavery, the spirit of the youth never quailed. He believed in himself,
in his God-given powers, and he was determined to use them in freeing
himself and his race.
How well he succeeded in the stupendous task to which he set himself
while yet groping in the black night of bondage, with no human power
outside of his own indomitable will to help him, his life work attests
in language more enduring than "storied urn" or written history. A roll
call of the world's great moral heroes would be incomplete without the
name of the slave-born Douglass, who came on the stage of life to play
the leading role of the Moses of his race in one of the saddest and, at
the same time, most glorious eras of American history.
He was born in Talbot County, Maryland. The exact date of his birth is
not known; but he himself thought it was in February, 1817. He died in
Washington, D.C., February 20, 1895.
"TO THE FIRST ROBIN"
The air was keen and biting, and traces of snow still lingered on the
ground and sparkled on the tree tops in the morning sun. But the happy,
rosy-cheeked children, lately freed from the restraints of city life,
who played in the old garden in Concord, Massachusetts, that bright
spring morning many years ago, heeded not the biting wind or the
lingering snow. As they raced up and down the paths, in and out among
the trees, their cheeks took on a deeper glow, their eyes a brighter
sparkle, while their shouts of merry laughter made the morning glad.
But stay, what is this? What has happened to check the laughter on
their lips, and dim their bright eyes with tears? The little group,
headed by Louisa, has suddenly come to a pause under a tree, where a
wee robin, half dead with hunger and cold, has fallen from its perch.
"Poor, poor birdie!" exclaimed a chorus of pitying voices. "It is dead,
poor little thing," said Anna. "No," said Louisa, the leader of the
children in fun and works of mercy alike; "it is warm, and I can feel
its heart beat." As she spoke, she gathered the tiny bundle of feathers
to her bosom, and, heading the little procession, turned toward the
house.
A warm nest was made for the foundling, and, with motherly care, the
little Louisa May Alcott, then only eight years old, fed and nursed
back to life the half-famished bird.
Before the feathered claimant on her mercy flew away to freedom, the
future authoress, the "children's friend," who loved and pitied all
helpless things, wrote her first poem, and called it "To the First
Robin." It contained only these two stanzas:--
"Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm, and fear no danger,
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing, 'Sweet spring is near.'
"Now the white snow melts away,
Now the flowers blossom gay,
Come, dear bird, and build your nest,
For we love our robin best."