I lived in Master Hugh’s family about seven years. During this time, I
succeeded in learning to read and write. In accomplishing this, I was
compelled to resort to various stratagems. I had no regular teacher. My
mistress, who had kindly commenced to instruct me, had, in compliance
with the advice and direction of her husband, not only ceased to
instruct, but had set her face against my being instructed by any one
else. It is due, however, to my mistress to say of her, that she did
not adopt this course of treatment immediately. She at first lacked the
depravity indispensable to shutting me up in mental darkness. It was at
least necessary for her to have some training in the exercise of
irresponsible power, to make her equal to the task of treating me as
though I were a brute.
My mistress was, as I have said, a kind and tender-hearted woman; and
in the simplicity of her soul she commenced, when I first went to live
with her, to treat me as she supposed one human being ought to treat
another. In entering upon the duties of a slaveholder, she did not seem
to perceive that I sustained to her the relation of a mere chattel, and
that for her to treat me as a human being was not only wrong, but
dangerously so. Slavery proved as injurious to her as it did to me.
When I went there, she was a pious, warm, and tender-hearted woman.
There was no sorrow or suffering for which she had not a tear. She had
bread for the hungry, clothes for the naked, and comfort for every
mourner that came within her reach. Slavery soon proved its ability to
divest her of these heavenly qualities. Under its influence, the tender
heart became stone, and the lamblike disposition gave way to one of
tiger-like fierceness. The first step in her downward course was in her
ceasing to instruct me. She now commenced to practise her husband’s
precepts. She finally became even more violent in her opposition than
her husband himself. She was not satisfied with simply doing as well as
he had commanded; she seemed anxious to do better. Nothing seemed to
make her more angry than to see me with a newspaper. She seemed to
think that here lay the danger. I have had her rush at me with a face
made all up of fury, and snatch from me a newspaper, in a manner that
fully revealed her apprehension. She was an apt woman; and a little
experience soon demonstrated, to her satisfaction, that education and
slavery were incompatible with each other.
From this time I was most narrowly watched. If I was in a separate room
any considerable length of time, I was sure to be suspected of having a
book, and was at once called to give an account of myself. All this,
however, was too late. The first step had been taken. Mistress, in
teaching me the alphabet, had given me the _inch,_ and no precaution
could prevent me from taking the _ell._
The plan which I adopted, and the one by which I was most successful,
was that of making friends of all the little white boys whom I met in
the street. As many of these as I could, I converted into teachers.
With their kindly aid, obtained at different times and in different
places, I finally succeeded in learning to read. When I was sent of
errands, I always took my book with me, and by going one part of my
errand quickly, I found time to get a lesson before my return. I used
also to carry bread with me, enough of which was always in the house,
and to which I was always welcome; for I was much better off in this
regard than many of the poor white children in our neighborhood. This
bread I used to bestow upon the hungry little urchins, who, in return,
would give me that more valuable bread of knowledge. I am strongly
tempted to give the names of two or three of those little boys, as a
testimonial of the gratitude and affection I bear them; but prudence
forbids;—not that it would injure me, but it might embarrass them; for
it is almost an unpardonable offence to teach slaves to read in this
Christian country. It is enough to say of the dear little fellows, that
they lived on Philpot Street, very near Durgin and Bailey’s ship-yard.
I used to talk this matter of slavery over with them. I would sometimes
say to them, I wished I could be as free as they would be when they got
to be men. “You will be free as soon as you are twenty-one, _but I am a
slave for life!_ Have not I as good a right to be free as you have?”
These words used to trouble them; they would express for me the
liveliest sympathy, and console me with the hope that something would
occur by which I might be free.
I was now about twelve years old, and the thought of being _a slave for
life_ began to bear heavily upon my heart. Just about this time, I got
hold of a book entitled “The Columbian Orator.” Every opportunity I
got, I used to read this book. Among much of other interesting matter,
I found in it a dialogue between a master and his slave. The slave was
represented as having run away from his master three times. The
dialogue represented the conversation which took place between them,
when the slave was retaken the third time. In this dialogue, the whole
argument in behalf of slavery was brought forward by the master, all of
which was disposed of by the slave. The slave was made to say some very
smart as well as impressive things in reply to his master—things which
had the desired though unexpected effect; for the conversation resulted
in the voluntary emancipation of the slave on the part of the master.
In the same book, I met with one of Sheridan’s mighty speeches on and
in behalf of Catholic emancipation. These were choice documents to me.
I read them over and over again with unabated interest. They gave
tongue to interesting thoughts of my own soul, which had frequently
flashed through my mind, and died away for want of utterance. The moral
which I gained from the dialogue was the power of truth over the
conscience of even a slaveholder. What I got from Sheridan was a bold
denunciation of slavery, and a powerful vindication of human rights.
The reading of these documents enabled me to utter my thoughts, and to
meet the arguments brought forward to sustain slavery; but while they
relieved me of one difficulty, they brought on another even more
painful than the one of which I was relieved. The more I read, the more
I was led to abhor and detest my enslavers. I could regard them in no
other light than a band of successful robbers, who had left their
homes, and gone to Africa, and stolen us from our homes, and in a
strange land reduced us to slavery. I loathed them as being the meanest
as well as the most wicked of men. As I read and contemplated the
subject, behold! that very discontentment which Master Hugh had
predicted would follow my learning to read had already come, to torment
and sting my soul to unutterable anguish. As I writhed under it, I
would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than
a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without
the remedy. It opened my eyes to the horrible pit, but to no ladder
upon which to get out. In moments of agony, I envied my fellow-slaves
for their stupidity. I have often wished myself a beast. I preferred
the condition of the meanest reptile to my own. Any thing, no matter
what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my
condition that tormented me. There was no getting rid of it. It was
pressed upon me by every object within sight or hearing, animate or
inanimate. The silver trump of freedom had roused my soul to eternal
wakefulness. Freedom now appeared, to disappear no more forever. It was
heard in every sound, and seen in every thing. It was ever present to
torment me with a sense of my wretched condition. I saw nothing without
seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt nothing without
feeling it. It looked from every star, it smiled in every calm,
breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.
I often found myself regretting my own existence, and wishing myself
dead; and but for the hope of being free, I have no doubt but that I
should have killed myself, or done something for which I should have
been killed. While in this state of mind, I was eager to hear any one
speak of slavery. I was a ready listener. Every little while, I could
hear something about the abolitionists. It was some time before I found
what the word meant. It was always used in such connections as to make
it an interesting word to me. If a slave ran away and succeeded in
getting clear, or if a slave killed his master, set fire to a barn, or
did any thing very wrong in the mind of a slaveholder, it was spoken of
as the fruit of _abolition._ Hearing the word in this connection very
often, I set about learning what it meant. The dictionary afforded me
little or no help. I found it was “the act of abolishing;” but then I
did not know what was to be abolished. Here I was perplexed. I did not
dare to ask any one about its meaning, for I was satisfied that it was
something they wanted me to know very little about. After a patient
waiting, I got one of our city papers, containing an account of the
number of petitions from the north, praying for the abolition of
slavery in the District of Columbia, and of the slave trade between the
States. From this time I understood the words _abolition_ and
_abolitionist,_ and always drew near when that word was spoken,
expecting to hear something of importance to myself and fellow-slaves.
The light broke in upon me by degrees. I went one day down on the wharf
of Mr. Waters; and seeing two Irishmen unloading a scow of stone, I
went, unasked, and helped them. When we had finished, one of them came
to me and asked me if I were a slave. I told him I was. He asked, “Are
ye a slave for life?” I told him that I was. The good Irishman seemed
to be deeply affected by the statement. He said to the other that it
was a pity so fine a little fellow as myself should be a slave for
life. He said it was a shame to hold me. They both advised me to run
away to the north; that I should find friends there, and that I should
be free. I pretended not to be interested in what they said, and
treated them as if I did not understand them; for I feared they might
be treacherous. White men have been known to encourage slaves to
escape, and then, to get the reward, catch them and return them to
their masters. I was afraid that these seemingly good men might use me
so; but I nevertheless remembered their advice, and from that time I
resolved to run away. I looked forward to a time at which it would be
safe for me to escape. I was too young to think of doing so
immediately; besides, I wished to learn how to write, as I might have
occasion to write my own pass. I consoled myself with the hope that I
should one day find a good chance. Meanwhile, I would learn to write.
The idea as to how I might learn to write was suggested to me by being
in Durgin and Bailey’s ship-yard, and frequently seeing the ship
carpenters, after hewing, and getting a piece of timber ready for use,
write on the timber the name of that part of the ship for which it was
intended. When a piece of timber was intended for the larboard side, it
would be marked thus—“L.” When a piece was for the starboard side, it
would be marked thus—“S.” A piece for the larboard side forward, would
be marked thus—“L. F.” When a piece was for starboard side forward, it
would be marked thus—“S. F.” For larboard aft, it would be marked
thus—“L. A.” For starboard aft, it would be marked thus—“S. A.” I soon
learned the names of these letters, and for what they were intended
when placed upon a piece of timber in the ship-yard. I immediately
commenced copying them, and in a short time was able to make the four
letters named. After that, when I met with any boy who I knew could
write, I would tell him I could write as well as he. The next word
would be, “I don’t believe you. Let me see you try it.” I would then
make the letters which I had been so fortunate as to learn, and ask him
to beat that. In this way I got a good many lessons in writing, which
it is quite possible I should never have gotten in any other way.
During this time, my copy-book was the board fence, brick wall, and
pavement; my pen and ink was a lump of chalk. With these, I learned
mainly how to write. I then commenced and continued copying the Italics
in Webster’s Spelling Book, until I could make them all without looking
on the book. By this time, my little Master Thomas had gone to school,
and learned how to write, and had written over a number of copy-books.
These had been brought home, and shown to some of our near neighbors,
and then laid aside. My mistress used to go to class meeting at the
Wilk Street meetinghouse every Monday afternoon, and leave me to take
care of the house. When left thus, I used to spend the time in writing
in the spaces left in Master Thomas’s copy-book, copying what he had
written. I continued to do this until I could write a hand very similar
to that of Master Thomas. Thus, after a long, tedious effort for years,
I finally succeeded in learning how to write.