The immortal bard has sung that "there's a destiny that shapes our
ends." At eight years of age, as already stated, two events occurred
which had much to do in giving direction to my after life. The one the
death of my father, as formerly mentioned; the other the insurrection of
Nat Turner, of South Hampton, Virginia, in August, 1831, which fell upon
the startled sense of the slaveholding South like a meteor from a dear
sky, causing widespread commotion. Nat Turner was a Baptist preacher,
who with four others, in a lonely place in the woods, concocted plans
for an uprising of the slaves to secure their liberty. Employed in the
woods during the week, a prey to his broodings over the wrongs and
cruelties, the branding and whipping to death of neighboring slaves, he
would come out to meetings of his people on Sunday and preach,
impressing much of his spirit of unrest. Finally he selected a large
number of confederates, who were to secretly acquire arms of their
masters. The attack concocted in February was not made until August 20,
when the assault, dealing death and destruction, was made.
All that night they marched, carrying consternation and dread on account
of the suddenness, determination and boldness of the attack. The whole
State was aroused, and soldiers sent from every part. The blacks fought
hand to hand with the whites, but were soon overpowered by numbers and
superior implements of warfare. Turner and a few of his followers took
refuge in the "Dismal Swamp," almost impenetrable, where they remained
two or three months, till hunger or despair compelled them to surrender.
Chained together, they were taken to the South Hampton Court House and
arraigned. Turner, it is recorded, without a tremor, pleaded not guilty,
believing that he was justified in the attempt to liberate his people,
however drastic the means. His act, which would have been heralded as
the noblest heroism if perpetrated by a white man, was called religious
fanaticism and fiendish brutality.
Turner called but few into his confidence, and foolhardy and unpromising
as the attempt may have been, it had the ring of an heroic purpose that
gave a Bossarius to Greece, and a Washington to America. A purpose "not
born to die," but to live on in every age and clime, stimulating
endeavors to attain the blessings of civil liberty.
It was an incident as unexpected in its advent as startling in its
terrors. Slavery, ever the preponderance of force, had hitherto reveled
in a luxury heightened by a sense of security. Now, in the moaning of
the wind, the rustling of the leaves or the shadows of the moon, was
heard or seen a liberator. Nor was this uneasiness confined to the
South, for in the border free States there were many that in whole or in
part owned plantations stocked with slaves.
In Philadelphia, so near the line, excitement ran high. The intense
interest depicted in the face of my mother and her colored neighbors;
the guarded whisperings, the denunciations of slavery, the hope defeated
of a successful revolution keenly affected my juvenile mind, and stamped
my soul with hatred to slavery.
At 12 years of age I was employed at the residence of Sydney Fisher, a
prominent Philadelphia lawyer, who was one of the class above mentioned,
living north and owning a plantation in the State of Maryland. Over a
good road of 30 miles one summer's day, he took me to his plantation. I
had never before been that distance from home and had anticipated my
long ride with childish interest and pleasure. After crossing the line
and entering "the land of cotton and the corn," a new and strange
panorama began to open, and continued to enfold the vast fields bedecked
in the snowy whiteness of their fruitage. While over gangs of slaves in
row and furrough were drivers with their scourging whip in hand. I
looked upon the scene with curious wonder. Three score of years and more
have passed, but I still see that sad and humbled throng, working close
to the roadway, no head daring to uplift, no eye to enquiringly gaze.
During all those miles of drive that bordered on plantations, as
machines they acted, as machines they looked. My curiosity and youthful
impulse ignoring that reticence becoming a servant, I said: "Mr. Fisher,
who are these people?" He said, "They are slaves." I was startled but
made no reply. I had not associated the exhilaration of the drive with a
depressing view of slavery, but his reply caused a tumult of feeling in
my youthful breast. The Turner episode of which I had heard so much, the
narratives of whippings received by fugitives, slaves that had come to
my mother's house, the sundering of family ties on the auction block,
were vividly presented to my mind. I remained silent as to speech, as to
feelings belligerent. A few moments elapsed and Mr. Fisher broke the
silence by saying, "Mifflin, how would you like to be a slave?" My
answer was quick and conformed to feeling. "I would not be a slave! I
would kill anybody that would make me a slave!" Fitly spoken. No grander
declaration I have ever made. But from whom did it come--from almost
childish lips with no power to execute. I little thought of or knew the
magnitude of that utterance, nor did I notice then the effect of its
force. Quickly and quite sternly came the reply: "You must not talk that
way down here." I was kept during our stay in what was known during
slavery as the "great house," the master's residence, and my meals were
eaten at the table he had quit, slept in the same house, and had, if
desired, little or no opportunity to talk or mingle with the slaves
during the week's visit. I did not understand at that time the
philosophy of espionage, but in after years it became quite apparent
that from my youthful lips had came the "open sesame to the door of
liberty," "resistance to oppression," the slogan that has ever heralded
the advent of freedom.
[Illustration: WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.
"The Great Liberator."
"I Will not Excuse, I Will Not Retreat a Single Inch; I Will Be Heard"
"Emancipation the Right of the Slave and Duty of the Master"--"He Made
Every Single Home, Press, Pulpit, and Senate Chamber a Debating Society
with His Right and Wrong for the Subject."]
As I passed to manhood the object lesson encountered on the Maryland
plantation did much to intensify my hatred of slavery and to strengthen
my resolution to ally myself with any effort for its abolition. The
burning of Pennsylvania Hall by a mob in Philadelphia, in 1838, built
and used by anti-slavery people, the ravages of what was known as the
"Moyamensing Killers," who burned down the churches and residences of
the colored people and murdered their occupants, did much to increase
the anti-slavery feeling.
Old Bethel Church, then the nursery of the present great A. M. E.
Church, was guarded day and night by its devoted men and women
worshipers. The cobble street pavement in front was dug up and the
stones carried up and placed at the windows in the galley to hurl at the
mob. This defense was sustained for several weeks at a time. Every
American should be happy in the thought that a higher civilization is
making such acts less and less frequent. It is not strange that our
present generation enjoying a large measure of civil and political
liberty can but faintly comprehend the condition fifty years ago, when
they were persistently denied. The justice of participation seems so
apparent, it is not easy to fully conceive, when all were refused, in
quite all that were denominated free States.
When street cars were first established in Philadelphia "the brother in
black" was refused accommodations. He nevertheless persisted in entering
the cars. Sometimes he would be thrown out, at others, after being
"sized up" the driver with his horses would leave his car standing on
switch, while its objectionable occupant was "monarch of all he
surveyed."
The "man and brother" finding his enemy impervious to direct attack,
commenced a flank movement. As he was not allowed to ride inside, he
resolved to ride alongside; bought omnibuses and stock and established a
line on the car route at reduced rates. The cars were not always on
time, and many whites would avail themselves of its service. I remember
one of this class accosting a driver: "What 'Bus is this?" The simple
driver answered, "It is the colored peoples!" "I don't care whose in the
---- it is, does it go to the bridge? I am in a hurry to get there," and
in he got. I thought then and still think what a useful moral the
incident conveyed to my race. Labor to make yourself as indispensable as
possible in all your relations with the dominant race and color will cut
less and less figure in your upward grade. The line was kept up for some
time, often holding what was called "omnibus meetings" in our halls,
always largely attended, make reports, hear spirited speeches, and have
a deal of fun narrating incidents of the line, receiving generous
contributions when the horses or busses needed replenishing. But the
most exciting times were those when there had been interference with the
running of the "underground railroad," and the attempt to capture
passengers in transit, or at the different way-stations, of which as
previously stated, Philadelphia was the most prominent in forwarding its
patrons to Canada.
Before the passage of the fugitive slave law, in 1850, if the fugitive
was taken back it was done by stealth--kidnapped and spirited away by
clandestine means. Sometimes by the treachery of his own color, but this
was seldom and unhealthy. The agent of the owner was often caught in the
act, and by argument more emphatic than gentle, was soon conspicuous by
his absence. At others local anti-slavery friends would appeal to the
courts, and the agent would be arrested. Slavery in law being local
before the passage of the "Act of 1850," making it national, we were
generally successful in having the fugitives released. We were
extremely fortunate in having for our chief counsel David Paul Brown, a
leader of the Philadelphia bar, who, with other white friends, never
failed to respond to our call; learned in Constitutional law, eloquent
in expression, he did a yeoman's service in behalf of liberty.
The colored men of Pennsylvania, like their brethren in other Northern
States, were not content in being disfranchised. As early as 1845 a
committee of seven, consisting of Isaiah C. Wear, J. C. Bowers, and
others, including the writer, were sent to the capitol at Harrisburg to
lay a petition before the Legislature asking for enfranchisement and all
rights granted to others of the commonwealth. The grant was tardy, but
it came with the cannon's boom and musketry's iron hail, when the
imperiled status of the nation made it imperative. Thus, as ever, with
the immutable decrees of God, while battling for the freedom of the
slave, we broadened our consciousness, not only as to the inalienable
rights of human nature, but received larger conceptions of civil
liberty, coupled with a spirit of determination to defend our homes and
churches from infuriated mobs, and to contend for civil and political
justice.
They were truly a spartan band, the colored men and women. The naming of
a few would be invidious to the many who were ever keenly alive to the
proscription to which they were subject, and ever on the alert for
measures to awaken the moral sense of the border States.
Meetings were nightly held for counsel, protests and assistance to the
fugitive, who would sometimes be present to narrate the woes of slavery.
Sometimes our meetings would be attended by pro-slavery lookers-on,
usually unknown, until excoriation of the Northern abettors of slavery
was too severe to allow them to remain incognito, when they would reply:
It is a sad commentary on a phase of human nature that the oppressed
often, when vaulted into authority or greater equality of condition,
become the most vicious of oppressors. It has been said that Negro
drivers were most cruel and unsparing to their race. The Irish, having
fled from oppression in the land of their birth, for notoriety, gain, or
elevation by comparison, were nearly all pro-slavery. At one of our
meetings during the narration of incidents of his life by a fugitive,
one of the latter class interrupted by saying, "Aren't you lying, my
man? I have been on plantations. I guess your master did not lose much
when you left." Now, it is a peculiarity of the uneducated, when,
puzzled for the moment, by the tardiness of an idea, to scratch the
head. Jacobs, the fugitive, did so, and out it came. "I dunno how much
he lost, only what master said. I was the house boy, one day, and at
dinner time he sent me to the well to get a cool pitcher of water. I let
the silver pitcher drop in the well. Well, I knowed that pitcher had to
be got out, so I straddled down and fished it up. Master was mad, 'cause
I staid so long, so I up and tells him. He fairly jumped and said "Did
you go down that well? Why didn't you come and tell me and I would made
Irish Mike, the ditcher, go down. If you had drowned I'd lost $800.
Don't you do that agin.""
It is needless to say that this "brought down the house," and shortly
the exit of the son of the Emerald Isle. At another time the interrupter
said: "Will you answer me a question or two? Did you not get enough to
eat?" "Yes." "A place to sleep?" "Yes." "Was your master good or bad to
you?" "Marster was pretty good, I must say." "Well, what else did you
want? That is a good deal more than a good many white men get up here."
The man stood for a moment busy with his fingers in a fruitless attempt
to find the fugitive ends of a curl of his hair, temporarily nonplussed
at his palliating concessions, half apologetically said: "Well, I think
it a heap best to be free." Then suddenly and gallantly strengthening
his defense; "but, look here, Mister, if you think it so nice down
there, my place is still open." The questioner good naturedly joined in
the general merriment.
Very frequently we were enthused and inspired by Frederick Douglass,
Henry Highland Garnett, Marten R. Delaney, and Charles L. Remond, an
illustrious quartet of the hallowed band in the anti-slavery crusade,
whose eloquence, devotion, and effectiveness stood unsurpassed.
There were few, if any, available halls for these meetings. The only
resort was the colored churches. Those under the auspices of white
denominations had members who objected to their use for such a purpose.
Craven and fawning, content with the crumbs that fell from these
peace-loving Christians, who deprecated the discussion of slavery while
they ignored the claim of outraged humanity, these churches were more
interested in the physical excitement of a "revival" than in listening
to appeals in behalf of God's poor and lonely. Their prototypes that
"passed by on the other side" have been perpetuated in many climes, in
those who believe that it is the formalities of contact with the
building that blesses a people and not the Godliness and humanity of the
worshippers that give glory and efficacy to the church. An antagonism
thus created resulted in a crusade against such churches styled
"Come-Outerism," and many left them on account of such apathy to carry
on the warfare amid congenial association.
It has been said that citizenship was precipitated upon the Negro before
he was fit for its exercise. Without discussing the incongruity of this,
when applied to the ignorant native Negro and not to the ignorant alien
emigrant, it may be conceded that keeping them in abject bondage with
no opportunity to protest, made slavery anything but a preparatory
school for the exercises of civic virtues, or the assumption of their
responsibilities. It was not true, however, with the mass in the free,
or many in the slave States. Always akin and adjunct are the yearnings
indestructible in human nature for equal rights. And in every age and
people the ratio of persistency and sacrifice have been the measure of
their fitness for its enjoyment. During 25 years preceding the abolition
of slavery the colored people of the free States, though much
proscribed, were active in their protests against enslavement, seizing
every chance through press and forum "to pour the living coals of truth
upon the nation's naked heart," setting forth in earnest contrast the
theory upon which the government was founded with its administration as
practiced.
In 1848 Philadelphia Square, whereon the old State House of historic
fame still stands, was made resonant by the bell upon whose surface the
fathers had inscribed "Proclaim liberty throughout the world and to all
the inhabitants thereof," and was bedecked with garlands and every
insignia of a joyful people in honor of the Hungarian patriot, Louis
Kossuth. Distinctive platforms had been erected for speakers whose
fatherland was in many foreign lands. Upon each was an orator receiving
the appreciation and plaudits of an audience whose hearts beat as one
for success to the "Great Liberator." The "unwelcome guests," the
colored men present, quickly embraced the opportunity, utilizing for a
platform a dry goods box, upon which I was placed to give the Negro
version of this climax of inconsistency and quintessence of hypocrisy.
This was the unexpected. All the people, both native and foreign, had
been invited and special places provided for all except the Negro, and
on the native platform he was not allowed space. The novelty of the
incident and curiosity to hear what the colored man had to say quickly
drew a crowd equal to others of the occasion. Then, as now, and perhaps
forever, there was that incalculable number of non-committals whose
moral sense is disturbed by popular wrong, but who are without courage
of conviction, inert, waiting for a leader that they may be one of the
two that take place behind him, or one of three or four, or ten, who
follow in serried ranks, that constitute the wedge-like motor that
splits asunder hoary wrong, proximity to the leader being in ratio to
their moral fibre. Most of the audience listened to the utterance of
sentiments that the allurements of trade, or the exactions of society,
forbade them to disseminate.
The occasion was an excellent one to demonstrate the heartlessness of
the projectors, who, while pretending to glorify liberty in the
distance, were treating it with contumely at home, where 3,000,000
slaves were held in bondage, and feeling keenly the ostracism of the
slave as beyond the pole of popular sympathy or national compassion,
with words struggling for utterance, I spoke as best I could, receiving
toleration, and a quiet measure of approbation, possibly on the
supposition, realized in the fruition of time, that such discussion
might eventuate in the liberation of white men from the octopus of
subserviency to the dictum of slavery which permeated every ramification
of American society. I heard Hon. Cassius M. Clay, of Kentucky, sometime
in the forties, while making a speech in Philadelphia, say: "Gentlemen,
the question is not alone whether the Negroes are to remain slaves, but
whether we white men are to continue free." So bitter was the onslaught
on all, and especially on white men, politically and socially, who dared
denounce slavery.