The story of this remarkable black woman has been attracting
renewed interest of late, and I have often been asked to publish
another edition of the book, and to add some interesting and
amusing incidents which I have related to my friends.
Harriet is very old and feeble now; she does not know how old, but
probably between eighty and ninety. Her years of toil and
adventure have told upon her, and she may not last much longer. If
she does, she will still need help which she would never ask for
herself, but which this little book may give her; when she dies,
it may aid in putting up a fitting monument to her memory, which
should always be "kept green."
As time goes on, the horrors of the days of slavery are by many
forgotten, and the children who have been born since the War of
the Rebellion know of that fearful straggle, and of the causes
that led to it, only as a tradition of long ago.
Even in the city where Harriet has so long lived her quiet and
unobtrusive life, it is not an uncommon thing to meet a young
person who has never even heard her name.
Those who know the principal facts of her eventful history may be
interested to read these few added incidents, which she has
related to me from time to time.
A year or two ago, as I was staying at the summer home of my
brother, Professor Hopkins, on Owasco Lake, Harriet came up to see
us; it was after lunch, and my brother ordered a table to be set
for her on the broad shaded piazza and waited on her himself,
bringing her cups of tea and other good things, as if it were a
pleasure and an honor to serve her.
There is a quiet dignity about Harriet that makes her superior or
indifferent to all surrounding circumstances; whether seated at
the hospitable board of Gerrit Smith or any other white gentleman,
as she often was, or sent to the kitchen, where the white
domestics refused to eat with a "nigger," it was all the same to
Harriet; she was never elated, or humiliated; she took everything
as it came, making no comments or complaints.
And so she sat quietly eating her lunch, and talking with us.
After the lunch was over, as we sat on the piazza waiting for the
steamboat to take her back to Auburn, she said:
"I often think, Missus, of things I wish I had told you before you
wrote de book. Now, as I come up on de boat I thought of one thing
thet happened to me when I was very little.
"I was only seven years old when I was sent away to take car' of a
baby. I was so little dat I had to sit down on de flo' and hev de
baby put in my lap. An' dat baby was allus in my lap 'cept when it
was asleep, or its mother was feedin' it.
"One mornin' after breakfast she had de baby, an' I stood by de
table waitin' till I was to take it; just by me was a bowl of
lumps of white sugar. My Missus got into a great quarrel wid her
husband; she had an awful temper, an' she would scole an' storm,
an' call him all sorts of names. Now you know, Missus, I never had
nothing good; no sweet, no sugar, an' dat sugar, right by me, did
look so nice, an' my Missus's back was turned to me while she was
fightin' wid her husband, so I jes' put my fingers in de sugar
bowl to take one lump, an' maybe she heard me, an' she turned an'
saw me. De nex' minute she had de raw hide down; I give one jump
out of de do', an' I saw dey came after me, but I jes' flew, and
dey didn't catch me. I ran, an' I ran, an' I run, I passed many a
house, but I didn't dar' to stop, for dey all knew my Missus an'
dey would send me back. By an' by, when I was clar tuckered out, I
come to a great big pig-pen. Dar was an ole sow dar, an' perhaps
eight or ten little pigs. I was too little to climb into it, but I
tumbled ober de high board, an' fell in on de ground; I was so
beat out I couldn't stir.
"An' dere, Missus, I stayed from Friday till de nex' Chuesday,
fightin' wid dose little pigs for de potato peelin's an" oder
scraps dat came down in de trough. De ole sow would push me away
when I tried to git her chillen's food, an' I was awful afeard of
her. By Chuesday I was so starved I knowed I'd got to go back to
my Missus, I hadn't got no whar else to go, but I knowed what was
comin.' So I went back."
"And she gave you an awful flogging, I suppose, Harriet?"
"No, Missus, but _he_ did."
This was all that was said, but probably that flogging left some
of those scars which cover her neck and back to this day.
Think of a poor little helpless thing seven years old enduring all
this terror and suffering, and yet few people are as charitable to
the slave-holders as Harriet. "Dey don' know no better, Missus;
it's de way dey was brought up. 'Make de little nigs min' you, or
flog 'em,' was what was said to de chillen, and dey was brought up
wid de whip in der hand. Now, min' you, Missus, dat wasn't de way
on all de plantations; dere was good Marsters an' Missuses, as
I've heard tell, but I didn't happen to come across 'em."
There is frequent mention made in the Memoir of Harriet's firm and
unwavering trust in God in times of great perplexity or deadly
peril, when she often had occasion to say, "Vain is the help of
man, but in God is my help." I have never known another instance
of such implicit trust and confidence.
Very soon after the Civil War her house was turned into a
hospital, and no poor helpless creature of her race was ever
turned from her door. Indeed, all through the war, and through the
cruel reign of the fugitive slave law, her house was one of the
depots of the "Underground Railway," as that secret and unseen
mode of conveying the hunted fugitives was called, and when the
war was over she established a hospital, which for many years,
indeed till she was too ill herself to take charge of it, has been
the refuge of the sufferers of her race who had no earthly
dependence but Harriet.
Very often this woman, except for her trust in "de Lawd," had had
no idea where the next meal was to come from, but she troubled
herself no more about it than if she had been a Vanderbilt or an
Astor. "De Lawd will provide" was her motto, and He never failed
her.
One day, in passing through Auburn, I was impelled to stop over a
train, and drive out to see what were the needs of my colored
friend, and to take her some supplies.
Her little house was always neat and comfortable, and the small
parlor was nicely and rather prettily furnished. The lame, the
halt, and the blind, the bruised and crippled little children, and
one crazy woman, were all brought in to see me, and "the blind
woman" (she seemed to have no other name), a very old woman who
had been Harriet's care for eighteen years, was led into the room--an
interesting and pathetic group.
On leaving, I said to her: "If you will come out to the carriage,
Harriet, there are some provisions there for you."
She turned to one of her poor dependents and said: "What did you
say to me dis mornin'? You said, 'We hadn't got nothin' to eat in
de house,' and what did I say to you? I said, 'I've got a rich
Father!'"
Nothing that comes to this remarkable woman ever surprises her.
She says very little in the way of thanks, except to the Giver of
all good. How the knowledge comes to her no one can tell, but she
seems always to know when help is coming, and she is generally on
hand to receive it, though it is never for herself she wants it,
but only for those under her care.
I must not forget to mention the Indian girls of the Fort Wrangel
School, who, having read a little notice of Harriet in the
"Evangelist," went to work, and by their daily labor raised
thirty-seven dollars which they sent to me for Harriet--and this
school has been disbanded, and these educated girls have been sent
back to their wretched homes, because our Government could not
afford to support it any longer!
Pundita Ramabai went about this time to see Harriet and they had
an interesting talk together. Here was a remarkable trio taking
hold of hands--the woman from East India, the Indian girl from the
far West, and the black woman from the Southern States only two
removes from an African savage!
Once when she came to New York, where she had not been in twenty
years, and was starting off alone to find some friends miles away
in a part of the city which she had never seen, we remonstrated
with her, telling her she would surely be lost.
"Now, Missus," she said, "don't you t'ink dis ole head dat done de
navigatin' down in Egypt can do de navigatin' up here in New
York?"
And she walked many miles, scorning a "cyar," and found all the
people she wished to see.
Harriet was known by various names among her Southern friends. One
of these was "Ole Chariot," perhaps as a rhyme to the name by
which they called her.
And so, often when she went to bring away a band of refugees, she
would sing as she walked the dark country roads by night:
"When dat ar' ole chariot comes,
Who's gwine wid me?"
And from some unseen singer would come the response:
"When dat ar' ole chariot comes,
I'se gwine wid you."
And by some wireless telegraphy known only to the initiated it
would be made known in one cabin or another where their deliverer
was waiting concealed, and when she would be ready to pilot them
on their long journey to freedom.
A Woman's Suffrage Meeting was held in Rochester a year or two
ago, and Harriet came to attend it. She generally attended every
meeting of women, on whatever subject, if possible to do so.
She was led into the church by an adopted daughter, whom she had
rescued from death when a baby, and had brought up as her own.
The church was warm and Harriet was tired, and soon after she
entered deep sleep fell upon her.
Susan B. Anthony and Mrs. Stanton were on the platform, and after
speeches had been made and business accomplished, one of these
ladies said:
"Friends, we have in the audience that wonderful woman, Harriet
Tubman, from whom we should like to hear, if she will kindly come
to the platform."
People looked around at Harriet, but Harriet was fast asleep.
"Mother! mother!" said the young girl; "they are calling for you,"
but it was some time before Harriet could be made to understand
where she was, or what was wanted of her. At length, she was led
out into the aisle and was assisted by one of these kind ladies on
to the platform.
Harriet looked around, wondering why so many white ladies were
gathered there. I think it was Miss Anthony who led her forward,
saying:
"Ladies, I am glad to present to you Harriet Tubman, 'the
conductor of the Underground Railroad.'"
"Yes, ladies," said Harriet, "I was de conductor ob de Underground
Railroad for eight years, an' I can say what mos' conductors can't
say--I nebber run my train off de track an' I nebber los' a
passenger." The audience laughed and applauded, and Harriet was
emboldened to go on and relate portions of her interesting
history, which were most kindly received by the assembled ladies.
After the passage of the iniquitous fugitive slave law, Harriet
removed all her dependents to Canada, and here John Brown and some
of his followers took refuge with her, and she was his helper and
adviser in many of his schemes. The papers of that time tell of
her helping him with his plans and of his dependence upon her
judgment. In one of his letters he says: "Harriet has hitched on,
and with all her might; she is a whole team."
For this large party added to her own family of several persons,
she worked day and night in her usual self-forgetting manner. Her
old father and mother were with her, and the mother, nearly a
hundred years old and enfeebled in mind, was querulous and
exacting, and most unreasonable in her temper, often reproaching
this faithful daughter as the Israelites did Moses of old, for
"bringing them up into the wilderness to die there of hunger."
There came a day when everything eatable was exhausted, and the
prospect was dark, indeed. The old mother had no tobacco and no
tea--and these were more essential to her comfort than food or
clothing; then reproaches thick and fast fell upon Harriet. She
made no reply, but "went into her closet and shut the door"; when
she came out she had a large basket on her arm.
"Catharine," she said, "take off dat small pot an' put on a large
one."
"But, Harriet, der ain't not'ing in de house to eat."
"Put on de large pot, Catharine; we're gwine to have soup to-day"--and
Harriet started for the market. The day was nearly over, and
the market-men were anxious to be rid of their wares, and were
offering them very cheap. Harriet walked along with the basket on
her arm. "Old woman, don't you want a nice piece of meat?" called
out one; and another, "Here's a nice piece; only ten cents. Take
this soup-bone, you can have it for five cents." But Harriet had
not five cents. At length a kind-hearted butcher, judging of the
trouble from her face, said: "Look here, old woman, you look like
an honest woman; take this soup-bone, and pay me when you get some
money"; then another said, "Take this," and others piled on pieces
of meat till the basket was full. Harriet passed on, and when she
came to the vegetables she exchanged some of the meat for
potatoes, cabbage, and onions, and the big pot was in requisition
when she reached home. Harriet had not "gone into her closet and
shut the door" for nothing.
I hope I may be excused for sometimes telling my story in the
first person, as I cannot conveniently do it in any other way. In
getting ready a Thanksgiving box to send to Harriet, a few years
ago, I had ordered a turkey to be sent for it, but as the weather
grew quite warm, I was advised to send a ham instead. That box was
lost for three weeks, and when I saw Harriet again and told her
that I had intended to send a turkey in it, she said, "Wal, dere
was a clar Providence in dat, wa'n't dere, Missus?"
A friend, hearing that I was preparing a Christmas box in New York
for this needy household, sent me a quantity of clothing and ten
dollars for them. As my box was not quite full, I expended three
dollars of that money in groceries, and sent seven dollars to a
lady in Auburn who acted as treasurer for Harriet, giving her
money as it was needed; for Harriet's heart is so large, and her
feelings are so easily wrought upon, that it was never wise to
give her more than enough for present needs.
Not long after, I received a letter from a well-known physician--a
woman--in Auburn, in which she said:
"I want to tell you something about Harriet. She came to me last
Friday, and said, 'Doctah, I have got my taxes and insurance to
pay to-morrow, and I haven't a cent. Would you lend me seven
dollars till next Chuesday?' More to try her than anything else, I
said, 'Why, Harriet, I'm a poor, hard-working woman myself; how do
you know you'll pay me seven dollars next Tuesday?' 'Well, Doctah,
I can't jes' tell you how, but I'll pay you next Chuesday.'" On
Tuesday my letter with seven dollars enclosed arrived in Auburn,
and Harriet took the money to the friend who had lent it to her.
Others thought this strange, but there was nothing strange about
it to her.
A few years ago, when Harriet called on the writer, she was
introduced to the husband of one of her daughters lately married.
He told her how glad he was to see her, as he had heard so much
about her. She made one of her humble courtesies, and said: "I'm
pleased to see you, sir; it's de first time I've hed de pleasure
makin' yo' 'quaintance since you was 'dopted into my fam'bly."
When the turns of somnolence come upon Harriet, her "sperrit," as
she says, goes away from her body, and visits other scenes and
places, and if she ever really sees them afterwards they are
perfectly familiar to her and she can find her way about alone.
Instances of this kind have lately been mentioned in some of the
magazines, but Harriet had never heard of them.
Sitting in her house one day, deep sleep fell upon her, and in a
dream or vision she saw a chariot in the air, going south, and
empty, but soon it returned, and lying in it, cold and stiff, was
the body of a young lady of whom Harriet was very fond, whose home
was in Auburn, but who had gone to Washington with her father, a
distinguished officer of the Government there.[G]
[Footnote G: William H. Seward.]
The shock roused Harriet from her sleep, and she ran into Auburn,
to the house of her minister, crying out: "Oh, Miss Fanny is
dead!" and the news had just been received.
She woke from a sleep one day in great agitation, and ran to the
houses of her colored neighbors, exclaiming that "a drefful t'ing
was happenin' somewha', de ground was openin', an' de houses were
fallin' in, and de people bein' killed faster 'n dey was in de
wah--faster 'n dey was in de wah."
At that very time, or near it, an earthquake was occurring in the
northern part of South America, for the telegram came that day,
though why a vision of it should be sent to Harriet no one can
divine.
Her expressions are often very peculiar; some ladies of a certain
church who had become interested in her wished to see her, and she
was invited to come to their city, and attended the sewing circle,
where twenty or thirty of them were gathered together. They asked
her many questions, and she told stories, sang songs, danced, and
imitated the talk of the Southern negroes; and went away loaded
with many tokens of the kind interest of these ladies. On the way
home she said:
"What nice, kind-lookin' ladies dem was, Missus. I looked in all
dere faces, an' I didn't see nothin' venomous in one of 'em!"
As has been said, Harriet can neither read nor write; her letters
are all written by an amanuensis, and she seems to have an idea
that by laying her hand on this person, her feelings may be
transmitted to the one to whom she is writing. These feelings are
sometimes very poetically expressed. I have by me some of those
letters; in one of them she says: "I lay my hand on the shoulder
of the writer of this letter, and I wish for you, and all your
offsprings, a through ticket in the Gospel train to Glory."
In another letter she has dictated this sentence:
"I ask of my Heavenly Father, that when the last trump sounds, and
my name is called, I may stand close by your side, to answer to
the call." Probably many of her friends and correspondents might
contribute facts and incidents in Harriet's life quite as
interesting as any I have mentioned, but I have no way of getting
at them.
Harriet had long cherished the idea of having her hospital
incorporated, and placed in charge of the Zion African Methodist
Church of Auburn, and she was particularly anxious to come into
possession of a lot of twenty-five acres of land, near her own
home, to present to it as a little farm. This lot was to be sold
at auction, and on the day of the sale Harriet appeared with a
very little money, and a determination to have the land, cost what
it might.
"Dey was all white folks but me dere, Missus, and dere I was like
a blackberry in a pail ob milk, but I hid down in a corner, and no
one know'd who was biddin'. De man began down pretty low, and I
kept goin' up by fifties; he got up to twelve hundred, thirteen
hundred, fourteen hundred, and still dat voice in the corner kept
goin' up by fifties. At last it got up to fourteen hundred and
fifty, an' den oders stopped biddin', an' de man said, 'All done!
who is de buyer?' 'Harriet Tubman,' I shouted. 'What! dat ole
nigger?' dey said. 'Old woman, how you ebber gwine to pay fer dat
lot ob land?' 'I'm gwine home to tell de Lawd Jesus all about it,'
I said."
After telling the Lord Jesus all about it, Harriet went down to a
bank, obtained the money by mortgaging the land, and then
requested to have a deed made out, making the land over to the
Zion African Methodist Church. And her mind is easy about her
hospital, though with many persons the trouble would be but just
beginning, as there is interest on the mortgage to be paid.
Though the hospital is no longer on her hands, you will never find
her without several poor creatures under her care. When I last saw
her she was providing for five sick and injured ones. A blind
woman came one day to her door, led by four little children--her
husband had turned her out of his house, and like all other poor
distressed black people, who could get there, she made her way to
Harriet. Before the next morning a fifth was added to the group.
As soon as it was possible Harriet dressed the whole six in white
and took them to a Methodist church and had them baptized.
A little account of this was sent to the "Evangelist," and the
almost immediate response was seventy-five dollars, which was of
great benefit in providing for the needs of the growing family.
This faithful creature will probably not live much longer, and her
like will not be seen again. But through the sale of the last
edition of her "Memoir," and some other sources of income, her
wants will be abundantly supplied.
Harriet's friends will be glad to learn that she has lately been
for some time in Boston, where a surgical operation was performed
upon her head, the skull (which was crushed by a weight thrown by
her master more than seventy years before) being successfully
raised. Harriet's account of this operation is rather amusing.
"Harriet," said Professor Hopkins, "what is the matter with your
head? Your hair is all gone!"
"Why, dat's where dey shaved it off befo' dey cut my head open."
"Cut your head open, Harriet? What do you mean?"
"Wal, sir, when I was in Boston I walked out one day, an' I saw a
great big buildin', an' I asked a man what it was, an' he said it
was a hospital. So I went right in, an' I saw a young man dere,
an' I said, 'Sir, are you a doctah?' an' he said he was; den I
said, 'Sir, do you t'ink you could cut my head open?'
"'What do you want your head cut open fer?' he said.
"Den I tol' him de whole story, an' how my head was givin' me a
powerful sight of trouble lately, with achin' an' buzzin', so I
couldn' get no sleep at night.
"An' he said, 'Lay right down on dis yer table,' an' I lay down."
"Didn't he give you anything to deaden the pain, Harriet?"
"No, sir; I jes' lay down like a lamb fo' de slaughter, an' he
sawed open my skull, an' raised it up, an' now it feels more
comfortable." "Did you suffer very much?"
"Yes, sir, it hurt, ob cose; but I got up an' put on my bonnet an'
started to walk home, but my legs kin' o' gin out under me, an'
dey sont fer a ambulance an' sont me home."
It has been hoped that this remarkable experience might result in
giving Harriet a new lease of life, but I am sorry to say she is
very feeble, and I fear will not be with us much longer.
Her "through ticket" has long been ready for her, and when her
last journey is accomplished can we doubt that she will be
welcomed to one of those many mansions prepared for those who have
spent their lives in the Master's service?