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ELIZABETH
KECKLEY
Behind the Scenes,
Or,
Thirty Years a Slave,
and Four Years in the White House
* * * * *
Contents
BEHIND THE SCENES
Preface 3
Chapter I. Where I was born 7
Chapter II. Girlhood and its Sorrows 13
Chapter III. How I gained my Freedom 19
Chapter IV. In the Family of Senator Jefferson Davis 28
Chapter V. My Introduction to Mrs. Lincoln 34
Chapter VI. Willie Lincoln's Death-bed 41
Chapter VII. Washington in 1862-3 50
Chapter VIII. Candid Opinions 57
Chapter IX. Behind the Scenes 62
Chapter X. The Second Inauguration 68
Chapter XI. The Assassination of President Lincoln 77
Chapter XII. Mrs. Lincoln leaves the White House 89
Chapter XIII. The Origin of the Rivalry between
Mr. Douglas and Mr. Lincol 101
Chapter XIV. Old Friends 106
Chapter XV. The Secret History of Mrs. Lincoln's
Wardrobe in New York 119
Appendix--Letters from Mrs. Lincoln to Mrs. Keckley 147
* * * * *
BEHIND THE SCENES.
BY
ELIZABETH KECKLEY,
FORMERLY A SLAVE, BUT MORE RECENTLY MODISTE,
AND FRIEND TO MRS. ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
OR,
THIRTY YEARS A SLAVE, AND FOUR YEARS IN
THE WHITE HOUSE.
NEW YORK:
G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers.
M DCCC LXVIII.
* * * * *
PREFACE
I have often been asked to write my life, as those who know me know that
it has been an eventful one. At last I have acceded to the importunities
of my friends, and have hastily sketched some of the striking incidents
that go to make up my history. My life, so full of romance, may sound
like a dream to the matter-of-fact reader, nevertheless everything I
have written is strictly true; much has been omitted, but nothing has
been exaggerated. In writing as I have done, I am well aware that I have
invited criticism; but before the critic judges harshly, let my
explanation be carefully read and weighed. If I have portrayed the dark
side of slavery, I also have painted the bright side. The good that I
have said of human servitude should be thrown into the scales with the
evil that I have said of it. I have kind, true-hearted friends in the
South as well as in the North, and I would not wound those Southern
friends by sweeping condemnation, simply because I was once a slave.
They were not so much responsible for the curse under which I was born,
as the God of nature and the fathers who framed the Constitution for the
United States. The law descended to them, and it was but natural that
they should recognize it, since it manifestly was their interest to do
so. And yet a wrong was inflicted upon me; a cruel custom deprived me of
my liberty, and since I was robbed of my dearest right, I would not have
been human had I not rebelled against the robbery. God rules the
Universe. I was a feeble instrument in His hands, and through me and the
enslaved millions of my race, one of the problems was solved that
belongs to the great problem of human destiny; and the solution was
developed so gradually that there was no great convulsion of the
harmonies of natural laws. A solemn truth was thrown to the surface, and
what is better still, it was recognized as a truth by those who give
force to moral laws. An act may be wrong, but unless the ruling power
recognizes the wrong, it is useless to hope for a correction of it.
Principles may be right, but they are not established within an hour.
The masses are slow to reason, and each principle, to acquire moral
force, must come to us from the fire of the crucible; the fire may
inflict unjust punishment, but then it purifies and renders stronger the
principle, not in itself, but in the eyes of those who arrogate judgment
to themselves. When the war of the Revolution established the
independence of the American colonies, an evil was perpetuated, slavery
was more firmly established; and since the evil had been planted, it
must pass through certain stages before it could be eradicated. In fact,
we give but little thought to the plant of evil until it grows to such
monstrous proportions that it overshadows important interests; then the
efforts to destroy it become earnest. As one of the victims of slavery I
drank of the bitter water; but then, since destiny willed it so, and
since I aided in bringing a solemn truth to the surface _as a truth_,
perhaps I have no right to complain. Here, as in all things pertaining
to life, I can afford to be charitable.
It may be charged that I have written too freely on some questions,
especially in regard to Mrs. Lincoln. I do not think so; at least I have
been prompted by the purest motive. Mrs. Lincoln, by her own acts,
forced herself into notoriety. She stepped beyond the formal lines which
hedge about a private life, and invited public criticism. The people
have judged her harshly, and no woman was ever more traduced in the
public prints of the country. The people knew nothing of the secret
history of her transactions, therefore they judged her by what was
thrown to the surface. For an act may be wrong judged purely by itself,
but when the motive that prompted the act is understood, it is construed
differently. I lay it down as an axiom, that only that is criminal in
the sight of God where crime is meditated. Mrs. Lincoln may have been
imprudent, but since her intentions were good, she should be judged more
kindly than she has been. But the world do not know what her intentions
were; they have only been made acquainted with her acts without knowing
what feeling guided her actions. If the world are to judge her as I have
judged her, they must be introduced to the secret history of her
transactions. The veil of mystery must be drawn aside; the origin of a
fact must be brought to light with the naked fact itself. If I have
betrayed confidence in anything I have published, it has been to place
Mrs. Lincoln in a better light before the world. A breach of trust--if
breach it can be called--of this kind is always excusable. My own
character, as well as the character of Mrs. Lincoln, is at stake, since
I have been intimately associated with that lady in the most eventful
periods of her life. I have been her confidante, and if evil charges are
laid at her door, they also must be laid at mine, since I have been a
party to all her movements. To defend myself I must defend the lady that
I have served. The world have judged Mrs. Lincoln by the facts which
float upon the surface, and through her have partially judged me, and
the only way to convince them that wrong was not meditated is to explain
the motives that actuated us. I have written nothing that can place Mrs.
Lincoln in a worse light before the world than the light in which she
now stands, therefore the secret history that I publish can do her no
harm. I have excluded everything of a personal character from her
letters; the extracts introduced only refer to public men, and are such
as to throw light upon her unfortunate adventure in New York. These
letters were not written for publication, for which reason they are all
the more valuable; they are the frank overflowings of the heart, the
outcropping of impulse, the key to genuine motives. They prove the
motive to have been pure, and if they shall help to stifle the voice of
calumny, I am content. I do not forget, before the public journals
vilified Mrs. Lincoln, that ladies who moved in the Washington circle in
which she moved, freely canvassed her character among themselves. They
gloated over many a tale of scandal that grew out of gossip in their own
circle. If these ladies, could say everything bad of the wife of the
President, why should I not be permitted to lay her secret history bare,
especially when that history plainly shows that her life, like all
lives, has its good side as well as its bad side! None of us are
perfect, for which reason we should heed the voice of charity when it
whispers in our ears, "Do not magnify the imperfections of others." Had
Mrs. Lincoln's acts never become public property, I should not have
published to the world the secret chapters of her life. I am not the
special champion of the widow of our lamented President; the reader of
the pages which follow will discover that I have written with the utmost
frankness in regard to her--have exposed her faults as well as given her
credit for honest motives. I wish the world to judge her as she is, free
from the exaggerations of praise or scandal, since I have been
associated with her in so many things that have provoked hostile
criticism; and the judgment that the world may pass upon her, I flatter
myself, will present my own actions in a better light.
ELIZABETH KECKLEY.
14 Carroll Place, New York,
March 14, 1868.
CHAPTER I
WHERE I WAS BORN
My life has been an eventful one. I was born a slave--was the child of
slave parents--therefore I came upon the earth free in God-like thought,
but fettered in action. My birthplace was Dinwiddie Court-House, in
Virginia. My recollections of childhood are distinct, perhaps for the
reason that many stirring incidents are associated with that period. I
am now on the shady side of forty, and as I sit alone in my room the
brain is busy, and a rapidly moving panorama brings scene after scene
before me, some pleasant and others sad; and when I thus greet old
familiar faces, I often find myself wondering if I am not living the
past over again. The visions are so terribly distinct that I almost
imagine them to be real. Hour after hour I sit while the scenes are
being shifted; and as I gaze upon the panorama of the past, I realize
how crowded with incidents my life has been. Every day seems like a
romance within itself, and the years grow into ponderous volumes. As I
cannot condense, I must omit many strange passages in my history. From
such a wilderness of events it is difficult to make a selection, but as
I am not writing altogether the history of myself, I will confine my
story to the most important incidents which I believe influenced the
moulding of my character. As I glance over the crowded sea of the past,
these incidents stand forth prominently, the guide-posts of memory. I
presume that I must have been four years old when I first began to
remember; at least, I cannot now recall anything occurring previous to
this period. My master, Col. A. Burwell, was somewhat unsettled in his
business affairs, and while I was yet an infant he made several
removals. While living at Hampton Sidney College, Prince Edward County,
Va., Mrs. Burwell gave birth to a daughter, a sweet, black-eyed baby,
my earliest and fondest pet. To take care of this baby was my first
duty. True, I was but a child myself--only four years old--but then I
had been raised in a hardy school--had been taught to rely upon myself,
and to prepare myself to render assistance to others. The lesson was not
a bitter one, for I was too young to indulge in philosophy, and the
precepts that I then treasured and practised I believe developed those
principles of character which have enabled me to triumph over so many
difficulties. Notwithstanding all the wrongs that slavery heaped upon
me, I can bless it for one thing--youth's important lesson of
self-reliance. The baby was named Elizabeth, and it was pleasant to me
to be assigned a duty in connection with it, for the discharge of that
duty transferred me from the rude cabin to the household of my master.
My simple attire was a short dress and a little white apron. My old
mistress encouraged me in rocking the cradle, by telling me that if I
would watch over the baby well, keep the flies out of its face, and not
let it cry, I should be its little maid. This was a golden promise, and
I required no better inducement for the faithful performance of my task.
I began to rock the cradle most industriously, when lo! out pitched
little pet on the floor. I instantly cried out, "Oh! the baby is on the
floor;" and, not knowing what to do, I seized the fire-shovel in my
perplexity, and was trying to shovel up my tender charge, when my
mistress called to me to let the child alone, and then ordered that I be
taken out and lashed for my carelessness. The blows were not
administered with a light hand, I assure you, and doubtless the severity
of the lashing has made me remember the incident so well. This was the
first time I was punished in this cruel way, but not the last. The
black-eyed baby that I called my pet grew into a self-willed girl, and
in after years was the cause of much trouble to me. I grew strong and
healthy, and, notwithstanding I knit socks and attended to various kinds
of work, I was repeatedly told, when even fourteen years old, that I
would never be worth my salt. When I was eight, Mr. Burwell's family
consisted of six sons and four daughters, with a large family of
servants. My mother was kind and forbearing; Mrs. Burwell a hard
task-master; and as mother had so much work to do in making clothes,
etc., for the family, besides the slaves, I determined to render her all
the assistance in my power, and in rendering her such assistance my
young energies were taxed to the utmost. I was my mother's only child,
which made her love for me all the stronger. I did not know much of my
father, for he was the slave of another man, and when Mr. Burwell moved
from Dinwiddie he was separated from us, and only allowed to visit my
mother twice a year--during the Easter holidays and Christmas. At last
Mr. Burwell determined to reward my mother, by making an arrangement
with the owner of my father, by which the separation of my parents could
be brought to an end. It was a bright day, indeed, for my mother when it
was announced that my father was coming to live with us. The old weary
look faded from her face, and she worked as if her heart was in every
task. But the golden days did not last long. The radiant dream faded all
too soon.
In the morning my father called me to him and kissed me, then held me
out at arms' length as if he were regarding his child with pride. "She
is growing into a large fine girl," he remarked to my mother. "I dun no
which I like best, you or Lizzie, as both are so dear to me." My
mother's name was Agnes, and my father delighted to call me his "Little
Lizzie." While yet my father and mother were speaking hopefully,
joyfully of the future, Mr. Burwell came to the cabin, with a letter in
his hand. He was a kind master in some things, and as gently as possible
informed my parents that they must part; for in two hours my father must
join his master at Dinwiddie, and go with him to the West, where he had
determined to make his future home. The announcement fell upon the
little circle in that rude-log cabin like a thunderbolt. I can remember
the scene as if it were but yesterday;--how my father cried out against
the cruel separation; his last kiss; his wild straining of my mother to
his bosom; the solemn prayer to Heaven; the tears and sobs--the fearful
anguish of broken hearts. The last kiss, the last good-by; and he, my
father, was gone, gone forever. The shadow eclipsed the sunshine, and
love brought despair. The parting was eternal. The cloud had no silver
lining, but I trust that it will be all silver in heaven. We who are
crushed to earth with heavy chains, who travel a weary, rugged, thorny
road, groping through midnight darkness on earth, earn our right to
enjoy the sunshine in the great hereafter. At the grave, at least, we
should be permitted to lay our burdens down, that a new world, a world
of brightness, may open to us. The light that is denied us here should
grow into a flood of effulgence beyond the dark, mysterious shadows of
death. Deep as was the distress of my mother in parting with my father,
her sorrow did not screen her from insult. My old mistress said to her:
"Stop your nonsense; there is no necessity for you putting on airs. Your
husband is not the only slave that has been sold from his family, and
you are not the only one that has had to part. There are plenty more men
about here, and if you want a husband so badly, stop your crying and go
and find another." To these unfeeling words my mother made no reply. She
turned away in stoical silence, with a curl of that loathing scorn upon
her lips which swelled in her heart.
My father and mother never met again in this world. They kept up a
regular correspondence for years, and the most precious mementoes of my
existence are the faded old letters that he wrote, full of love, and
always hoping that the future would bring brighter days. In nearly every
letter is a message for me. "Tell my darling little Lizzie," he writes,
"to be a good girl, and to learn her book. Kiss her for me, and tell her
that I will come to see her some day." Thus he wrote time and again, but
he never came. He lived in hope, but died without ever seeing his wife
and child.
I note a few extracts from one of my father's letters to my mother,
following copy literally:
"SHELBYVILE, Sept. 6, 1833.
"MRS. AGNES HOBBS
"Dear Wife: My dear biloved wife I am more than glad to meet
with opportun[i]ty writee thes few lines to you by my
Mistress who ar now about starterng to virginia, and sevl
others of my old friends are with her; in compeney Mrs. Ann
Rus the wife of master Thos Rus and Dan Woodiard and his
family and I am very sorry that I havn the chance to go with
them as I feele Determid to see you If life last again. I am
now here and out at this pleace so I am not abble to get of
at this time. I am write well and hearty and all the rest of
masters family. I heard this eveng by Mistress that ar just
from theree all sends love to you and all my old frends. I am
a living in a town called Shelbyville and I have wrote a
greate many letters since Ive beene here and almost been
reeady to my selfe that its out of the question to write any
more at tall: my dear wife I dont feeld no whys like giving
out writing to you as yet and I hope when you get this letter
that you be Inncougege to write me a letter. I am well
satisfied at my living at this place I am a making money for
my own benifit and I hope that its to yours also If I live to
see Nexct year I shall heve my own time from master by giving
him 100 and twenty Dollars a year and I thinke I shall be
doing good bisness at that and heve something more thean all
that. I hope with gods helpe that I may be abble to rejoys
with you on the earth and In heaven lets meet when will I am
detemnid to nuver stope praying, not in this earth and I hope
to praise god In glory there weel meet to part no more
forever. So my dear wife I hope to meet you In paradase to
prase god forever * * * * * I want Elizabeth to be a good
girl and not to thinke that becasue I am bound so fare that
gods not abble to open the way * * * *
"GEORGE PLEASANT,
"_Hobbs a servant of Grum_."
The last letter that my mother received from my father was dated
Shelbyville, Tennessee, March 20, 1839. He writes in a cheerful strain,
and hopes to see her soon. Alas! he looked forward to a meeting in vain.
Year after year the one great hope swelled in his heart, but the hope
was only realized beyond the dark portals of the grave.
When I was about seven years old I witnessed, for the first time, the
sale of a human being. We were living at Prince Edward, in Virginia, and
master had just purchased his hogs for the winter, for which he was
unable to pay in full. To escape from his embarrassment it was necessary
to sell one of the slaves. Little Joe, the son of the cook, was selected
as the victim. His mother was ordered to dress him up in his Sunday
clothes, and send him to the house. He came in with a bright face, was
placed in the scales, and was sold, like the hogs, at so much per pound.
His mother was kept in ignorance of the transaction, but her suspicions
were aroused. When her son started for Petersburgh in the wagon, the
truth began to dawn upon her mind, and she pleaded piteously that her
boy should not be taken from her; but master quieted her by telling her
that he was simply going to town with the wagon, and would be back in
the morning. Morning came, but little Joe did not return to his mother.
Morning after morning passed, and the mother went down to the grave
without ever seeing her child again. One day she was whipped for
grieving for her lost boy. Colonel Burwell never liked to see one of his
slaves wear a sorrowful face, and those who offended in this particular
way were always punished. Alas! the sunny face of the slave is not
always an indication of sunshine in the heart. Colonel Burwell at one
time owned about seventy slaves, all of which were sold, and in a
majority of instances wives were separated from husbands and children
from their parents. Slavery in the Border States forty years ago was
different from what it was twenty years ago. Time seemed to soften the
hearts of master and mistress, and to insure kinder and more humane
treatment to bondsmen and bondswomen. When I was quite a child, an
incident occurred which my mother afterward impressed more strongly on
my mind. One of my uncles, a slave of Colonel Burwell, lost a pair of
ploughlines, and when the loss was made known the master gave him a new
pair, and told him that if he did not take care of them he would punish
him severely. In a few weeks the second pair of lines was stolen, and my
uncle hung himself rather than meet the displeasure of his master. My
mother went to the spring in the morning for a pail of water, and on
looking up into the willow tree which shaded the bubbling crystal
stream, she discovered the lifeless form of her brother suspended
beneath one of the strong branches. Rather than be punished the way
Colonel Burwell punished his servants, he took his own life. Slavery had
its dark side as well as its bright side.