CHAPTER XXI.

ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY.

Closing incidents in my “Life as a Slave”--Discontent--Suspicions--

Master’s generosity--Difficulties in the way of escape--Plan to

obtain money--Allowed to hire my time--A gleam of hope--Attend

camp-meeting--Anger of Master Hugh--The result--Plans of escape--

Day for departure fixed--Harassing doubts and fears--Painful

thoughts of separation from friends.

My condition during the year of my escape (1838) was comparatively a

free and easy one, so far, at least, as the wants of the physical man

were concerned; but the reader will bear in mind that my troubles from

the beginning had been less physical than mental, and he will thus be

prepared to find that slave life was adding nothing to its charms for

me as I grew older, and became more and more acquainted with it. The

practice from week to week of openly robbing me of all my earnings,

kept the nature and character of slavery constantly before me. I could

be robbed by indirection, but this was too open and barefaced to be

endured. I could see no reason why I should, at the end of each week,

pour the reward of my honest toil into the purse of my master. My

obligation to do this vexed me, and the manner in which Master Hugh

received my wages vexed me yet more. Carefully counting the money,

and rolling it out dollar by dollar, he would look me in the face as

if he would search my heart as well as my pocket, and reproachfully

ask me, “Is that all?”--implying that I had perhaps kept back part

of my wages; or, if not so, the demand was made possibly to make me

feel that after all, I was an “unprofitable servant.” Draining me of

the last cent of my hard earnings, he would, however, occasionally,

when I brought home an extra large sum, dole out to me a sixpence or a

shilling, with a view, perhaps, of kindling up my gratitude. But it

had the opposite effect; it was an admission of my right to the whole

sum. The fact that he gave me any part of my wages, was proof that

he suspected I had a right to the whole of them; and I always felt

uncomfortable after having received anything in this way, lest his

giving me a few cents might possibly ease his conscience, and make him

feel himself to be a pretty honorable robber after all.

Held to a strict account, and kept under a close watch,--the old

suspicion of my running away not having been entirely removed,--to

accomplish my escape seemed a very difficult thing. The railroad from

Baltimore to Philadelphia was under regulations so stringent that

even _free_ colored travelers were almost excluded. They must have

free papers; they must be measured and carefully examined before they

could enter the cars, and could go only in the day time; even when so

examined. The steamboats were under regulations equally stringent.

And still more, and worse than all, all the great turnpikes leading

northward were beset with kidnappers; a class of men who watched the

newspapers for advertisements for runaway slaves, thus making their

living by the accursed reward of slave-hunting.

My discontent grew upon me, and I was on a constant lookout for means

to get away. With money I could easily have managed the matter, and

from this consideration I hit upon the plan of soliciting the privilege

of hiring my time. It was quite common in Baltimore to allow slaves

this privilege, and was the practice also in New Orleans. A slave who

was considered trustworthy could, by paying his master a definite sum

regularly, at the end of each week, dispose of his time as he liked.

It so happened that I was not in very good odor, and I was far from

being a trustworthy slave. Nevertheless, I watched my opportunity when

Master Thomas came to Baltimore (for I was still his property, Hugh

only acting as his agent) in the spring of 1838, to purchase his spring

supply of goods, and applied to him directly for the much-coveted

privilege of hiring my time. This request Master Thomas unhesitatingly

refused to grant; and he charged me, with some sternness, with

inventing this stratagem to make my escape. He told me I could go

_nowhere_ but he would catch me; and, in the event of my running away,

I might be assured he should spare no pains in his efforts to recapture

me. He recounted, with a good deal of eloquence, the many kind offices

he had done me, and exhorted me to be contented and obedient. “Lay out

no plans for the future,” said he; “if you behave yourself properly, I

will take care of you.” Now, kind and considerate as this offer was,

it failed to soothe me into repose. In spite of all Master Thomas had

said, and in spite of my own efforts to the contrary, the injustice

and wickedness of slavery was always uppermost in my thoughts,

strengthening my purpose to make my escape at the earliest moment

possible.

About two months after applying to Master Thomas for the privilege

of hiring my time, I applied to Master Hugh for the same liberty,

supposing him to be unacquainted with the fact that I had made a

similar application to Master Thomas, and had been refused. My boldness

in making this request fairly astounded him at first. He gazed at me in

amazement. But I had many good reasons for pressing the matter, and,

after listening to them awhile, he did not absolutely refuse, but told

me he would think of it. There was hope for me in this. Once master of

my own time, I felt sure that I could make over and above my obligation

to him, a dollar or two every week. Some slaves had made enough in this

way to purchase their freedom. It was a sharp spur to their industry;

and some of the most enterprising colored men in Baltimore hired

themselves in that way.

After mature reflection, as I suppose it was, Master Hugh granted

me the privilege in question, on the following terms: I was to be

allowed all my time; to make all bargains for work, and to collect my

own wages; and in return for this liberty, I was required or obliged

to pay him three dollars at the end of each week, and to board and

clothe myself, and buy my own calking tools. A failure in any of these

particulars would put an end to the privilege. This was a hard bargain.

The wear and tear of clothing, the losing and breaking of tools, and

the expense of board made it necessary for me to earn at least six

dollars per week to keep even with the world. All who are acquainted

with calking know how uncertain and irregular that employment is. It

can be done to advantage only in dry weather, for it is useless to put

wet oakum into a ship’s seam. Rain or shine, however, work or no work,

at the end of each week the money must be forthcoming.

Master Hugh seemed much pleased with this arrangement for a time; and

well he might be, for it was decidedly in his favor. It relieved him

of all anxiety concerning me. His money was sure. He had armed my love

of liberty with a lash and a driver far more efficient than any I had

before known; and while he derived all the benefits of slaveholding by

the arrangement, without its evils, I endured all the evils of being

a slave, and yet suffered all the care and anxiety of a responsible

freeman. “Nevertheless,” thought I, “it is a valuable privilege--

another step in my career toward freedom.” It was something even to

be permitted to stagger under the disadvantages of liberty, and I

was determined to hold on to the newly gained footing by all proper

industry. I was ready to work by night as by day, and being in the

possession of excellent health, I was not only able to meet my current

expenses, but also to lay by a small sum at the end of each week. All

went on thus from the month of May till August; then, for reasons which

will become apparent as I proceed, my much-valued liberty was wrested

from me.

During the week previous to this calamitous event, I had made

arrangements with a few young friends to accompany them on Saturday

night to a camp-meeting, to be held about twelve miles from Baltimore.

On the evening of our intended start for the camp-ground, something

occurred in the ship-yard where I was at work which detained me

unusually late, and compelled me either to disappoint my friends, or

to neglect carrying my weekly dues to Master Hugh. Knowing that I had

the money and could hand it to him on another day, I decided to go to

camp-meeting, and to pay him the three dollars for the past week on

my return. Once on the camp-ground, I was induced to remain one day

longer than I had intended when I left home. But as soon as I returned

I went directly to his home on Fell street to hand him his (my) money.

Unhappily the fatal mistake had been made. I found him exceedingly

angry. He exhibited all the signs of apprehension and wrath which a

slaveholder might be surmised to exhibit on the supposed escape of a

favorite slave. “You rascal! I have a great mind to give you a sound

whipping. How dare you go out of the city without first asking and

obtaining my permission?” “Sir,” I said, “I hired my time and paid you

the price you asked for it. I did not know that it was any part of the

bargain that I should ask you when or where I should go.” “You did not

know, you rascal! You are bound to show yourself here every Saturday

night.” After reflecting a few moments, he became somewhat cooled down;

but evidently greatly troubled, he said: “Now, you scoundrel, you have

done for yourself; you shall hire your time no longer. The next thing I

shall hear of will be your running away. Bring home your tools at once.

I’ll teach you how to go off in this way.”

Thus ended my partial freedom. I could hire my time no longer; and I

obeyed my master’s orders at once. The little taste of liberty which I

had had--although as it will be seen, that taste was far from being

unalloyed, by no means enhanced my contentment with slavery. Punished

by Master Hugh, it was now my turn to punish him. “Since,” thought I,

“you _will_ make a slave of me, I will await your order in all things.”

So, instead of going to look for work on Monday morning, as I had

formerly done, I remained at home during the entire week, without the

performance of a single stroke of work. Saturday night came, and he

called upon me as usual for my wages. I, of course, told him I had

done no work, and had no wages. Here we were at the point of coming

to blows. His wrath had been accumulating during the whole week; for

he evidently saw that I was making no effort to get work, but was

most aggravatingly awaiting his orders in all things. As I look back

to this behavior of mine, I scarcely know what possessed me, thus to

trifle with one who had such unlimited power to bless or blast me.

Master Hugh raved, and swore he would “get hold of me,” but wisely for

_him_, and happily for _me_, his wrath employed only those harmless,

impalpable missiles which roll from a limber tongue. In my desperation

I had fully made up my mind to measure strength with him, in case he

should attempt to execute his threats. I am glad there was no occasion

for this, for resistance to him could not have ended so happily for

me as it did in the case of Covey. Master Hugh was not a man to be

safely resisted by a slave; and I freely own that in my conduct toward

him, in this instance, there was more folly than wisdom. He closed his

reproofs by telling me that hereafter I need give myself no uneasiness

about getting work; he “would himself see to getting work for me, and

enough of it at that.” This threat, I confess, had some terror in it,

and on thinking the matter over during the Sunday, I resolved not only

to save him the trouble of getting me work, but that on the third day

of September I would attempt to make my escape. His refusal to allow me

to hire my time therefore hastened the period of my flight. I had three

weeks in which to prepare for my journey.

Once resolved, I felt a certain degree of repose, and on Monday

morning, instead of waiting for Master Hugh to seek employment for me,

I was up by break of day, and off to the ship-yard of Mr. Butler, on

the City Block, near the drawbridge. I was a favorite with Mr. Butler,

and, young as I was, I had served as his foreman, on the float-stage,

at calking. Of course I easily obtained work, and at the end of the

week, which, by the way, was exceedingly fine, I brought Master Hugh

nine dollars. The effect of this mark of returning good sense on my

part, was excellent. He was very much pleased; he took the money,

commended me, and told me I might have done the same thing the week

before. It is a blessed thing that the tyrant may not always know

the thoughts and purposes of his victim. Master Hugh little knew my

plans. The going to camp-meeting without asking his permission, the

insolent answers to his reproaches, the sulky deportment of the week

after being deprived of the privilege of hiring my time, had awakened

the suspicion that I might be cherishing disloyal purposes. My object,

therefore, in working steadily was to remove suspicion; and in this I

succeeded admirably. He probably thought I was never better satisfied

with my condition than at the very time I was planning my escape. The

second week passed, and I again carried him my full week’s wages--

_nine dollars_; and so well pleased was he that he gave me _twenty-five

cents_! and bade me “make good use of it.” I told him I would do so,

for one of the uses to which I intended to put it was to pay my fare on

the “underground railroad.”

Things without went on as usual; but I was passing through the same

internal excitement and anxiety which I had experienced two years and

a half before. The failure in that instance was not calculated to

increase my confidence in the success of this, my second attempt; and

I knew that a second failure could not leave me where my first did. I

must either get to the _far North_ or _be sent_ to the far _South_.

Besides the exercise of mind from this state of facts, I had the

painful sensation of being about to separate from a circle of honest

and warm-hearted friends. The thought of such a separation, where the

hope of ever meeting again was excluded, and where there could be no

correspondence, was very painful. It is my opinion that thousands more

would have escaped from slavery but for the strong affection which

bound them to their families, relatives, and friends. The daughter was

hindered by the love she bore her mother, and the father by the love

he bore his wife and children, and so on to the end of the chapter.

I had no relations in Baltimore, and I saw no probability of ever

living in the neighborhood of sisters and brothers; but the thought of

leaving my friends was the strongest obstacle to my running away. The

last two days of the week, Friday and Saturday, were spent mostly in

collecting my things together for my journey. Having worked four days

that week for my master, I handed him six dollars on Saturday night. I

seldom spent my Sundays at home, and for fear that something might be

discovered in my conduct, I kept up my custom and absented myself all

day. On Monday, the third day of September, 1838, in accordance with

my resolution, I bade farewell to the city of Baltimore, and to that

slavery which had been my abhorrence from childhood.

[Illustration: HIS PRESENT HOME IN WASHINGTON.]

SECOND PART

CHAPTER I.

ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY.

Reasons for not having revealed the manner of escape--Nothing

of romance in the method--Danger--Free Papers--Unjust tax--

Protection papers--“Free trade and sailors’ rights”--American

eagle--Railroad train--Unobserving conductor--Capt. McGowan--

Honest German--Fears--Safe arrival in Philadelphia--Ditto in New

York.

In the first narrative of my experience in slavery, written nearly

forty years ago, and in various writings since, I have given the public

what I considered very good reasons for withholding the manner of my

escape. In substance these reasons were, first, that such publication

at any time during the existence of slavery might be used by the master

against the slave, and prevent the future escape of any who might adopt

the same means that I did. The second reason was, if possible, still

more binding to silence--for publication of details would certainly

have put in peril the persons and property of those who assisted.

Murder itself was not more sternly and certainly punished in the State

of Maryland, than that of aiding and abetting the escape of a slave.

Many colored men, for no other crime than that of giving aid to a

fugitive slave, have, like Charles T. Torrey, perished in prison. The

abolition of slavery in my native State and throughout the country,

and the lapse of time, render the caution hitherto observed no longer

necessary. But even since the abolition of slavery, I have sometimes

thought it well enough to baffle curiosity by saying that while

slavery existed there were good reasons for not telling the manner of

my escape, and since slavery had ceased to exist there was no reason

for telling it. I shall now, however, cease to avail myself of this

formula, and, as far as I can, endeavor to satisfy this very natural

curiosity. I should perhaps have yielded to that feeling sooner,

had there been anything very heroic or thrilling in the incidents

connected with my escape, for I am sorry to say I have nothing of that

sort to tell; and yet the courage that could risk betrayal and the

bravery which was ready to encounter death if need be, in pursuit of

freedom, were essential features in the undertaking. My success was due

to address rather than courage; to good luck rather than bravery. My

means of escape were provided for me by the very men who were making

laws to hold and bind me more securely in slavery. It was the custom

in the State of Maryland to require of the free colored people to have

what were called free papers. This instrument they were required to

renew very often, and by charging a fee for this writing, considerable

sums from time to time were collected by the State. In these papers

the name, age, color, height, and form of the free man were described,

together with any scars or other marks upon his person, which could

assist in his identification. This device of slaveholding ingenuity,

like other devices of wickedness, in some measure defeated itself--

since more than one man could be found to answer the same general

description. Hence many slaves could escape by personating the owner of

one set of papers; and this was often done as follows: A slave nearly

or sufficiently answering the description set forth in the papers,

would borrow or hire them till he could by their means escape to a free

State, and then, by mail or otherwise, return them to the owner. The

operation was a hazardous one for the lender as well as the borrower.

A failure on the part of the fugitive to send back the papers would

imperil his benefactor, and the discovery of the papers in possession

of the wrong man would imperil both the fugitive and his friend. It

was therefore an act of supreme trust on the part of a freeman of

color thus to put in jeopardy his own liberty that another might be

free. It was, however, not unfrequently bravely done, and was seldom

discovered. I was not so fortunate as to sufficiently resemble any of

my free acquaintances as to answer the description of their papers.

But I had one friend--a sailor--who owned a sailor’s protection,

which answered somewhat the purpose of free papers--describing his

person, and certifying to the fact that he was a free American sailor.

The instrument had at its head the American eagle, which gave it the

appearance at once of an authorized document. This protection did

not, when in my hands, describe its bearer very accurately. Indeed,

it called for a man much darker than myself, and close examination of

it would have caused my arrest at the start. In order to avoid this

fatal scrutiny on the part of the railroad official, I had arranged

with Isaac Rolls, a hackman, to bring my baggage to the train just on

the moment of its starting, and jumped upon the car myself when the

train was already in motion. Had I gone into the station and offered to

purchase a ticket, I should have been instantly and carefully examined,

and undoubtedly arrested. In choosing this plan upon which to act,

I considered the jostle of the train, and the natural haste of the

conductor, in a train crowded with passengers, and relied upon my skill

and address in playing the sailor as described in my protection, to do

the rest. One element in my favor was the kind feeling which prevailed

in Baltimore and other seaports at the time, towards “those who go down

to the sea in ships.” “Free trade and sailors’ rights” expressed the

sentiment of the country just then. In my clothing I was rigged out

in sailor style. I had on a red shirt and a tarpaulin hat and black

cravat, tied in sailor fashion, carelessly and loosely about my neck.

My knowledge of ships and sailor’s talk came much to my assistance, for

I knew a ship from stem to stern, and from keelson to cross-trees, and

could talk sailor like an “old salt.” On sped the train, and I was well

on the way to Havre de Grace before the conductor came into the negro

car to collect tickets and examine the papers of his black passengers.

This was a critical moment in the drama. My whole future depended upon

the decision of this conductor. Agitated I was while this ceremony was

proceeding, but still externally, at least, I was apparently calm and

self-possessed. He went on with his duty--examining several colored

passengers before reaching me. He was somewhat harsh in tone, and

peremptory in manner until he reached me, when, strangely enough, and

to my surprise and relief, his whole manner changed. Seeing that I did

not readily produce my free papers, as the other colored persons in the

car had done, he said to me in a friendly contrast with that observed

towards the others: “I suppose you have your free papers?” To which I

answered: “No, sir; I never carry my free papers to sea with me.” “But

you have something to show that you are a free man, have you not?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered; “I have a paper with the American eagle on

it, and that will carry me round the world.” With this I drew from my

deep sailor’s pocket my seaman’s protection, as before described. The

merest glance at the paper satisfied him, and he took my fare and went

on about his business. This moment of time was one of the most anxious

I ever experienced. Had the conductor looked closely at the paper, he

could not have failed to discover that it called for a very different

looking person from myself, and in that case it would have been his

duty to arrest me on the instant, and send me back to Baltimore from

the first station. When he left me with the assurance that I was all

right, though much relieved, I realized that I was still in great

danger: I was still in Maryland, and subject to arrest at any moment. I

saw on the train several persons who would have known me in any other

clothes, and I feared they might recognize me, even in my sailor “rig,”

and report me to the conductor, who would then subject me to a closer

examination, which I knew well would be fatal to me.

Though I was not a murderer fleeing from justice I felt perhaps quite

as miserable as such a criminal. The train was moving at a very high

rate of speed for that time of railroad travel, but to my anxious mind,

it was moving far too slowly. Minutes were hours, and hours were days

during this part of my flight. After Maryland I was to pass through

Delaware--another slave State, where slave catchers generally awaited

their prey, for it was not in the interior of the State, but on its

borders, that these human hounds were most vigilant and active. The

border lines between slavery and freedom were the dangerous ones, for

the fugitives. The heart of no fox or deer, with hungry hounds on his

trail, in full chase, could have beaten more anxiously or noisily than

did mine, from the time I left Baltimore till I reached Philadelphia.

The passage of the Susquehanna river at Havre de Grace was made by

ferry boat at that time, on board of which I met a young colored man

by the name of Nichols, who came very near betraying me. He was a

“hand” on the boat, but instead of minding his business, he insisted

upon knowing me, and asking me dangerous questions as to where I was

going, and when I was coming back, etc. I got away from my old and

inconvenient acquaintance as soon as I could decently do so, and went

to another part of the boat. Once across the river I encountered a new

danger. Only a few days before I had been at work on a revenue cutter,

in Mr. Price’s ship-yard, under the care of Captain McGowan. On the

meeting at this point of the two trains, the one going south stopped

on the track just opposite to the one going north, and it so happened

that this Captain McGowan sat at a window where he could see me very

distinctly, and would certainly have recognized me had he looked at me

but for a second. Fortunately, in the hurry of the moment, he did not

see me; and the trains soon passed each other on their respective ways.

But this was not my only hair-breadth escape. A German blacksmith whom

I knew well, was on the train with me, and looked at me very intently

as if he thought he had seen me somewhere before in his travels. I

really believe he knew me, but had no heart to betray me. At any rate

he saw me escaping and held his peace.

The last point of imminent danger, and the one I dreaded most,

was Wilmington. Here we left the train and took the steamboat for

Philadelphia. In making the change here I again apprehended arrest,

but no one disturbed me, and I was soon on the broad and beautiful

Delaware, speeding away to the Quaker City. On reaching Philadelphia

in the afternoon I inquired of a colored man how I could get on to New

York? He directed me to the Willow street depot, and thither I went,

taking the train that night. I reached New York Tuesday morning, having

completed the journey in less than twenty-four hours. Such is briefly

the manner of my escape from slavery--and the end of my experience as

a slave. Other chapters will tell the story of my life as a freeman.

CHAPTER II.

LIFE AS A FREEMAN.

Loneliness and Insecurity--“Allender’s Jake”--Succored by a Sailor--

David Ruggles--Marriage--Steamer J. W. Richmond--Stage to New

Bedford--Arrival There--Driver’s Detention of Baggage--Nathan

Johnson--Change of Name--Why called “Douglas”--Obtaining Work--

The _Liberator_ and its Editor.

My free life began on the third of September, 1838. On the morning of

the 4th of that month, after an anxious and most perilous but safe

journey, I found myself in the big city of New York, a _free man_; one

more added to the mighty throng which like the confused waves of the

troubled sea, surged to and fro between the lofty walls of Broadway.

Though dazzled with the wonders which met me on every hand, my thoughts

could not be much withdrawn from my strange situation. For the moment

the dreams of my youth, and the hopes of my manhood, were completely

fulfilled. The bonds that had held me to “old master” were broken. No

man now had a right to call me his slave or assert mastery over me.

I was in the rough and tumble of an outdoor world, to take my chance

with the rest of its busy number. I have often been asked, how I felt,

when first I found myself on free soil. And my readers may share the

same curiosity. There is scarcely anything in my experience about which

I could not give a more satisfactory answer. A new world had opened

upon me. If life is more than breath, and the “quick round of blood,”

I lived more in one day than in a year of my slave life. It was a time

of joyous excitement which words can but tamely describe. In a letter

written to a friend soon after reaching New York, I said: “I felt as

one might feel upon escape from a den of hungry lions.” Anguish and

grief, like darkness and rain, may be depicted; but gladness and joy,

like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen or pencil. During ten or

fifteen years I had, as it were, been dragging a heavy chain, which

no strength of mine could break; I was not only a slave, but a slave

for life. I might become a husband, a father, an aged man, but through

all, from birth to death, from the cradle to the grave, I had felt

myself doomed. All efforts I had previously made to secure my freedom,

had not only failed, but had seemed only to rivet my fetters the more

firmly, and to render my escape more difficult. Baffled, entangled,

and discouraged, I had at times asked myself the question, May not my

condition after all be God’s work, and ordered for a wise purpose, and

if so, was not submission my duty? A contest had in fact been going

on in my mind for a long time, between the clear consciousness of

right, and the plausible make-shifts of theology and superstition. The

one held me an abject slave--a prisoner for life, punished for some

transgression in which I had no lot or part; and the other counselled

me to manly endeavor to secure my freedom. This contest was now ended;

my chains were broken, and the victory brought me unspeakable joy. But

my gladness was short lived, for I was not yet out of the reach and

power of the slaveholders. I soon found that New York was not quite so

free, or so safe a refuge as I had supposed, and a sense of loneliness

and insecurity again oppressed me most sadly. I chanced to meet on the

street a few hours after my landing, a fugitive slave whom I had once

known well in slavery. The information received from him alarmed me.

The fugitive in question was known in Baltimore as “Allender’s Jake,”

but in New York he wore the more respectable name of “William Dixon.”

Jake in law was the property of Doctor Allender, and Tolly Allender,

the son of the doctor, had once made an effort to recapture _Mr.

Dixon_, but had failed for want of evidence to support his claim. Jake

told me the circumstances of this attempt, and how narrowly he escaped

being sent back to slavery and torture. He told me that New York was

then full of southerners returning from the watering places north; that

the colored people of New York were not to be trusted; that there were

hired men of my own color who would betray me for a few dollars; that

there were hired men ever on the lookout for fugitives; that I must

trust no man with my secret; that I must not think of going either upon

the wharves, or into any colored boarding-house, for all such places

were closely watched; that he was himself unable to help me; and, in

fact, he seemed while speaking to me to fear lest I myself might be a

spy, and a betrayer. Under this apprehension, as I suppose, he showed

signs of wishing to be rid of me, and with whitewash brush in hand,

in search of work, he soon disappeared. This picture, given by poor

“Jake” of New York, was a damper to my enthusiasm. My little store of

money would soon be exhausted, and since it would be unsafe for me to

go on the wharves for work, and I had no introductions elsewhere, the

prospect for me was far from cheerful. I saw the wisdom of keeping

away from the ship-yards, for, if pursued, as I felt certain I would

be, Mr. Auld would naturally seek me there among the calkers. Every

door seemed closed against me. I was in the midst of an ocean of my

fellowmen, and yet a perfect stranger to every one. I was without home,

without acquaintance, without money, without credit, without work, and

without any definite knowledge as to what course to take, or where to

look for succor. In such an extremity, a man has something beside his

new-born freedom to think of. While wandering about the streets of

New York, and lodging at least one night among the barrels on one of

the wharves, I was indeed free--from slavery, but free from food and

shelter as well. I kept my secret to myself as long as I could, but

was compelled at last to seek some one who should befriend me, without

taking advantage of my destitution to betray me. Such an one I found in

a sailor named Stuart, a warm-hearted and generous fellow, who from his

humble home on Centre street, saw me standing on the opposite sidewalk,

near “The Tombs.” As he approached me I ventured a remark to him which

at once enlisted his interest in me. He took me to his home to spend

the night, and in the morning went with me to Mr. David Ruggles, the

secretary of the New York vigilance committee, a co-worker with Isaac

T. Hopper, Lewis and Arthur Tappan, Theodore S. Wright, Samuel Cornish,

Thomas Downing, Phillip A. Bell and other true men of their time. All

these (save Mr. Bell, who still lives, and is editor and publisher

of a paper called the _Elevator_, in San Francisco) have finished

their work on earth. Once in the hands of these brave and wise men, I

felt comparatively safe. With Mr. Ruggles, on the corner of Lispenard

and Church streets, I was hidden several days, during which time my

intended wife came on from Baltimore at my call, to share the burdens

of life with me. She was a free woman, and came at once on getting the

good news of my safety. We were married by Rev. J. W. C. Pennington,

then a well-known and respected Presbyterian minister. I had no money

with which to pay the marriage fee, but he seemed well pleased with our

thanks.

Mr. Ruggles was the first officer on the underground railroad with whom

I met after coming North; and was indeed the only one with whom I had

anything to do, till I became _such_ an officer myself. Learning that

my trade was that of a calker, he promptly decided that the best place

for me was in New Bedford, Mass. He told me that many ships for whaling

voyages were fitted out there, and that I might there find work at my

trade, and make a good living. So on the day of the marriage ceremony,

we took our little luggage to the steamer John W. Richmond, which at

that time was one of the line running between New York and Newport,

R. I. Forty-three years ago colored travelers were not permitted in the

cabin, nor allowed abaft the paddle-wheels of a steam vessel. They were

compelled, whatever the weather might be, whether cold or hot, wet or

dry, to spend the night on deck. Unjust as this regulation was, it did

not trouble us much. We had fared much harder before. We arrived at

Newport the next morning, and soon after an old-fashioned stage-coach

with “New Bedford” in large, yellow letters on its sides, came down to

the wharf. I had not money enough to pay our fare, and stood hesitating

to know what to do. Fortunately for us, there were two Quaker gentlemen

who were about to take passage on the stage,--Friends William C. Taber

and Joseph Ricketson,--who at once discerned our true situation, and

in a peculiarly quiet way, addressing me, Mr. Taber said: “Thee get

in.” I never obeyed an order with more alacrity, and we were soon on

our way to our new home. When we reached “Stone Bridge” the passengers

alighted for breakfast, and paid their fares to the driver. We took

no breakfast, and when asked for our fares I told the driver I would

make it right with him when we reached New Bedford. I expected some

objection to this on his part, but he made none. When, however, we

reached New Bedford he took our baggage, including three music books,--

two of them collections by Dyer, and one by Shaw,--and held them

until I was able to redeem them by paying to him the sums due for our

rides. This was soon done, for Mr. Nathan Johnson not only received

me kindly, and hospitably, but, on being informed about our baggage,

at once loaned me the two dollars with which to square accounts with

the stage-driver. Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Johnson reached a good old age,

and now rest from their labors. I am under many grateful obligations

to them. They not only “took me in when a stranger,” and “fed me when

hungry,” but taught me how to make an honest living.

Thus, in a fortnight after my flight from Maryland, I was safe in New

Bedford,--a citizen of the grand old commonwealth of Massachusetts.

[Illustration: AT THE WHARF IN NEWPORT.]

Once initiated into my new life of freedom, and assured by Mr.

Johnson that I need not fear recapture in that city, a comparatively

unimportant question arose, as to the name by which I should be known

thereafter, in my new relation as a free man. The name given me by my

dear mother was no less pretentious and long than Frederick Augustus

Washington Bailey. I had, however, while living in Maryland disposed

of the Augustus Washington, and retained only Frederick Bailey.

Between Baltimore and New Bedford, the better to conceal myself from

the slave-hunters, I had parted with Bailey and called myself Johnson;

but finding that in New Bedford the Johnson family was already so

numerous as to cause some confusion in distinguishing one from another,

a change in this name seemed desirable. Nathan Johnson, mine host, was

emphatic as to this necessity, and wished me to allow him to select a

name for me. I consented, and he called me by my present name,--the

one by which I have been known for three and forty years,--Frederick

Douglass. Mr. Johnson had just been reading the “Lady of the Lake,” and

so pleased was he with its great character that he wished me to bear

his name. Since reading that charming poem myself, I have often thought

that, considering the noble hospitality and manly character of Nathan

Johnson, black man though he was, he, far more than I, illustrated the

virtues of the Douglas of Scotland. Sure am I that if any slave-catcher

had entered his domicile with a view to my recapture, Johnson would

have been like him of the “stalwart hand.”

The reader may be surprised, that living in Baltimore as I had done

for many years, when I tell the honest truth of the impressions I had

in some way conceived of the social and material condition of the

people at the north. I had no proper idea of the wealth, refinement,

enterprise, and high civilization of this section of the country. My

Columbian Orator, almost my only book, had done nothing to enlighten

me concerning northern society. I had been taught that slavery was the

bottom-fact of all wealth. With this foundation idea, I came naturally

to the conclusion that poverty must be the general condition of the

people of the free States. A white man holding no slaves in the country

from which I came, was usually an ignorant and poverty-stricken man.

Men of this class were contemptuously called “poor white trash.”

Hence I supposed that since the non-slaveholders at the south were

ignorant, poor, and degraded as a class, the non-slaveholders at the

north must be in a similar condition. New Bedford therefore, which

at that time was really the richest city in the Union, in proportion

to its population, took me greatly by surprise, in the evidences it

gave of its solid wealth and grandeur. I found that even the laboring

classes lived in better houses, that their houses were more elegantly

furnished, and were more abundantly supplied with conveniences and

comforts, than the houses of many who owned slaves on the Eastern Shore

of Maryland. This was true not only of the white people of that city,

but it was so of my friend, Mr. Johnson. He lived in a nicer house,

dined at a more ample board, was the owner of more books, the reader

of more newspapers, was more conversant with the moral, social, and

political condition of the country and the world than nine-tenths of

the slaveholders in all Talbot county. I was not long in finding the

cause of the difference in these respects, between the people of the

north and south. It was the superiority of educated mind over mere

brute force. I will not detain the reader by extended illustrations as

to how my understanding was enlightened on this subject. On the wharves

of New Bedford I received my first light. I saw there industry without

bustle, labor without noise, toil--honest, earnest, and exhaustive,

without the whip. There was no loud singing or hallooing, as at the

wharves of southern ports when ships were loading or unloading; no loud

cursing or quarreling; everything went on as smoothly as well-oiled

machinery. One of the first incidents which impressed me with the

superior mental character of labor in the north over that of the south,

was in the manner of loading and unloading vessels. In a southern

port twenty or thirty hands would be employed to do what five or six

men, with the help of one ox, would do at the wharf in New Bedford.

Main strength--human muscle--unassisted by intelligent skill, was

slavery’s method of labor. With a capital of about sixty dollars in

the shape of a good-natured old ox, attached to the end of a stout

rope, New Bedford did the work of ten or twelve thousand dollars,

represented in the bones and muscles of slaves, and did it far better.

In a word, I found everything managed with a much more scrupulous

regard to economy, both of men and things, time and strength, than in

the country from which I had come. Instead of going a hundred yards to

the spring, the maid-servant had a well or pump at her elbow. The wood

used for fuel was kept dry and snugly piled away for winter. Here were

sinks, drains, self-shutting gates, pounding-barrels, washing-machines,

wringing-machines, and a hundred other contrivances for saving time and

money. The ship-repairing docks showed the same thoughtful wisdom as

seen elsewhere. Everybody seemed in earnest. The carpenter struck the

nail on its head, and the calkers wasted no strength in idle flourishes

of their mallets. Ships brought here for repairs were made stronger

and better than when new. I could have landed in no part of the United

States where I should have found a more striking and gratifying

contrast, not only to life generally in the South, but in the condition

of the colored people there than in New Bedford. No colored man was

really free while residing in a slave State. He was ever more or less

subject to the condition of his slave brother. In his color was his

badge of bondage. I saw in New Bedford the nearest approach to freedom

and equality that I had ever seen. I was amazed when Mr. Johnson told

me that there was nothing in the laws or constitution of Massachusetts,

that would prevent a colored man from being governor of the State,

if the people should see fit to elect him. There too the black man’s

children attended the same public schools with the white man’s

children, and apparently without objection from any quarter. To impress

me with my security from recapture, and return to slavery, Mr. Johnson

assured me that no slaveholder could take a slave out of New Bedford;

that there were men there who would lay down their lives to save me

from such a fate. A threat was once made by a colored man to inform a

southern master where his runaway slave could be found. As soon as this

threat became known to the colored people they were furious. A notice

was read from the pulpit of the Third Christian church (colored) for

a public meeting, when important business would be transacted (not

stating what the important business was). In the meantime special

measures had been taken to secure the attendance of the would-be

Judas, and these had proved successful, for when the hour of meeting

arrived, ignorant of the object for which they were called together,

the offender was promptly in attendance. All the usual formalities were

gone through with, the prayer, appointments of president, secretaries,

etc. Then the president, with an air of great solemnity, rose and

said: “Well, friends and brethren, we have got him here, and I would

recommend that you, young men, should take him outside the door and

kill him.” This was enough; there was a rush for the villain, who would

probably have been killed but for his escape by an open window. He was

never seen again in New Bedford.

The fifth day after my arrival I put on the clothes of a common

laborer, and went upon the wharves in search of work. On my way down

Union street I saw a large pile of coal in front of the house of Rev.

Ephraim Peabody, the Unitarian minister. I went to the kitchen door and

asked the privilege of bringing in and putting away this coal. “What

will you charge?” said the lady. “I will leave that to you, madam.”

“You may put it away,” she said. I was not long in accomplishing the

job, when the dear lady put into my hand _two silver half dollars_. To

understand the emotion which swelled my heart as I clasped this money,

realizing that I had no master who could take it from me--_that it

was mine_--_that my hands were my own_, and could earn more of the

precious coin--one must have been in some sense himself a slave. My

next job was stowing a sloop at Uncle Gid. Howland’s wharf with a cargo

of oil for New York. I was not only a freeman but a free-working man,

and no Master Hugh stood ready at the end of the week to seize my hard

earnings.

The season was growing late and work was plenty. Ships were being

fitted out for whaling, and much wood was used in storing them. The

sawing this wood was considered a good job. With the help of old Friend

Johnson (blessings on his memory) I got a “saw” and “buck” and went

at it. When I went into a store to buy a cord with which to brace up

my saw in the frame, I asked for a “fip’s” worth of cord. The man

behind the counter looked rather sharply at me, and said with equal

sharpness, “You don’t belong about here.” I was alarmed, and thought

I had betrayed myself. A fip in Maryland was six and a quarter cents,

called fourpence in Massachusetts. But no harm came, except my fear,

from the “fipenny-bit” blunder, and I confidently and cheerfully went

to work with my saw and buck. It was new business to me, but I never

did better work, or more of it in the same space of time for Covey,

the negro-breaker, than I did for myself in these earliest years of my

freedom.

Notwithstanding the just and humane sentiment of New Bedford three

and forty years ago, the place was not entirely free from race and

color prejudice. The good influence of the Roaches, Rodmans, Arnolds,

Grinnells, and Robesons did not pervade all classes of its people. The

test of the real civilization of the community came when I applied for

work at my trade, and then my repulse was emphatic and decisive. It so

happened that Mr. Rodney French, a wealthy and enterprising citizen,

distinguished as an anti-slavery man, was fitting out a vessel for

a whaling voyage, upon which there was a heavy job of calking and

coppering to be done. I had some skill in both branches, and applied

to Mr. French for work. He, generous man that he was, told me he would

employ me, and I might go at once to the vessel. I obeyed him, but upon

reaching the float-stage, where other calkers were at work, I was told

that every white man would leave the ship in her unfinished condition,

if I struck a blow at my trade upon her. This uncivil, inhuman, and

selfish treatment was not so shocking and scandalous in my eyes at the

time as it now appears to me. Slavery had inured me to hardships that

made ordinary trouble sit lightly upon me. Could I have worked at my

trade I could have earned two dollars a day, but as a common laborer

I received but one dollar. The difference was of great importance to

me, but if I could not get two dollars, I was glad to get one; and so I

went to work for Mr. French as a common laborer. The consciousness that

I was free--no longer a slave--kept me cheerful under this, and many

similar proscriptions, which I was destined to meet in New Bedford, and

elsewhere on the free soil of Massachusetts. For instance, though white

and colored children attended the same schools, and were treated kindly

by their teachers, the New Bedford Lyceum refused till several years

after my residence in that city to allow any colored person to attend

the lectures delivered in its hall. Not until such men as Hon. Chas.

Sumner, Theodore Parker, Ralph W. Emerson, and Horace Mann refused to

lecture in their course while there was such a restriction, was it

abandoned.

Becoming satisfied that I could not rely on my trade in New Bedford to

give me a living, I prepared myself to do any kind of work that came

to hand. I sawed wood, shoveled coal, dug cellars, moved rubbish from

back-yards, worked on the wharves, loaded and unloaded vessels, and

scoured their cabins.

This was an uncertain and unsatisfactory mode of life, for it kept me

too much of the time in search of work. Fortunately it was not to last

long. One of the gentlemen of whom I have spoken as being in company

with Mr. Taber on the Newport wharf, when he said to me “thee get in,”

was Mr. Joseph Ricketson; and he was the proprietor of a large candle

works in the south part of the city. In this “candle works” as it was

called, though no _candles_ were manufactured there, by the kindness

of Mr. Ricketson, I found what is of the utmost importance to a young

man just starting in life--constant employment and regular wages. My

work in this oil refinery required good wind and muscle. Large casks of

oil were to be moved from place to place, and much heavy lifting to be

done. Happily I was not deficient in the requisite qualities. Young

(21 years), strong, and active, and ambitious to do my full share,

I soon made myself useful, and I think liked by the men who worked

with me, though they were all white. I was retained here as long as

there was anything for me to do; when I went again to the wharves and

obtained work as a laborer on two vessels which belonged to Mr. George

Howland, and which were being repaired and fitted up for whaling.

My employer was a man of great industry: a hard driver, but a good

paymaster, and I got on well with him. I was not only fortunate in

finding work with Mr. Howland, but in my work-fellows. I have seldom

met three working men more intelligent than were John Briggs, Abraham

Rodman, and Solomon Pennington, who labored with me on the “Java”

and “Golconda.” They were sober, thoughtful, and upright, thoroughly

imbued with the spirit of liberty, and I am much indebted to them for

many valuable ideas and impressions. They taught me that all colored

men were not light-hearted triflers, incapable of serious thought or

effort. My next place of work was at the brass foundry owned by Mr.

Richmond. My duty here was to blow the bellows, swing the crane, and

empty the flasks in which castings were made; and at times this was

hot and heavy work. The articles produced here were mostly for ship

work, and in the busy season the foundry was in operation night and

day. I have often worked two nights and each working day of the week.

My foreman, Mr. Cobb, was a good man, and more than once protected me

from abuse that one or more of the hands was disposed to throw upon

me. While in this situation I had little time for mental improvement.

Hard work, night and day, over a furnace hot enough to keep the metal

running like water, was more favorable to action than thought; yet here

I often nailed a newspaper to the post near my bellows, and read while

I was performing the up and down motion of the heavy beam by which the

bellows was inflated and discharged. It was the pursuit of knowledge

under difficulties, and I look back to it now after so many years

with some complacency and a little wonder that I could have been so

earnest and persevering in any pursuit other than for my daily bread. I

certainly saw nothing in the conduct of those around to inspire me with

such interest: they were all devoted exclusively to what their hands

found to do. I am glad to be able to say that during my engagement in

this foundry, no complaint was ever made against me, that I did not do

my work, and do it well. The bellows which I worked by main strength

was after I left moved by a steam engine.

I had been living four or five months in New Bedford when there came

a young man to me with a copy of the _Liberator_, the paper edited by

William Lloyd Garrison, and published by Isaac Knapp, and asked me to

subscribe for it. I told him I had but just escaped from slavery, and

was of course very poor, and had no money then to pay for it. He was

very willing to take me as a subscriber, notwithstanding, and from this

time I was brought into contact with the mind of Mr. Garrison, and his

paper took a place in my heart second only to the Bible. It detested

slavery, and made no truce with the traffickers in the bodies and

souls of men. It preached human brotherhood; it exposed hypocrisy and

wickedness in high places; it denounced oppression, and with all the

solemnity of “Thus saith the Lord,” demanded the complete emancipation

of my race. I loved this paper and its editor. He seemed to me an

all-sufficient match to every opponent, whether they spoke in the

name of the law or the gospel. His words were full of holy fire, and

straight to the point. Something of a hero-worshiper by nature, here

was one to excite my admiration and reverence.

Soon after becoming a reader of the _Liberator_ it was my privilege

to listen to a lecture in Liberty Hall, by Mr. Garrison, its editor.

He was then a young man, of a singularly pleasing countenance, and

earnest and impressive manner. On this occasion he announced nearly

all his heresies. His Bible was his text book--held sacred as the

very word of the Eternal Father. He believed in sinless perfection,

complete submission to insults and injuries, and literal obedience to

the injunction if smitten “on one cheek to turn the other also.” Not

only was Sunday a Sabbath, but all days were Sabbaths, and to be kept

holy. All sectarianism was false and mischievous--the regenerated

throughout the world being members of one body, and the head Christ

Jesus. _Prejudice against color was rebellion against God._ Of all men

beneath the sky, the slaves because most neglected and despised, were

nearest and dearest to his great heart. Those ministers who defended

slavery from the Bible were of their “father the devil”; and those

churches which fellowshiped slaveholders as Christians, were synagogues

of Satan, and our nation was a nation of liars. He was never loud and

noisy, but calm and serene as a summer sky, and as pure. “You are the

man--the Moses, raised up by God, to deliver his modern Israel from

bondage,” was the spontaneous feeling of my heart, as I sat away back

in the hall and listened to his mighty words,--mighty in truth,--

mighty in their simple earnestness. I had not long been a reader of

the _Liberator_, and a listener to its editor, before I got a clear

comprehension of the principles of the anti-slavery movement. I had

already its spirit, and only needed to understand its principles

and measures, and as I became acquainted with these my hope for the

ultimate freedom of my race increased. Every week the _Liberator_

came, and every week I made myself master of its contents. All the

anti-slavery meetings held in New Bedford I promptly attended, my heart

bounding at every true utterance against the slave system, and every

rebuke of it by its friends and supporters. Thus passed the first three

years of my free life. I had not then dreamed of the possibility of my

becoming a public advocate of the cause so deeply imbedded in my heart.

It was enough for me to listen, to receive, and applaud the great words

of others, and only whisper in private, among the white laborers on the

wharves and elsewhere, the truths which burned in my heart.

CHAPTER III.

INTRODUCED TO THE ABOLITIONISTS.

Anti-Slavery Convention at Nantucket--First Speech--Much Sensation--

Extraordinary Speech of Mr. Garrison--Anti-Slavery Agency--Youthful

Enthusiasm--Fugitive Slaveship Doubted--Experience in Slavery

Written--Danger of Recapture.

In the summer of 1841 a grand anti-slavery convention was held in

Nantucket, under the auspices of Mr. Garrison and his friends. I had

taken no holiday since establishing myself in New Bedford, and feeling

the need of a little rest, I determined on attending the meeting,

though I had no thought of taking part in any of its proceedings.

Indeed, I was not aware that any one connected with the convention so

much as knew my name. Mr. William C. Coffin, a prominent abolitionist

in those days of trial, had heard me speaking to my colored friends

in the little school house on Second street, where we worshiped. He

sought me out in the crowd and invited me to say a few words to the

convention. Thus sought out, and thus invited, I was induced to express

the feelings inspired by the occasion, and the fresh recollection of

the scenes through which I had passed as a slave. It was with the

utmost difficulty that I could stand erect, or that I could command

and articulate two words without hesitation and stammering. I trembled

in every limb. I am not sure that my embarrassment was not the most

effective part of my speech, if speech it could be called. At any rate,

this is about the only part of my performance that I now distinctly

remember. The audience sympathized with me at once, and from having

been remarkably quiet, became much excited. Mr. Garrison followed me,

taking me as his text, and now, whether _I_ had made an eloquent plea

in behalf of freedom, or not, his was one, never to be forgotten.

Those who had heard him oftenest, and had known him longest, were

astonished at his masterly effort. For the time he possessed that

almost fabulous inspiration, often referred to but seldom attained,

in which a public meeting is transformed, as it were, into a single

individuality, the orator swaying a thousand heads and hearts at once,

and by the simple majesty of his all-controlling thought, converting

his hearers into the express image of his own soul. That night there

were at least a thousand Garrisonians in Nantucket!

At the close of this great meeting I was duly waited on by Mr. John

A. Collins, then the general agent of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery

Society, and urgently solicited by him to become an agent of that

society, and publicly advocate its principles. I was reluctant to take

the proffered position. I had not been quite three years from slavery

and was honestly distrustful of my ability, and I wished to be excused.

Besides, publicity might discover me to my master, and many other

objections presented themselves. But Mr. Collins was not to be refused,

and I finally consented to go out for three months, supposing I should

in that length of time come to the end of my story and my consequent

usefulness.

Here opened for me a new life--a life for which I had had no

preparation. Mr. Collins used to say when introducing me to an

audience, I was a “graduate from the peculiar institution, with my

diploma _written on my back_.” The three years of my freedom had been

spent in the hard school of adversity. My hands seemed to be furnished

with something like a leather coating, and I had marked out for myself

a life of rough labor, suited to the hardness of my hands, as a means

of supporting my family and rearing my children.

Young, ardent, and hopeful, I entered upon this new life in the full

gush of unsuspecting enthusiasm. The cause was good, the men engaged in

it were good, the means to attain its triumph, good. Heaven’s blessing

must attend all, and freedom must soon be given to the millions pining

under a ruthless bondage. My whole heart went with the holy cause, and

my most fervent prayer to the Almighty Disposer of the hearts of men,

was continually offered for its early triumph. In this enthusiastic

spirit I dropped into the ranks of freedom’s friends and went forth

to the battle. For a time I was made to forget that my skin was dark

and my hair crisped. For a time I regretted that I could not have

shared the hardships and dangers endured by the earlier workers for

the slave’s release. I found, however, full soon that my enthusiasm

had been extravagant, that hardships and dangers were not all over,

and that the life now before me had its shadows also, as well as its

sunbeams.

Among the first duties assigned me on entering the ranks was to

travel in company with Mr. George Foster to secure subscribers to the

_Anti-Slavery Standard_ and the _Liberator_. With him I traveled and

lectured through the eastern counties of Massachusetts. Much interest

was awakened--large meetings assembled. Many came, no doubt from

curiosity to hear what a negro could say in his own cause. I was

generally introduced as a “chattel,”--a “thing”--a piece of southern

property--the chairman assuring the audience that _it_ could speak.

_Fugitive slaves_ were rare then, and as a fugitive slave lecturer, I

had the advantage of being a “bran new fact”--the first one out. Up

to that time, a colored man was deemed a fool who confessed himself

a runaway slave, not only because of the danger to which he exposed

himself of being retaken, but because it was a confession of a very

low origin. Some of my colored friends in New Bedford thought very

badly of my wisdom in thus exposing and degrading myself. The only

precaution I took at the beginning, to prevent Master Thomas from

knowing where I was and what I was about, was the withholding my

former name, my master’s name, and the name of the State and county

from which I came. During the first three or four months my speeches

were almost exclusively made up of narrations of my own personal

experience as a slave. “Let us have the facts,” said the people. So

also said Friend George Foster, who always wished to pin me down to

my simple narrative. “Give us the facts,” said Collins, “we will take

care of the philosophy.” Just here arose some embarrassment. It was

impossible for me to repeat the same old story, month after month, and

to keep up my interest in it. It was new to the people, it is true,

but it was an old story to me; and to go through with it night after

night, was a task altogether too mechanical for my nature. “Tell your

story, Frederick,” would whisper my revered friend, Mr. Garrison, as I

stepped upon the platform. I could not always follow the injunction,

for I was now reading and thinking. New views of the subject were being

presented to my mind. It did not entirely satisfy me to _narrate_

wrongs; I felt like _denouncing_ them. I could not always curb my

moral indignation for the perpetrators of slaveholding villainy, long

enough for a circumstantial statement of the facts which I felt almost

sure everybody must know. Besides, I was growing, and needed room.

“People won’t believe you ever was a slave, Frederick, if you keep on

this way,” said friend Foster. “Be yourself,” said Collins, “and tell

your story.” “Better have a little of the plantation speech than not,”

it was said to me; “it is not best that you seem too learned.” These

excellent friends were actuated by the best of motives, and were not

altogether wrong in their advice; and still I must speak just the word

that seemed to _me_ the word to be spoken _by_ me.

At last the apprehended trouble came. People doubted if I had ever

been a slave. They said I did not talk like a slave, look like a

slave, nor act like a slave, and that they believed I had never been

south of Mason and Dixon’s line. “He don’t tell us where he came

from--what his master’s name was, nor how he got away; besides he is

educated, and is, in this, a contradiction of all the facts we have

concerning the ignorance of the slaves.” Thus I was in a pretty fair

way to be denounced as an impostor. The committee of the Massachusetts

Anti-Slavery Society knew all the facts in my case, and agreed with me

thus far in the prudence of keeping them private; but going down the

aisles of the churches in which my meetings were held, and hearing the

out-spoken Yankees repeatedly saying, “He’s never been a slave, I’ll

warrant you,” I resolved to dispel all doubt at no distant day, by such

a revelation of facts as could not be made by any other than a genuine

fugitive. In a little less than four years, therefore, after becoming a

public lecturer, I was induced to write out the leading facts connected

with my experience in slavery, giving names of persons, places, and

dates--thus putting it in the power of any who doubted to ascertain

the truth or falsehood of my story. This statement soon became known in

Maryland, and I had reason to believe that an effort would be made to

recapture me.

It is not probable that any open attempt to secure me as a slave

could have succeeded, further than the obtainment, by my master, of

the money value of my bones and sinews. Fortunately for me, in the

four years of my labors in the abolition cause, I had gained many

friends who would have suffered themselves to be taxed to almost any

extent to save me from slavery. It was felt that I had committed the

double offense of running away and exposing the secrets and crimes of

slavery and slaveholders. There was a double motive for seeking my

re-enslavement--avarice and vengeance; and while, as I have said,

there was little probability of successful recapture, if attempted

openly, I was constantly in danger of being spirited away at a moment

when my friends could render me no assistance. In traveling about

from place to place, often alone, I was much exposed to this sort of

attack. Any one cherishing the design to betray me, could easily do so

by simply tracing my whereabouts through the anti-slavery journals,

for my movements and meetings were made through these in advance. My

friends, Mr. Garrison and Mr. Phillips, had no faith in the power of

Massachusetts to protect me in my right to liberty. Public sentiment

and the law, in their opinion, would hand me over to the tormentors.

Mr. Phillips especially considered me in danger, and said when I

showed him the manuscript of my story, if in my place, he would “throw

it into the fire.” Thus the reader will observe that the overcoming

one difficulty only opened the way for another; and that though I

had reached a free State, and had attained a position for public

usefulness, I was still under the liability of losing all I had gained.

CHAPTER IV.

RECOLLECTIONS OF OLD FRIENDS.

Work in Rhode Island--Dorr War--Recollections of old friends--

Further labors in Rhode Island and elsewhere in New England.

In the State of Rhode Island, under the leadership of Thomas W. Dorr,

an effort was made in 1841 to set aside the old colonial charter,

under which that State had lived and flourished since the Revolution,

and to replace it with a new constitution having such improvements

as it was thought that time and experience had shown to be wise and

necessary. This new constitution was especially framed to enlarge

the bases of representation so far as the white people of the State

were concerned--to abolish an odious property qualification, and to

confine the right of suffrage to white male citizens only. Mr. Dorr

was himself a well-meaning man, and, after his fashion, a man of broad

and progressive views, quite in advance of the party with which he

acted. To gain their support, he consented to this restriction to a

class, a right which ought to be enjoyed by all citizens. In this he

consulted policy rather than right, and at last shared the fate of

all compromisers and trimmers, for he was disastrously defeated. The

proscriptive features of his constitution shocked the sense of right

and roused the moral indignation of the abolitionists of the State, a

class which would otherwise have gladly coöperated with him, at the

same time that it did nothing to win support from the conservative

class which clung to the old charter. Anti-slavery men wanted a new

constitution, but they did not want a defective instrument which

required reform at the start. The result was that such men as William

M. Chase, Thomas Davis, George L. Clark, Asa Fairbanks, Alphonso

Janes, and others of Providence, the Perry brothers of Westerly, John

Brown and C. C. Eldridge of East Greenwich, Daniel Mitchell, William

Adams, and Robert Shove of Pawtucket, Peleg Clark, Caleb Kelton,

G. J. Adams, and the Anthonys and Goulds of Coventry and vicinity,

Edward Harris of Woonsocket, and other abolitionists of the State,

decided that the time had come when the people of Rhode Island might

be taught a more comprehensive gospel of human rights than had gotten

itself into this Dorr constitution. The public mind was awake, and

one class of its people at least was ready to work with us to the

extent of seeking to defeat the proposed constitution, though their

reasons for such work were far different from ours. Stephen S. Foster,

Parker Pillsbury, Abby Kelley, James Monroe, and myself, were called

into the State to advocate equal rights as against this narrow and

proscriptive constitution. The work to which we were invited was not

free from difficulty. The majority of the people were evidently with

the new constitution; even the word _white_ in it chimed well with the

popular prejudice against the colored race, and at the first helped to

make the movement popular. On the other hand, all the arguments which

the Dorr men could urge against a property qualification for suffrage

were equally cogent against a color qualification, and this was our

advantage. But the contest was intensely bitter and exciting. We were

as usual denounced as intermeddlers (carpet-bagger had not come into

use at that time) and were told to mind our own business, and the like,

a mode of defense common to men when called to account for mean and

discreditable conduct. Stephen S. Foster, Parker Pillsbury, and the

rest of us were not the kind of men to be ordered off by that sort of

opposition. We cared nothing for the Dorr party on the one hand, nor

the “law and order party” on the other. What we wanted, and what we

labored to obtain, was a constitution free from the narrow, selfish,

and senseless limitation of the word _white_. Naturally enough when

we said a strong and striking word against the Dorr Constitution the

conservatives were pleased and applauded, while the Dorr men were

disgusted and indignant. Foster and Pillsbury were like the rest of

us, young, strong, and at their best in this contest. The splendid

vehemence of the one, and the weird and terrible denunciations of the

other, never failed to stir up mobocratic wrath wherever they spoke.

Foster especially, was effective in this line. His theory was that he

must make converts or mobs. If neither came he charged it either to

his want of skill or his unfaithfulness. I was much with Mr. Foster

during the tour in Rhode Island, and though at times he seemed to me

extravagant and needlessly offensive in his manner of presenting his

ideas, yet take him for all in all, he was one of the most impressive

advocates the cause of the American slave ever had. No white man ever

made the black man’s cause more completely his own. Abby Kelley, since

Abby Kelley Foster, was perhaps the most successful of any of us. Her

youth and simple Quaker beauty combined with her wonderful earnestness,

her large knowledge and great logical power, bore down all opposition

in the end, wherever she spoke, though she was before pelted with foul

eggs, and no less foul words from the noisy mobs which attended us.

Monroe and I were less aggressive than either of our co-workers,

and of course did not provoke the same resistance. He at least, had

the eloquence that charms, and the skill that disarms. I think that

our labors in Rhode Island during this Dorr excitement did more to

abolitionize the State, than any previous, or subsequent work. It was

the “tide,” “taken at the flood.” One effect of those labors was to

induce the old “Law and Order” party, when it set about making its new

constitution, to avoid the narrow folly of the Dorrites, and make a

constitution which should not abridge any man’s rights on account of

race or color. Such a constitution was finally adopted.

Owing perhaps to my efficiency in this campaign I was for a while

employed in farther labors in Rhode Island by the State Anti-Slavery

Society, and made there many friends to my cause as well as to myself.

As a class the abolitionists of this State partook of the spirit of

its founder. They had their own opinions, were independent, and called

no man master. I have reason to remember them most gratefully. They

received me as a man and a brother, when I was new from the house

of bondage, and had few of the graces derived from free and refined

society. They took me with earnest hand to their homes and hearths,

and made me feel that though I wore the burnished livery of the sun I

was still a countryman and kinsman of whom they were never ashamed. I

can never forget the Clarks, Keltons, Chaces, Browns, Adams, Greenes,

Sissons, Eldredges, Mitchells, Shoves, Anthonys, Applins, Janes,

Goulds, and Fairbanks, and many others.

While thus remembering the noble anti-slavery men and women of Rhode

Island, I do not forget that I suffered much rough usage within her

borders. It was like all the northern States at that time, under

the influence of slave power, and often showed a proscription and

persecuting spirit, especially upon its railways, steamboats, and

public houses. The Stonington route was a “hard road” for a colored

man “to travel” in that day. I was several times dragged from the cars

for the _crime_ of being colored. On the Sound between New York and

Stonington, there were the same proscriptions which I have before named

as enforced on the steamboats running between New York and Newport.

No colored man was allowed abaft the wheel, and in all seasons of the

year, in heat or cold, wet or dry, the deck was his only place. If I

would lie down at night I must do so upon the freight on deck, and

this in cold weather was not a very comfortable bed. When traveling in

company with my white friends I always urged them to leave me and go

into the cabin and take their comfortable berths. I saw no reason why

they should be miserable because I was. Some of them took my advice

very readily. I confess, however, that while I was entirely honest in

urging them to go, and saw no principle that should bind them to stay

and suffer with me, I always felt a little nearer to those who did not

take my advice and persisted in sharing my hardships with me.

There is something in the world above fixed rules and the logic of

right and wrong, and there is some foundation for recognizing works,

which may be called works of supererogation. Wendell Phillips, James

Monroe, and William White, were always dear to me for their nice

feeling at this point. I have known James Monroe to pull his coat

about him and crawl upon the cotton bales between decks and pass the

night with me, without a murmur. Wendell Phillips would never go into

a first-class car while I was forced into what was called the Jim Crow

car. True men they were, who could accept welcome at no man’s table

where I was refused. I speak of these gentlemen, not as singular or

exceptional cases, but as representatives of a large class of the early

workers for the abolition of slavery. As a general rule there was

little difficulty in obtaining suitable places in New England after

1840, where I could plead the cause of my people. The abolitionists had

passed the Red Sea of mobs, and had conquered the right to a respectful

hearing. I, however, found several towns in which the people closed

their doors and refused to entertain the subject. Notably among these

was Hartford, Conn., and Grafton, Mass. In the former place Messrs.

Garrison, Hudson, Foster, Abby Kelley, and myself determined to hold

our meetings under the open sky, which we did in a little court under

the eaves of the “sanctuary” ministered unto by the Rev. Dr. Hawes,

with much satisfaction to ourselves, and I think with advantage to

our cause. In Grafton I was alone, and there was neither house, hall,

church, nor market-place in which I could speak to the people, but

_determined to speak_ I went to the hotel and borrowed a dinner bell

with which in hand I passed through the principal streets, ringing the

bell and crying out, “_Notice!_ Frederick Douglass, recently a slave,

will lecture on American Slavery, on Grafton Common, this evening at 7

o’clock. Those who would like to hear of the workings of slavery by one

of the slaves are respectfully invited to attend.” This notice brought

out a large audience, after which the largest church in town was open

to me. Only in one instance was I compelled to pursue this course

thereafter, and that was in Manchester, N. H., and my labors there were

followed by similar results. When people found that I would be heard,

they saw it was the part of wisdom to open the way for me.

My treatment in the use of public conveyances about these times was

extremely rough, especially on the “Eastern Railroad, from Boston to

Portland.” On that road, as on many others, there was a mean, dirty,

and uncomfortable car set apart for colored travelers, called the “Jim

Crow” car. Regarding this as the fruit of slaveholding prejudice, and

being determined to fight the spirit of slavery wherever I might find

it, I resolved to avoid this car, though it sometimes required some

courage to do so. The colored people generally accepted the situation,

and complained of me as making matters worse rather than better by

refusing to submit to this proscription. I, however, persisted, and

sometimes was soundly beaten by conductor and brakeman. On one occasion

six of these “fellows of the baser sort,” under the direction of the

conductor, set out to eject me from my seat. As usual, I had purchased

a first-class ticket, and paid the required sum for it, and on the

requirement of the conductor to leave refused to do so, when he called

on these men “to snake me out.” They attempted to obey with an air

which plainly told me they relished the job. They, however, found me

_much attached_ to my seat, and in removing me I tore away two or

three of the surrounding ones, on which I held with a firm grasp,

and did the car no service in some other respects. I was strong and

muscular, and the seats were not then so firmly attached or of as solid

make as now. The result was that Stephen A. Chase, superintendent of

the road, ordered all passenger trains to pass through Lynn (where I

then lived) without stopping. This was a great inconvenience to the

people, large numbers of whom did business in Boston, and at other

points of the road. Led on, however, by James N. Buffum, Jonathan

Buffum, Christopher Robinson, William Bassett, and others, the people

of Lynn stood bravely by me, and denounced the railroad management in

emphatic terms. Mr. Chase made reply that a railroad corporation was

neither a religious nor reformatory body; that the road was run for

the accommodation of the public, and that _it_ required the exclusion

of colored people from its cars. With an air of triumph he told us

that we ought not to expect a railroad company to be better than the

evangelical church, and that until the churches abolished the “negro

pew,” we ought not to expect the railroad company to abolish the negro

car. This argument was certainly good enough as against the church,

but good for nothing as against the demands of justice and equality.

My old and dear friend, J. N. Buffum, made a point against the company

that they “often allowed dogs and monkeys to ride in first-class cars,

and yet excluded a man like Frederick Douglass!” In a very few years

this barbarous practice was put away, and I think there have been no

instances of such exclusion during the past thirty years; and colored

people now, everywhere in New England, ride upon equal terms with other

passengers.

CHAPTER V.

ONE HUNDRED CONVENTIONS.

Anti-slavery conventions held in parts of New England, and in some of

the Middle and Western States--Mobs--Incidents, etc.

The year 1843 was one of remarkable anti-slavery activity. The New

England Anti-Slavery Society at its annual meeting, held in the spring

of that year, resolved, under the auspices of Mr. Garrison and his

friends, to hold a series of one hundred conventions. The territory

embraced in this plan for creating anti-slavery sentiment included New

Hampshire, Vermont, New York, Ohio, Indiana, and Pennsylvania. I had

the honor to be chosen one of the agents to assist in these proposed

conventions, and I never entered upon any work with more heart and

hope. All that the American people needed, I thought, was light. Could

they know slavery as I knew it, they would hasten to the work of its

extinction. The corps of speakers who were to be associated with me in

carrying on these conventions were Messrs. George Bradburn, John A.

Collins, James Monroe, William A. White, Charles L. Remond, and Sydney

Howard Gay. They were all masters of the subject, and some of them able

and eloquent orators. It was a piece of great good fortune to me, only

a few years from slavery as I was, to be brought into contact with such

men. It was a real campaign, and required nearly six months for its

accomplishment.

Those who only know the State of Vermont as it is to-day, can hardly

understand, and must wonder that there was need for anti-slavery effort

within its borders forty years ago. Our first convention was held

in Middlebury, its chief seat of learning, and the home of William

Slade, who was for years the co-worker with John Quincy Adams in

Congress; and yet in this town the opposition to our anti-slavery

convention was intensely bitter and violent. The only man of note in

the town whom I now remember as giving us sympathy or welcome was

Mr. Edward Barber, who was a man of courage as well as ability, and

did his best to make our convention a success. In advance of our

arrival, the college students had very industriously and mischievously

placarded the town with violent aspersions of our characters, and the

grossest misrepresentations of our principles, measures, and objects.

I was described as an escaped convict from the State Prison, and

the other speakers were assailed not less slanderously. Few people

attended our meeting, and apparently little was accomplished by it.

In the neighboring town of Ferrisburgh the case was different and

more favorable. The way had been prepared for us by such stalwart

anti-slavery workers as Orson S. Murray, Charles C. Burleigh, Rowland

T. Robinson, and others. Upon the whole, however, the several towns

visited showed that Vermont was surprisingly under the influence of

the slave power. Her proud boast that no slave had ever been delivered

up to his master within her borders did not hinder her hatred to

_anti_-slavery. What was true of the Green Mountain State in this

respect, was most discouragingly true of New York, the State next

visited. All along the Erie canal, from Albany to Buffalo, there

was apathy, indifference, aversion, and sometimes mobocratic spirit

evinced. Even Syracuse, afterwards the home of the humane Samuel J.

May, and the scene of the “Jerry rescue,” where Gerrit Smith, Beriah

Greene, William Goodell, Alvin Stewart, and other able men since taught

their noblest lessons, would not at that time furnish us with church,

market, house, or hall in which to hold our meetings. Discovering this

state of things, some of our number were disposed to turn our backs

upon the town, and shake its dust from our feet, but of these, I am

glad to say, I was not one. I had somewhere read of a command to go

into the hedges and highways and compel men to come in. Mr. Stephen

Smith, under whose hospitable roof we were made at home, thought as

I did. It would be easy to silence anti-slavery agitation if refusing

its agents the use of halls and churches could effect that result.

The house of our friend Smith stood on the southwest corner of the

park, which was well covered with young trees, too small to furnish

shade or shelter, but better than none. Taking my stand under a small

tree, in the southeast corner of this park, I began to speak in the

morning to an audience of five persons, and before the close of my

afternoon meeting I had before me not less than five hundred. In the

evening I was waited upon by officers of the Congregational church, and

tendered the use of an old wooden building, which they had deserted

for a better, but still owned; and here our convention was continued

during three days. I believe there has been no trouble to find places

in Syracuse in which to hold anti-slavery meetings since. I never go

there without endeavoring to see that tree, which, like the cause it

sheltered, has grown large and strong and imposing.

I believe my first offence against our Anti-Slavery Israel was

committed during these Syracuse meetings. It was on this wise: Our

general agent, John A. Collins, had recently returned from England

full of communistic ideas, which ideas would do away with individual

property, and have all things in common. He had arranged a corps

of speakers of his communistic persuasion, consisting of John O.

Wattles, Nathaniel Whiting, and John Orvis, to follow our anti-slavery

conventions, and while our meeting was in progress in Syracuse, a

meeting, as the reader will observe, obtained under much difficulty,

Mr. Collins came in with his new friends and doctrines, and proposed

to adjourn our anti-slavery discussions and take up the subject of

communism. To this I ventured to object. I held that it was imposing

an additional burden of unpopularity on our cause, and an act of bad

faith with the people, who paid the salary of Mr. Collins, and were

responsible for these hundred conventions. Strange to say, my course

in this matter did not meet the approval of Mrs. M. W. Chapman, an

influential member of the board of managers of the Massachusetts

Anti-Slavery Society, and called out a sharp reprimand from her, for

my insubordination to my superiors. This was a strange and distressing

revelation to me, and one of which I was not soon relieved. I thought I

had only done my duty, and I think so still. The chief reason for the

reprimand was the use which the liberty party papers would make of my

seeming rebellion against the commanders of our Anti-Slavery Army.

In the growing city of Rochester we had in every way a better

reception. Abolitionists of all shades of opinion were broad enough to

give the Garrisonians (for such we were) a hearing. Samuel D. Porter

and the Avery family, though they belonged to the Gerrit Smith, Myron

Holly, and William Goodell school, were not so narrow as to refuse

us the use of their church for the convention. They heard our moral

suasion arguments, and in a manly way met us in debate. We were opposed

to carrying the anti-slavery cause to the ballot-box, and they believed

in carrying it there. They looked at slavery as a creature of _law_; we

regarded it as a creature of public opinion. It is surprising how small

the difference appears as I look back to it, over the space of forty

years; yet at the time of it this difference was immense.

During our stay at Rochester we were hospitably entertained by Isaac

and Amy Post, two people of all-abounding benevolence, the truest and

best of Long Island and Elias Hicks Quakers. They were not more amiable

than brave, for they never seemed to ask, What will the world say? but

walked straight forward in what seemed to them the line of duty, please

or offend whomsoever it might. Many a poor fugitive slave found shelter

under their roof when such shelter was hard to find elsewhere, and I

mention them here in the warmth and fullness of earnest gratitude.

Pleased with our success in Rochester, we--that is Mr. Bradburn and

myself--made our way to Buffalo, then a rising city of steamboats,

bustle, and business. Buffalo was too busy to attend to such matters as

we had in hand. Our friend, Mr. Marsh, had been able to secure for our

convention only an old delapidated and deserted room, formerly used as

a post-office. We went at the time appointed, and found seated a few

cabmen in their coarse, every-day clothes, whips in hand, while their

teams were standing on the street waiting for a job. Friend Bradburn

looked around upon this unpromising audience, and turned upon his heel,

saying he would not speak to “such a set of ragamuffins,” and took

the first steamer to Cleveland, the home of his brother Charles, and

left me to “do” Buffalo alone. For nearly a week I spoke every day in

this old post-office to audiences constantly increasing in numbers and

respectability, till the Baptist church was thrown open to me; and when

this became too small I went on Sunday into the open Park and addressed

an assembly of four or five thousand persons. After this my colored

friends, Charles L. Remond, Henry Highland Garnett, Theodore S. Wright,

Amos G. Beaman, Charles M. Ray, and other well-known colored men, held

a convention here, and then Remond and myself left for our next meeting

in Clinton county, Ohio. This was held under a great shed, built by the

abolitionists, of whom Dr. Abram Brook and Valentine Nicholson were

the most noted, for this special purpose. Thousands gathered here and

were addressed by Bradburn, White, Monroe, Remond, Gay, and myself.

The influence of this meeting was deep and widespread. It would be

tedious to tell of all, or a small part of all that was interesting and

illustrative of the difficulties encountered by the early advocates of

anti-slavery in connection with this campaign, and hence I leave this

part of it at once.

From Ohio we divided our forces and went into Indiana. At our first

meeting we were mobbed, and some of us got our good clothes spoiled by

evil-smelling eggs. This was at Richmond, where Henry Clay had been

recently invited to the high seat of the Quaker meeting-house just

after his gross abuse of Mr. Mendenhall, because of his presenting

him a respectful petition, asking him to emancipate his slaves. At

Pendleton this mobocratic spirit was even more pronounced. It was found

impossible to obtain a building in which to hold our convention, and

our friends, Dr. Fussell and others, erected a platform in the woods,

where quite a large audience assembled. Mr. Bradburn, Mr. White, and

myself were in attendance. As soon as we began to speak a mob of

about sixty of the roughest characters I ever looked upon ordered us,

through its leaders, to “be silent,” threatening us, if we were not,

with violence. We attempted to dissuade them, but they had not come to

parley but to fight, and were well armed. They tore down the platform

on which we stood, assaulted Mr. White and knocking out several of his

teeth, dealt a heavy blow on William A. White, striking him on the

back part of the head, badly cutting his scalp and felling him to the

ground. Undertaking to fight my way through the crowd with a stick

which I caught up in the mêlée, I attracted the fury of the mob, which

laid me prostrate on the ground under a torrent of blows. Leaving me

thus, with my right hand broken, and in a state of unconsciousness,

the mobocrats hastily mounted their horses and rode to Andersonville,

where most of them resided. I was soon raised up and revived by Neal

Hardy, a kind-hearted member of the Society of Friends, and carried by

him in his wagon about three miles in the country to his home, where I

was tenderly nursed and bandaged by good Mrs. Hardy till I was again

on my feet, but as the bones broken were not properly set my hand has

never recovered its natural strength and dexterity. We lingered long in

Indiana, and the good effects of our labors there are felt at this day.

I have lately visited Pendleton, now one of the best republican towns

in the State, and looked again upon the spot where I was beaten down,

and have again taken by the hand some of the witnesses of that scene,

amongst whom was the kind, good lady--Mrs. Hardy--who, so like the

good Samaritan of old, bound up my wounds, and cared for me so kindly.

A complete history of these hundred conventions would fill a volume

far larger than the one in which this simple reference is to find a

place. It would be a grateful duty to speak of the noble young men, who

forsook ease and pleasure, as did White, Gay, and Monroe, and endured

all manner of privations in the cause of the enslaved and down-trodden

of my race. Gay, Monroe, and myself are the only ones who participated

as agents in the one hundred conventions who now survive. Mr. Monroe

was for many years consul to Brazil, and has since been a faithful

member of Congress from the Oberlin District, Ohio, and has filled

other important positions in his State. Mr. Gay was managing editor of

the _National Anti-Slavery Standard_, and afterwards of the New York

_Tribune_, and still later of the New York _Evening Post_.

[Illustration: FIGHTING THE MOB IN INDIANA.]

CHAPTER VI.

IMPRESSIONS ABROAD.

Danger to be averted--A refuge sought abroad--Voyage on the steamship

Cambria--Refusal of first-class passage--Attractions of the

forecastle-deck--Hutchinson family--Invited to make a speech--

Southerners feel insulted--Captain threatens to put them in irons--

Experiences abroad--Attentions received--Impressions of different

members of Parliament, and of other public men--Contrast with life

in America--Kindness of friends--Their purchase of my person, and

the gift of the same to myself--My return.

As I have before intimated, the publishing of my “Narrative” was

regarded by my friends with mingled feelings of satisfaction and

apprehension. They were glad to have the doubts and insinuations which

the advocates and apologists of slavery had made against me proved to

the world to be false, but they had many fears lest this very proof

would endanger my safety, and make it necessary for me to leave a

position which in a signal manner had opened before me, and one in

which I had thus far been efficient in assisting to arouse the moral

sentiment of the community against a system which had deprived me, in

common with my fellow-slaves, of all the attributes of manhood.

I became myself painfully alive to the liability which surrounded me,

and which might at any moment scatter all my proud hopes, and return

me to a doom worse than death. It was thus I was led to seek a refuge

in monarchial England, from the dangers of republican slavery. A rude,

uncultivated fugitive slave, I was driven to that country to which

American young gentlemen go to increase their stock of knowledge--to

seek pleasure, and to have their rough democratic manners softened by

contact with English aristocratic refinement.

My friend, James N. Buffum of Lynn, Mass., who was to accompany me,

applied on board the steamer Cambria, of the Cunard line, for tickets,

and was told that I could not be received as a cabin passenger.

American prejudice against color had triumphed over British liberality

and civilization, and had erected a color test as condition for

crossing the sea in the cabin of a British vessel.

The insult was keenly felt by my white friends, but to me such insults

were so frequent, and expected, that it was of no great consequence

whether I went in the cabin or in the steerage. Moreover, I felt that

if I could not go in the first cabin, first cabin passengers could

come in the second cabin, and in this thought I was not mistaken, as

I soon found myself an object of more general interest than I wished

to be, and, so far from being degraded by being placed in the second

cabin, that part of the ship became the scene of as much pleasure

and refinement as the cabin itself. The Hutchinson family from New

Hampshire--sweet singers of anti-slavery and the “good time coming”--

were fellow-passengers, and often came to my rude forecastle-deck

and sang their sweetest songs, making the place eloquent with music

and alive with spirited conversation. They not only visited me, but

invited me to visit them; and in two days after leaving Boston one

part of the ship was about as free to me as another. My visits there,

however, were but seldom. I preferred to live within my privileges,

and keep upon my own premises. This course was quite as much in accord

with good policy as with my own feelings. The effect was that with the

majority of the passengers all color distinctions were flung to the

winds, and I found myself treated with every mark of respect from the

beginning to the end of the voyage, except in one single instance;

and in that I came near being mobbed for complying with an invitation

given me by the passengers and the captain of the Cambria to deliver

a lecture on slavery. There were several young men--passengers from

Georgia and New Orleans; and they were pleased to regard my lecture as

an insult offered to them, and swore I should not speak. They went so

far as to threaten to throw me overboard, and but for the firmness of

Captain Judkins, they would probably, under the inspiration of slavery

and brandy, have attempted to put their threats into execution. I

have no space to describe this scene, although its tragic and comic

features are well worth description. An end was put to the _mêlee_

by the captain’s call to the ship’s company to put the salt-water

mobocrats in irons, at which determined order the gentlemen of the lash

scampered, and for the remainder of the voyage conducted themselves

very decorously.

This incident of the voyage brought me, within two days after landing

at Liverpool, before the British public. The gentlemen so promptly

withheld in their attempted violence toward me flew to the press to

justify their conduct, and to denounce me as a worthless and insolent

negro. This course was even less wise than the conduct it was intended

to sustain; for, besides awakening something like a national interest

in me, and securing me an audience, it brought out counter statements,

and threw the blame upon themselves which they had sought to fasten

upon me and the gallant captain of the ship.

My visit to England did much for me every way. Not the least among the

many advantages derived from it was in the opportunity it afforded me

of becoming acquainted with educated people, and of seeing and hearing

many of the most distinguished men of that country. My friend, Mr.

Wendell Phillips, knowing something of my appreciation of orators and

oratory, had said to me before leaving Boston: “Although Americans are

generally better speakers than Englishmen, you will find in England

individual orators superior to the best of ours.” I do not know that

Mr. Phillips was quite just to himself in this remark, for I found in

England few, if any, superior to him in the gift of speech. When I went

to England that country was in the midst of a tremendous agitation. The

people were divided by two great questions of “Repeal;”--the repeal of

the corn laws, and the repeal of the union between England and Ireland.

Debate ran high in Parliament, and among the people everywhere,

especially concerning the corn laws. Two powerful interests of the

country confronted each other: one venerable from age, and the other

young, stalwart, and growing. Both strove for ascendancy. Conservatism

united for retaining the corn laws, while the rising power of commerce

and manufactures demanded repeal. It was interest against interest, but

something more and deeper: for, while there was aggrandizement of the

landed aristocracy on the one side, there was famine and pestilence

on the other. Of the anti-corn law movement, Richard Cobden and John

Bright, both then members of Parliament, were the leaders. They

were the rising statesmen of England, and possessed a very friendly

disposition toward America. Mr. Bright, who is now Right Honorable John

Bright, and occupies a high place in the British Cabinet, was friendly

to the loyal and progressive spirit which abolished our slavery and

saved our country from dismemberment. I have seen and heard both of

these great men, and, if I may be allowed so much egotism, I may say

I was acquainted with both of them. I was, besides, a welcome guest

at the house of Mr. Bright, in Rochdale, and treated as a friend and

brother among his brothers and sisters. Messrs. Cobden and Bright were

well-matched leaders. One was in large measure the complement of the

other. They were spoken of usually as Cobden and Bright, but there was

no reason, except that Cobden was the elder of the two, why their names

might not have been reversed.

They were about equally fitted for their respective parts in the great

movement of which they were the distinguished leaders, and neither was

likely to encroach upon the work of the other. The contrast was quite

marked in their persons as well as in their oratory. The powerful

speeches of the one, as they traveled together over the country,

heightened the effect of the speeches of the other, so that their

difference was about as effective for good as was their agreement. Mr.

Cobden--for an Englishman--was lean, tall, and slightly sallow, and

might have been taken for an American or Frenchman. Mr. Bright was,

in the broadest sense, an Englishman, abounding in all the physical

perfections peculiar to his countrymen--full, round, and ruddy. Cobden

had dark eyes and hair, a well-formed head, high above his shoulders,

and, when sitting quiet, had a look of sadness and fatigue. In the

House of Commons, he often sat with one hand supporting his head.

Bright appeared the very opposite in this and other respects. His eyes

were blue, his hair light, his head massive, and firmly set upon his

shoulders, suggesting immense energy and determination. In his oratory

Mr. Cobden was cool, candid, deliberate, straight-forward, yet at times

slightly hesitating. Bright, on the other hand, was fervid, fluent,

rapid; always ready in thought or word. Mr. Cobden was full of facts

and figures, dealing in statistics by the hour. Mr. Bright was full of

wit, knowledge, and pathos, and possessed amazing power of expression.

One spoke to the cold, calculating side of the British nation, which

asks “if the new idea will pay?” The other spoke to the infinite side

of human nature--the side which asks, first of all, “is it right? is

it just? is it humane?” Wherever these two great men appeared, the

people assembled in thousands. They could, at an hour’s notice, pack

the town hall of Birmingham, which would hold seven thousand persons,

or the Free Trade Hall in Manchester, and Covent Garden theater,

London, each of which was capable of holding eight thousand.

One of the first attentions shown me by these gentlemen was to make me

welcome at the Free Trade club in London.

I was not long in England before a crisis was reached in the anti-corn

law movement. The announcement that Sir Robert Peel, then prime

minister of England, had become a convert to the views of Messrs.

Cobden and Bright, came upon the country with startling effect, and

formed the turning-point in the anti-corn law question. Sir Robert had

been the strong defense of the landed aristocracy of England, and his

defection left them without a competent leader, and just here came

the opportunity for Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, the Hebrew--since Lord

Beaconsfield. To him it was in public affairs, the “tide which led on

to fortune.” With a bitterness unsurpassed, he had been denounced by

reason of his being a Jew, as a lineal descendant of the thief on the

cross. But now his time had come, and he was not the man to permit it

to pass unimproved. For the first time, it seems, he conceived the idea

of placing himself at the head of a great party, and thus become the

chief defender of the landed aristocracy. The way was plain. He was to

transcend all others in effective denunciation of Sir Robert Peel, and

surpass all others in zeal. His ability was equal to the situation, and

the world knows the result of his ambition. I watched him narrowly when

I saw him in the House of Commons, but I saw and heard nothing there

that foreshadowed the immense space he at last came to fill in the mind

of his country and the world. He had nothing of the grace and warmth

of Peel in debate, and his speeches were better in print than when

listened to,--yet when he spoke, all eyes were fixed, and all ears

attent. Despite all his ability and power, however, as the defender

of the landed interests of England, his cause was already lost. The

increasing power of the anti-corn law league--the burden of the tax

upon bread, the cry of distress coming from famine-stricken Ireland,

and the adhesion of Peel to the views of Cobden and Bright made the

repeal of the corn laws speedy and certain.

The repeal of the union between England and Ireland was not so

fortunate. It is still, under one name or another, the cherished hope

and inspiration of her sons. It stands little better or stronger than

it did six and thirty years ago, when its greatest advocate, Daniel

O’Connell, welcomed me to Ireland, and to “Conciliation Hall,” and

where I first had a specimen of his truly wondrous eloquence. Until

I heard this man, I had thought that the story of his oratory and

power were greatly exaggerated. I did not see how a man could speak

to twenty or thirty thousand people at one time, and be heard by

any considerable number of them; but the mystery was solved when

I saw his vast person, and heard his musical voice. His eloquence

came down upon the vast assembly like a summer thunder-shower upon

a dusty road. He could stir the multitude at will, to a tempest of

wrath, or reduce it to the silence with which a mother leaves the

cradle-side of her sleeping babe. Such tenderness--such pathos--

such world-embracing love! and, on the other hand, such indignation--

such fiery and thunderous denunciation, and such wit and humor, I

never heard surpassed, if equaled, at home or abroad. He held Ireland

within the grasp of his strong hand, and could lead it withersoever he

would, for Ireland believed in him and loved him, as she has loved and

believed in no leader since. In Dublin, when he had been absent from

that city a few weeks, I saw him followed through Sackwell street by a

multitude of little boys and girls, shouting in loving accents: “There

goes Dan! there goes Dan!” while he looked at the ragged and shoeless

crowd with the kindly air of a loving parent returning to his gleeful

children. He was called “The Liberator,” and not without cause; for,

though he failed to effect the repeal of the union between England and

Ireland, he fought out the battle of Catholic emancipation, and was

clearly the friend of liberty the world over. In introducing me to

an immense audience in Conciliation Hall, he playfully called me the

“Black O’Connell of the United States;” nor did he let the occasion

pass without his usual word of denunciation of our slave system. O. A.

Brownson had then recently become a Catholic, and taking advantage

of his new Catholic audience, in “Brownson’s _Review_,” had charged

O’Connell with attacking American institutions. In reply, Mr. O’Connell

said: “I am charged with attacking American institutions, as slavery is

called; I am not ashamed of this attack. My sympathy is not confined to

the narrow limits of my own green Ireland; my spirit walks abroad upon

sea and land, and wherever there is oppression, I hate the oppressor,

and wherever the tyrant rears his head, I will deal my bolts upon it;

and wherever there is sorrow and suffering, there is my spirit to

succor and relieve.” No trans-atlantic statesman bore a testimony more

marked and telling against the crime and curse of slavery than did

Daniel O’Connell. He would shake the hand of no slaveholder, nor allow

himself to be introduced to one, if he knew him to be such. When the

friends of repeal in the Southern States sent him money with which to

carry on his work, he, with ineffable scorn, refused the bribe, and

sent back what he considered the blood-stained offering, saying he

would “never purchase the freedom of Ireland with the price of slaves.”

It was not long after my seeing Mr. O’Connell that his health broke

down, and his career ended in death. I felt that a great champion of

freedom had fallen, and that the cause of the American slave, not less

than the cause of his country, had met with a great loss. All the more

was this felt when I saw the kind of men who came to the front when the

voice of O’Connell was no longer heard in Ireland. He was succeeded by

the Duffys, Mitchells, Meagher, and others,--men who loved liberty for

themselves and their country, but were utterly destitute of sympathy

with the cause of liberty in countries other than their own. One of the

first utterances of John Mitchell on reaching this country, from his

exile and bondage, was a wish for a “slave plantation, well stocked

with slaves.”

Besides hearing Cobden, Bright, Peel, Disraeli, O’Connell, Lord John

Russell, and other Parliamentary debaters, it was my good fortune

to hear Lord Brougham when nearly at his best. He was then a little

over sixty, and that for a British statesman is not considered old;

and in his case there were thirty years of life still before him. He

struck me as the most wonderful speaker of them all. How he was ever

reported I cannot imagine. Listening to him was like standing near the

track of a railway train, drawn by a locomotive at the rate of forty

miles an hour. You were riveted to the spot, charmed with the sublime

spectacle of speed and power, but could give no description of the

carriages, nor of the passengers at the windows. There was so much

to see and hear, and so little time left the beholder and hearer to

note particulars, that when this strange man sat down you felt like

one who had hastily passed through the wildering wonders of a world’s

exhibition. On the occasion of my listening to him, his speech was on

the postal relations of England with the outside world, and he seemed

to have a perfect knowledge of the postal arrangements of every nation

in Europe, and, indeed, in the whole universe. He possessed the great

advantage so valuable to a Parliamentary debater, of being able to make

all interruptions serve the purposes of his thought and speech, and

carry on a dialogue with several persons without interrupting the rapid

current of his reasoning. I had more curiosity to see and hear this man

than any other in England, and he more than fulfilled my expectations.

While in England, I saw few literary celebrities, except William and

Mary Howitt, and Sir John Bowering. I was invited to breakfast by the

latter in company with Wm. Lloyd Garrison, and spent a delightful

morning with him, chiefly as a listener to their conversation. Sir John

was a poet, a statesman, and a diplomat, and had represented England

as minister to China. He was full of interesting information, and had

a charming way of imparting his knowledge. The conversation was about

slavery, and about China, and as my knowledge was very slender about

the “Flowery Kingdom,” and its people, I was greatly interested in Sir

John’s description of the ideas and manners prevailing among them.

According to him, the doctrine of substitution was carried so far in

that country that men sometimes procured others to suffer even the

penalty of death in their stead. Justice seemed not intent upon the

punishment of the actual criminal, if only somebody was punished when

the law was violated.

William and Mary Howitt were among the kindliest people I ever met.

Their interest in America, and their well-known testimonies against

slavery, made me feel much at home with them at their house in that

part of London known as Clapham. Whilst stopping here, I met the

Swedish poet and author--Hans Christian Anderson. He, like myself, was

a guest, spending a few days. I saw but little of him, though under the

same roof. He was singular in his appearance, and equally singular in

his silence. His mind seemed to me all the while turned inwardly. He

walked about the beautiful garden as one might in a dream. The Howitts

had translated his works into English, and could of course address

him in his own language. Possibly his bad English and my destitution

of Swedish, may account for the fact of our mutual silence, and yet I

observed he was much the same towards every one. Mr. and Mrs. Howitt

were indefatigable writers. Two more industrious and kind-hearted

people did not breathe. With all their literary work, they always

had time to devote to strangers, and to all benevolent efforts, to

ameliorate the condition of the poor and needy. Quakers though they

were, they took deep interest in the Hutchinsons--Judson, John, Asa,

and Abby, who were much at their house during my stay there. Mrs.

Howitt not inaptly styled them a “_Band of young apostles_.” They sang

for the oppressed and the poor--for liberty and humanity.

Whilst in Edinburgh, so famous for its beauty, its educational

institutions, its literary men, and its history, I had a very intense

desire gratified--and that was to see and converse with George Combe,

the eminent mental philosopher, and author of “Combe’s Constitution of

Man,” a book which had been placed in my hands a few years before, by

Doctor Peleg Clark of Rhode Island, the reading of which had relieved

my path of many shadows. In company with George Thompson, James N.

Buffum, and William L. Garrison, I had the honor to be invited by Mr.

Combe to breakfast, and the occasion was one of the most delightful

I met in dear old Scotland. Of course in the presence of such men,

my part was a very subordinate one. I was a listener. Mr. Combe did

the most of the talking, and did it so well that nobody felt like

interposing a word, except so far as to draw him on. He discussed the

corn laws, and the proposal to reduce the hours of labor. He looked

at all political and social questions through his peculiar mental

science. His manner was remarkably quiet, and he spoke as not expecting

opposition to his views. Phrenology explained everything to him, from

the finite to the infinite. I look back to the morning spent with this

singularly clear-headed man with much satisfaction.

It would detain the reader too long, and make this volume too large, to

tell of the many kindnesses shown me while abroad, or even to mention

all the great and noteworthy persons who gave me a friendly hand and a

cordial welcome; but there is one other, now long gone to his rest, of

whom a few words must be spoken, and that one was Thomas Clarkson--the

last of the noble line of Englishmen who inaugurated the anti-slavery

movement for England and the civilized world--the life-long friend and

co-worker with Granville Sharpe, William Wilberforce, Thomas Fowell

Buxton, and other leaders in that great reform which has nearly put

an end to slavery in all parts of the globe. As in the case of George

Combe, I went to see Mr. Clarkson in company with Messrs. Garrison and

Thompson. They had by note advised him of our coming, and had received

one in reply, bidding us welcome. We found the venerable object of our

visit seated at a table, where he had been busily writing a letter to

America against slavery; for, though in his eighty-seventh year, he

continued to write. When we were presented to him, he rose to receive

us. The scene was impressive. It was the meeting of two centuries.

Garrison, Thompson, and myself were young men. After shaking hands

with my two distinguished friends, and giving them welcome, he took

one of my hands in both of his, and, in a tremulous voice, said, “God

bless you, Frederick Douglass! I have given sixty years of my life to

the emancipation of your people, and if I had sixty years more they

should all be given to the same cause.” Our stay was short with this

great-hearted old man. He was feeble, and our presence greatly excited

him, and we left the house with something of the feeling with which a

man takes final leave of a beloved friend at the edge of the grave.

Some notion may be formed of the difference in my feelings and

circumstances while abroad, from an extract from one of a series

of letters addressed by me to Mr. Garrison, and published in the

_Liberator_. It was written on the 1st day of January, 1846.

“_My Dear Friend Garrison_: