THE VILLAGE—ITS INHABITANTS—THEIR OCCUPATION AND LOW PROPENSITIES
CAPTAN(sic) THOMAS AULD—HIS CHARACTER—HIS SECOND WIFE, ROWENA—WELL
MATCHED—SUFFERINGS FROM HUNGER—OBLIGED TO TAKE FOOD—MODE OF ARGUMENT IN
VINDICATION THEREOF—NO MORAL CODE OF FREE SOCIETY CAN APPLY TO SLAVE
SOCIETY—SOUTHERN CAMP MEETING—WHAT MASTER THOMAS DID
THERE—HOPES—SUSPICIONS ABOUT HIS CONVERSION—THE RESULT—FAITH AND WORKS
ENTIRELY AT VARIANCE—HIS RISE AND PROGRESS IN THE CHURCH—POOR COUSIN
“HENNY”—HIS TREATMENT OF HER—THE METHODIST PREACHERS—THEIR UTTER
DISREGARD OF US—ONE EXCELLENT EXCEPTION—REV. GEORGE COOKMAN—SABBATH
SCHOOL—HOW BROKEN UP AND BY WHOM—A FUNERAL PALL CAST OVER ALL MY
PROSPECTS—COVEY THE NEGRO-BREAKER.
St. Michael’s, the village in which was now my new home, compared
favorably with villages in slave states, generally. There were a few
comfortable dwellings in it, but the place, as a whole, wore a dull,
slovenly, enterprise-forsaken aspect. The mass of the buildings were
wood; they had never enjoyed the artificial adornment of paint, and
time and storms had worn off the bright color of the wood, leaving them
almost as black as buildings charred by a conflagration.
St. Michael’s had, in former years, (previous to 1833, for that was the
year I went to reside there,) enjoyed some reputation as a ship
building community, but that business had almost entirely given place
to oyster fishing, for the Baltimore and Philadelphia markets—a course
of life highly unfavorable to morals, industry, and manners. Miles
river was broad, and its oyster fishing grounds were extensive; and the
fishermen were out, often, all day, and a part of the night, during
autumn, winter and spring. This exposure was an excuse for carrying
with them, in considerable quanties(sic), spirituous liquors, the then
supposed best antidote for cold. Each canoe was supplied with its jug
of rum; and tippling, among this class of the citizens of St.
Michael’s, became general. This drinking habit, in an ignorant
population, fostered coarseness, vulgarity and an indolent disregard
for the social improvement of the place, so that it was admitted, by
the few sober, thinking people who remained there, that St. Michael’s
had become a very _unsaintly_, as well as unsightly place, before I
went there to reside.
I left Baltimore for St. Michael’s in the month of March, 1833. I know
the year, because it was the one succeeding the first cholera in
Baltimore, and was the year, also, of that strange phenomenon, when the
heavens seemed about to part with its starry train. I witnessed this
gorgeous spectacle, and was awe-struck. The air seemed filled with
bright, descending messengers from the sky. It was about daybreak when
I saw this sublime scene. I was not without the suggestion, at the
moment, that it might be the harbinger of the coming of the Son of Man;
and, in my then state of mind, I was prepared to hail Him as my friend
and deliverer. I had read, that the “stars shall fall from heaven”; and
they were now falling. I was suffering much in my mind. It did seem
that every time the young tendrils of my affection became attached,
they were rudely broken by some unnatural outside power; and I was
beginning to look away to heaven for the rest denied me on earth.
But, to my story. It was now more than seven years since I had lived
with Master Thomas Auld, in the family of my old master, on Col.
Lloyd’s plantation. We were almost entire strangers to each other; for,
when I knew him at the house of my old master, it was not as a
_master_, but simply as “Captain Auld,” who had married old master’s
daughter. All my lessons concerning his temper and disposition, and the
best methods of pleasing him, were yet to be learnt. Slaveholders,
however, are not very ceremonious in approaching a slave; and my
ignorance of the new material in shape of a master was but transient.
Nor was my mistress long in making known her animus. She was not a
“Miss Lucretia,” traces of whom I yet remembered, and the more
especially, as I saw them shining in the face of little Amanda, her
daughter, now living under a step-mother’s government. I had not
forgotten the soft hand, guided by a tender heart, that bound up with
healing balsam the gash made in my head by Ike, the son of Abel. Thomas
and Rowena, I found to be a well-matched pair. _He_ was stingy, and
_she_ was cruel; and—what was quite natural in such cases—she possessed
the ability to make him as cruel as herself, while she could easily
descend to the level of his meanness. In the house of Master Thomas, I
was made—for the first time in seven years to feel the pinchings of
hunger, and this was not very easy to bear.
For, in all the changes of Master Hugh’s family, there was no change in
the bountifulness with which they supplied me with food. Not to give a
slave enough to eat, is meanness intensified, and it is so recognized
among slaveholders generally, in Maryland. The rule is, no matter how
coarse the food, only let there be enough of it. This is the theory,
and—in the part of Maryland I came from—the general practice accords
with this theory. Lloyd’s plantation was an exception, as was, also,
the house of Master Thomas Auld.
All know the lightness of Indian corn-meal, as an article of food, and
can easily judge from the following facts whether the statements I have
made of the stinginess of Master Thomas, are borne out. There were four
slaves of us in the kitchen, and four whites in the great house Thomas
Auld, Mrs. Auld, Hadaway Auld (brother of Thomas Auld) and little
Amanda. The names of the slaves in the kitchen, were Eliza, my sister;
Priscilla, my aunt; Henny, my cousin; and myself. There were eight
persons in the family. There was, each week, one half bushel of
corn-meal brought from the mill; and in the kitchen, corn-meal was
almost our exclusive food, for very little else was allowed us. Out of
this bushel of corn-meal, the family in the great house had a small
loaf every morning; thus leaving us, in the kitchen, with not quite a
half a peck per week, apiece. This allowance was less than half the
allowance of food on Lloyd’s plantation. It was not enough to subsist
upon; and we were, therefore, reduced to the wretched necessity of
living at the expense of our neighbors. We were compelled either to
beg, or to steal, and we did both. I frankly confess, that while I
hated everything like stealing, _as such_, I nevertheless did not
hesitate to take food, when I was hungry, wherever I could find it. Nor
was this practice the mere result of an unreasoning instinct; it was,
in my case, the result of a clear apprehension of the claims of
morality. I weighed and considered the matter closely, before I
ventured to satisfy my hunger by such means. Considering that my labor
and person were the property of Master Thomas, and that I was by him
deprived of the necessaries of life necessaries obtained by my own
labor—it was easy to deduce the right to supply myself with what was my
own. It was simply appropriating what was my own to the use of my
master, since the health and strength derived from such food were
exerted in _his_ service. To be sure, this was stealing, according to
the law and gospel I heard from St. Michael’s pulpit; but I had already
begun to attach less importance to what dropped from that quarter, on
that point, while, as yet, I retained my reverence for religion. It was
not always convenient to steal from master, and the same reason why I
might, innocently, steal from him, did not seem to justify me in
stealing from others. In the case of my master, it was only a question
of _removal_—the taking his meat out of one tub, and putting it into
another; the ownership of the meat was not affected by the transaction.
At first, he owned it in the _tub_, and last, he owned it in _me_. His
meat house was not always open. There was a strict watch kept on that
point, and the key was on a large bunch in Rowena’s pocket. A great
many times have we, poor creatures, been severely pinched with hunger,
when meat and bread have been moulding under the lock, while the key
was in the pocket of our mistress. This had been so when she _knew_ we
were nearly half starved; and yet, that mistress, with saintly air,
would kneel with her husband, and pray each morning that a merciful God
would bless them in basket and in store, and save them, at last, in his
kingdom. But I proceed with the argument.
It was necessary that right to steal from _others_ should be
established; and this could only rest upon a wider range of
generalization than that which supposed the right to steal from my
master.
It was sometime before I arrived at this clear right. The reader will
get some idea of my train of reasoning, by a brief statement of the
case. “I am,” thought I, “not only the slave of Thomas, but I am the
slave of society at large. Society at large has bound itself, in form
and in fact, to assist Master Thomas in robbing me of my rightful
liberty, and of the just reward of my labor; therefore, whatever rights
I have against Master Thomas, I have, equally, against those
confederated with him in robbing me of liberty. As society has marked
me out as privileged plunder, on the principle of self-preservation I
am justified in plundering in turn. Since each slave belongs to all;
all must, therefore, belong to each.”
I shall here make a profession of faith which may shock some, offend
others, and be dissented from by all. It is this: Within the bounds of
his just earnings, I hold that the slave is fully justified in helping
himself to the _gold and silver, and the best apparel of his master, or
that of any other slaveholder; and that such taking is not stealing in
any just sense of that word_.
The morality of _free_ society can have no application to _slave_
society. Slaveholders have made it almost impossible for the slave to
commit any crime, known either to the laws of God or to the laws of
man. If he steals, he takes his own; if he kills his master, he
imitates only the heroes of the revolution. Slaveholders I hold to be
individually and collectively responsible for all the evils which grow
out of the horrid relation, and I believe they will be so held at the
judgment, in the sight of a just God. Make a man a slave, and you rob
him of moral responsibility. Freedom of choice is the essence of all
accountability. But my kind readers are, probably, less concerned about
my opinions, than about that which more nearly touches my personal
experience; albeit, my opinions have, in some sort, been formed by that
experience.
Bad as slaveholders are, I have seldom met with one so entirely
destitute of every element of character capable of inspiring respect,
as was my present master, Capt. Thomas Auld.
When I lived with him, I thought him incapable of a noble action. The
leading trait in his character was intense selfishness. I think he was
fully aware of this fact himself, and often tried to conceal it. Capt.
Auld was not a _born_ slaveholder—not a birthright member of the
slaveholding oligarchy. He was only a slaveholder by _marriage-right;_
and, of all slaveholders, these latter are, _by far_, the most
exacting. There was in him all the love of domination, the pride of
mastery, and the swagger of authority, but his rule lacked the vital
element of consistency. He could be cruel; but his methods of showing
it were cowardly, and evinced his meanness rather than his spirit. His
commands were strong, his enforcement weak.
Slaves are not insensible to the whole-souled characteristics of a
generous, dashing slaveholder, who is fearless of consequences; and
they prefer a master of this bold and daring kind—even with the risk of
being shot down for impudence to the fretful, little soul, who never
uses the lash but at the suggestion of a love of gain.
Slaves, too, readily distinguish between the birthright bearing of the
original slaveholder and the assumed attitudes of the accidental
slaveholder; and while they cannot respect either, they certainly
despise the latter more than the former.
The luxury of having slaves wait upon him was something new to Master
Thomas; and for it he was wholly unprepared. He was a slaveholder,
without the ability to hold or manage his slaves. We seldom called him
“master,” but generally addressed him by his “bay craft” title—“_Capt.
Auld_.” It is easy to see that such conduct might do much to make him
appear awkward, and, consequently, fretful. His wife was especially
solicitous to have us call her husband “master.” Is your _master_ at
the store?”—“Where is your _master_?”—“Go and tell your _master”_—“I
will make your _master_ acquainted with your conduct”—she would say;
but we were inapt scholars. Especially were I and my sister Eliza inapt
in this particular. Aunt Priscilla was less stubborn and defiant in her
spirit than Eliza and myself; and, I think, her road was less rough
than ours.
In the month of August, 1833, when I had almost become desperate under
the treatment of Master Thomas, and when I entertained more strongly
than ever the oft-repeated determination to run away, a circumstance
occurred which seemed to promise brighter and better days for us all.
At a Methodist camp-meeting, held in the Bay Side (a famous place for
campmeetings) about eight miles from St. Michael’s, Master Thomas came
out with a profession of religion. He had long been an object of
interest to the church, and to the ministers, as I had seen by the
repeated visits and lengthy exhortations of the latter. He was a fish
quite worth catching, for he had money and standing. In the community
of St. Michael’s he was equal to the best citizen. He was strictly
temperate; _perhaps_, from principle, but most likely, from interest.
There was very little to do for him, to give him the appearance of
piety, and to make him a pillar in the church. Well, the camp-meeting
continued a week; people gathered from all parts of the county, and two
steamboat loads came from Baltimore. The ground was happily chosen;
seats were arranged; a stand erected; a rude altar fenced in, fronting
the preachers’ stand, with straw in it for the accommodation of
mourners. This latter would hold at least one hundred persons. In
front, and on the sides of the preachers’ stand, and outside the long
rows of seats, rose the first class of stately tents, each vieing with
the other in strength, neatness, and capacity for accommodating its
inmates. Behind this first circle of tents was another, less imposing,
which reached round the camp-ground to the speakers’ stand. Outside
this second class of tents were covered wagons, ox carts, and vehicles
of every shape and size. These served as tents to their owners. Outside
of these, huge fires were burning, in all directions, where roasting,
and boiling, and frying, were going on, for the benefit of those who
were attending to their own spiritual welfare within the circle.
_Behind_ the preachers’ stand, a narrow space was marked out for the
use of the colored people. There were no seats provided for this class
of persons; the preachers addressed them, _“over the left,”_ if they
addressed them at all. After the preaching was over, at every service,
an invitation was given to mourners to come into the pen; and, in some
cases, ministers went out to persuade men and women to come in. By one
of these ministers, Master Thomas Auld was persuaded to go inside the
pen. I was deeply interested in that matter, and followed; and, though
colored people were not allowed either in the pen or in front of the
preachers’ stand, I ventured to take my stand at a sort of half-way
place between the blacks and whites, where I could distinctly see the
movements of mourners, and especially the progress of Master Thomas.
“If he has got religion,” thought I, “he will emancipate his slaves;
and if he should not do so much as this, he will, at any rate, behave
toward us more kindly, and feed us more generously than he has
heretofore done.” Appealing to my own religious experience, and judging
my master by what was true in my own case, I could not regard him as
soundly converted, unless some such good results followed his
profession of religion.
But in my expectations I was doubly disappointed; Master Thomas was
_Master Thomas_ still. The fruits of his righteousness were to show
themselves in no such way as I had anticipated. His conversion was not
to change his relation toward men—at any rate not toward BLACK men—but
toward God. My faith, I confess, was not great. There was something in
his appearance that, in my mind, cast a doubt over his conversion.
Standing where I did, I could see his every movement. I watched
narrowly while he remained in the little pen; and although I saw that
his face was extremely red, and his hair disheveled, and though I heard
him groan, and saw a stray tear halting on his cheek, as if inquiring
“which way shall I go?”—I could not wholly confide in the genuineness
of his conversion. The hesitating behavior of that tear-drop and its
loneliness, distressed me, and cast a doubt upon the whole transaction,
of which it was a part. But people said, _“Capt. Auld had come
through,”_ and it was for me to hope for the best. I was bound to do
this, in charity, for I, too, was religious, and had been in the church
full three years, although now I was not more than sixteen years old.
Slaveholders may, sometimes, have confidence in the piety of some of
their slaves; but the slaves seldom have confidence in the piety of
their masters. _“He cant go to heaven with our blood in his skirts_,”
is a settled point in the creed of every slave; rising superior to all
teaching to the contrary, and standing forever as a fixed fact. The
highest evidence the slaveholder can give the slave of his acceptance
with God, is the emancipation of his slaves. This is proof that he is
willing to give up all to God, and for the sake of God. Not to do this,
was, in my estimation, and in the opinion of all the slaves, an
evidence of half-heartedness, and wholly inconsistent with the idea of
genuine conversion. I had read, also, somewhere in the Methodist
Discipline, the following question and answer:
“_Question_. What shall be done for the extirpation of slavery?
“_Answer_. We declare that we are much as ever convinced of the great
evil of slavery; therefore, no slaveholder shall be eligible to any
official station in our church.”
These words sounded in my ears for a long time, and encouraged me to
hope. But, as I have before said, I was doomed to disappointment.
Master Thomas seemed to be aware of my hopes and expectations
concerning him. I have thought, before now, that he looked at me in
answer to my glances, as much as to say, “I will teach you, young man,
that, though I have parted with my sins, I have not parted with my
sense. I shall hold my slaves, and go to heaven too.”
Possibly, to convince us that we must not presume _too much_ upon his
recent conversion, he became rather more rigid and stringent in his
exactions. There always was a scarcity of good nature about the man;
but now his whole countenance was _soured_ over with the seemings of
piety. His religion, therefore, neither made him emancipate his slaves,
nor caused him to treat them with greater humanity. If religion had any
effect on his character at all, it made him more cruel and hateful in
all his ways. The natural wickedness of his heart had not been removed,
but only reinforced, by the profession of religion. Do I judge him
harshly? God forbid. Facts _are_ facts. Capt. Auld made the greatest
profession of piety. His house was, literally, a house of prayer. In
the morning, and in the evening, loud prayers and hymns were heard
there, in which both himself and his wife joined; yet, _no more meal_
was brought from the mill, _no more attention_ was paid to the moral
welfare of the kitchen; and nothing was done to make us feel that the
heart of Master Thomas was one whit better than it was before he went
into the little pen, opposite to the preachers’ stand, on the camp
ground.
Our hopes (founded on the discipline) soon vanished; for the
authorities let him into the church _at once_, and before he was out of
his term of _probation_, I heard of his leading class! He distinguished
himself greatly among the brethren, and was soon an exhorter. His
progress was almost as rapid as the growth of the fabled vine of Jack’s
bean. No man was more active than he, in revivals. He would go many
miles to assist in carrying them on, and in getting outsiders
interested in religion. His house being one of the holiest, if not the
happiest in St. Michael’s, became the “preachers’ home.” These
preachers evidently liked to share Master Thomas’s hospitality; for
while he _starved us_, he _stuffed_ them. Three or four of these
ambassadors of the gospel—according to slavery—have been there at a
time; all living on the fat of the land, while we, in the kitchen, were
nearly starving. Not often did we get a smile of recognition from these
holy men. They seemed almost as unconcerned about our getting to
heaven, as they were about our getting out of slavery. To this general
charge there was one exception—the Rev. GEORGE COOKMAN. Unlike Rev.
Messrs. Storks, Ewry, Hickey, Humphrey and Cooper (all whom were on the
St. Michael’s circuit) he kindly took an interest in our temporal and
spiritual welfare. Our souls and our bodies were all alike sacred in
his sight; and he really had a good deal of genuine anti-slavery
feeling mingled with his colonization ideas. There was not a slave in
our neighborhood that did not love, and almost venerate, Mr. Cookman.
It was pretty generally believed that he had been chiefly instrumental
in bringing one of the largest slaveholders—Mr. Samuel Harrison—in that
neighborhood, to emancipate all his slaves, and, indeed, the general
impression was, that Mr. Cookman had labored faithfully with
slaveholders, whenever he met them, to induce them to emancipate their
bondmen, and that he did this as a religious duty. When this good man
was at our house, we were all sure to be called in to prayers in the
morning; and he was not slow in making inquiries as to the state of our
minds, nor in giving us a word of exhortation and of encouragement.
Great was the sorrow of all the slaves, when this faithful preacher of
the gospel was removed from the Talbot county circuit. He was an
eloquent preacher, and possessed what few ministers, south of Mason
Dixon’s line, possess, or _dare_ to show, viz: a warm and philanthropic
heart. The Mr. Cookman, of whom I speak, was an Englishman by birth,
and perished while on his way to England, on board the ill-fated
“President”. Could the thousands of slaves in Maryland know the fate of
the good man, to whose words of comfort they were so largely indebted,
they would thank me for dropping a tear on this page, in memory of
their favorite preacher, friend and benefactor.
But, let me return to Master Thomas, and to my experience, after his
conversion. In Baltimore, I could, occasionally, get into a Sabbath
school, among the free children, and receive lessons, with the rest;
but, having already learned both to read and to write, I was more of a
teacher than a pupil, even there. When, however, I went back to the
Eastern Shore, and was at the house of Master Thomas, I was neither
allowed to teach, nor to be taught. The whole community—with but a
single exception, among the whites—frowned upon everything like
imparting instruction either to slaves or to free colored persons. That
single exception, a pious young man, named Wilson, asked me, one day,
if I would like to assist him in teaching a little Sabbath school, at
the house of a free colored man in St. Michael’s, named James Mitchell.
The idea was to me a delightful one, and I told him I would gladly
devote as much of my Sabbath as I could command, to that most laudable
work. Mr. Wilson soon mustered up a dozen old spelling books, and a few
testaments; and we commenced operations, with some twenty scholars, in
our Sunday school. Here, thought I, is something worth living for; here
is an excellent chance for usefulness; and I shall soon have a company
of young friends, lovers of knowledge, like some of my Baltimore
friends, from whom I now felt parted forever.
Our first Sabbath passed delightfully, and I spent the week after very
joyously. I could not go to Baltimore, but I could make a little
Baltimore here. At our second meeting, I learned that there was some
objection to the existence of the Sabbath school; and, sure enough, we
had scarcely got at work—_good work_, simply teaching a few colored
children how to read the gospel of the Son of God—when in rushed a mob,
headed by Mr. Wright Fairbanks and Mr. Garrison West—two
class-leaders—and Master Thomas; who, armed with sticks and other
missiles, drove us off, and commanded us never to meet for such a
purpose again. One of this pious crew told me, that as for my part, I
wanted to be another Nat Turner; and if I did not look out, I should
get as many balls into me, as Nat did into him. Thus ended the infant
Sabbath school, in the town of St. Michael’s. The reader will not be
surprised when I say, that the breaking up of my Sabbath school, by
these class-leaders, and professedly holy men, did not serve to
strengthen my religious convictions. The cloud over my St. Michael’s
home grew heavier and blacker than ever.
It was not merely the agency of Master Thomas, in breaking up and
destroying my Sabbath school, that shook my confidence in the power of
southern religion to make men wiser or better; but I saw in him all the
cruelty and meanness, _after_ his conversion, which he had exhibited
before he made a profession of religion. His cruelty and meanness were
especially displayed in his treatment of my unfortunate cousin, Henny,
whose lameness made her a burden to him. I have no extraordinary
personal hard usage toward myself to complain of, against him, but I
have seen him tie up the lame and maimed woman, and whip her in a
manner most brutal, and shocking; and then, with blood-chilling
blasphemy, he would quote the passage of scripture, “That servant which
knew his lord’s will, and prepared not himself, neither did according
to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes.” Master would keep this
lacerated woman tied up by her wrists, to a bolt in the joist, three,
four and five hours at a time. He would tie her up early in the
morning, whip her with a cowskin before breakfast; leave her tied up;
go to his store, and, returning to his dinner, repeat the castigation;
laying on the rugged lash, on flesh already made raw by repeated blows.
He seemed desirous to get the poor girl out of existence, or, at any
rate, off his hands. In proof of this, he afterwards gave her away to
his sister Sarah (Mrs. Cline) but, as in the case of Master Hugh, Henny
was soon returned on his hands. Finally, upon a pretense that he could
do nothing with her (I use his own words) he “set her adrift, to take
care of herself.” Here was a recently converted man, holding, with
tight grasp, the well-framed, and able bodied slaves left him by old
master—the persons, who, in freedom, could have taken care of
themselves; yet, turning loose the only cripple among them, virtually
to starve and die.
No doubt, had Master Thomas been asked, by some pious northern brother,
_why_ he continued to sustain the relation of a slaveholder, to those
whom he retained, his answer would have been precisely the same as many
other religious slaveholders have returned to that inquiry, viz: “I
hold my slaves for their own good.”
Bad as my condition was when I lived with Master Thomas, I was soon to
experience a life far more goading and bitter. The many differences
springing up between myself and Master Thomas, owing to the clear
perception I had of his character, and the boldness with which I
defended myself against his capricious complaints, led him to declare
that I was unsuited to his wants; that my city life had affected me
perniciously; that, in fact, it had almost ruined me for every good
purpose, and had fitted me for everything that was bad. One of my
greatest faults, or offenses, was that of letting his horse get away,
and go down to the farm belonging to his father-in-law. The animal had
a liking for that farm, with which I fully sympathized. Whenever I let
it out, it would go dashing down the road to Mr. Hamilton’s, as if
going on a grand frolic. My horse gone, of course I must go after it.
The explanation of our mutual attachment to the place is the same; the
horse found there good pasturage, and I found there plenty of bread.
Mr. Hamilton had his faults, but starving his slaves was not among
them. He gave food, in abundance, and that, too, of an excellent
quality. In Mr. Hamilton’s cook—Aunt Mary—I found a most generous and
considerate friend. She never allowed me to go there without giving me
bread enough to make good the deficiencies of a day or two. Master
Thomas at last resolved to endure my behavior no longer; he could
neither keep me, nor his horse, we liked so well to be at his
father-in-law’s farm. I had now lived with him nearly nine months, and
he had given me a number of severe whippings, without any visible
improvement in my character, or my conduct; and now he was resolved to
put me out—as he said—“_to be broken._”
There was, in the Bay Side, very near the camp ground, where my master
got his religious impressions, a man named Edward Covey, who enjoyed
the execrated reputation, of being a first rate hand at breaking young
Negroes. This Covey was a poor man, a farm renter; and this reputation
(hateful as it was to the slaves and to all good men) was, at the same
time, of immense advantage to him. It enabled him to get his farm
tilled with very little expense, compared with what it would have cost
him without this most extraordinary reputation. Some slaveholders
thought it an advantage to let Mr. Covey have the government of their
slaves a year or two, almost free of charge, for the sake of the
excellent training such slaves got under his happy management! Like
some horse breakers, noted for their skill, who ride the best horses in
the country without expense, Mr. Covey could have under him, the most
fiery bloods of the neighborhood, for the simple reward of returning
them to their owners, _well broken_. Added to the natural fitness of
Mr. Covey for the duties of his profession, he was said to “enjoy
religion,” and was as strict in the cultivation of piety, as he was in
the cultivation of his farm. I was made aware of his character by some
who had been under his hand; and while I could not look forward to
going to him with any pleasure, I was glad to get away from St.
Michael’s. I was sure of getting enough to eat at Covey’s, even if I
suffered in other respects. _This_, to a hungry man, is not a prospect
to be regarded with indifference.