TRANSITION FROM SLAVERY TO FREEDOM—A WANDERER IN NEW YORK—FEELINGS ON
REACHING THAT CITY—AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE MET—UNFAVORABLE
IMPRESSIONS—LONELINESS AND INSECURITY—APOLOGY FOR SLAVES WHO RETURN TO
THEIR MASTERS—COMPELLED TO TELL MY CONDITION—SUCCORED BY A SAILOR—DAVID
RUGGLES—THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD—MARRIAGE—BAGGAGE TAKEN FROM
ME—KINDNESS OF NATHAN JOHNSON—MY CHANGE OF NAME—DARK NOTIONS OF
NORTHERN CIVILIZATION—THE CONTRAST—COLORED PEOPLE IN NEW BEDFORD—AN
INCIDENT ILLUSTRATING THEIR SPIRIT—A COMMON LABORER—DENIED WORK AT MY
TRADE—THE FIRST WINTER AT THE NORTH—REPULSE AT THE DOORS OF THE
CHURCH—SANCTIFIED HATE—THE _Liberator_ AND ITS EDITOR.
There is no necessity for any extended notice of the incidents of this
part of my life. There is nothing very striking or peculiar about my
career as a freeman, when viewed apart from my life as a slave. The
relation subsisting between my early experience and that which I am now
about to narrate, is, perhaps, my best apology for adding another
chapter to this book.
Disappearing from the kind reader, in a flying cloud or balloon (pardon
the figure), driven by the wind, and knowing not where I should
land—whether in slavery or in freedom—it is proper that I should
remove, at once, all anxiety, by frankly making known where I alighted.
The flight was a bold and perilous one; but here I am, in the great
city of New York, safe and sound, without loss of blood or bone. In
less than a week after leaving Baltimore, I was walking amid the
hurrying throng, and gazing upon the dazzling wonders of Broadway. The
dreams of my childhood and the purposes of my manhood were now
fulfilled. A free state around me, and a free earth under my feet! What
a moment was this to me! A whole year was pressed into a single day. A
new world burst upon my agitated vision. I have often been asked, by
kind friends to whom I have told my story, how I felt when first I
found myself beyond the limits of slavery; and I must say here, as I
have often said to them, there is scarcely anything about which I could
not give a more satisfactory answer. It was a moment of joyous
excitement, which no words can describe. In a letter to a friend,
written soon after reaching New York. I said I felt as one might be
supposed to feel, on escaping from a den of hungry lions. But, in a
moment like that, sensations are too intense and too rapid for words.
Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be described, but joy
and gladness, like the rainbow of promise, defy alike the pen and
pencil.
For ten or fifteen years I had been dragging a heavy chain, with a huge
block attached to it, cumbering my every motion. I had felt myself
doomed to drag this chain and this block through life. All efforts,
before, to separate myself from the hateful encumbrance, had only
seemed to rivet me the more firmly to it. Baffled and discouraged at
times, I had asked myself the question, May not this, after all, be
God’s work? May He not, for wise ends, have doomed me to this lot? A
contest had been going on in my mind for years, between the clear
consciousness of right and the plausible errors of superstition;
between the wisdom of manly courage, and the foolish weakness of
timidity. The contest was now ended; the chain was severed; God and
right stood vindicated. I was A FREEMAN, and the voice of peace and joy
thrilled my heart.
Free and joyous, however, as I was, joy was not the only sensation I
experienced. It was like the quick blaze, beautiful at the first, but
which subsiding, leaves the building charred and desolate. I was soon
taught that I was still in an enemy’s land. A sense of loneliness and
insecurity oppressed me sadly. I had been but a few hours in New York,
before I was met in the streets by a fugitive slave, well known to me,
and the information I got from him respecting New York, did nothing to
lessen my apprehension of danger. The fugitive in question was
“Allender’s Jake,” in Baltimore; but, said he, I am “WILLIAM DIXON,” in
New York! I knew Jake well, and knew when Tolly Allender and Mr. Price
(for the latter employed Master Hugh as his foreman, in his shipyard on
Fell’s Point) made an attempt to recapture Jake, and failed. Jake told
me all about his circumstances, and how narrowly he escaped being taken
back to slavery; that the city was now full of southerners, returning
from the springs; that the black people in New York were not to be
trusted; that there were hired men on the lookout for fugitives from
slavery, and who, for a few dollars, would betray me into the hands of
the slave-catchers; that I must trust no man with my secret; that I
must not think of going either on the wharves to work, or to a
boarding-house to board; and, worse still, this same Jake told me it
was not in his power to help me. He seemed, even while cautioning me,
to be fearing lest, after all, I might be a party to a second attempt
to recapture him. Under the inspiration of this thought, I must suppose
it was, he gave signs of a wish to get rid of me, and soon left me his
whitewash brush in hand—as he said, for his work. He was soon lost to
sight among the throng, and I was alone again, an easy prey to the
kidnappers, if any should happen to be on my track.
New York, seventeen years ago, was less a place of safety for a runaway
slave than now, and all know how unsafe it now is, under the new
fugitive slave bill. I was much troubled. I had very little money
enough to buy me a few loaves of bread, but not enough to pay board,
outside a lumber yard. I saw the wisdom of keeping away from the ship
yards, for if Master Hugh pursued me, he would naturally expect to find
me looking for work among the calkers. For a time, every door seemed
closed against me. A sense of my loneliness and helplessness crept over
me, and covered me with something bordering on despair. In the midst of
thousands of my fellowmen, and yet a perfect stranger! In the midst of
human brothers, and yet more fearful of them than of hungry wolves! I
was without home, without friends, without work, without money, and
without any definite knowledge of which way to go, or where to look for
succor.
Some apology can easily be made for the few slaves who have, after
making good their escape, turned back to slavery, preferring the actual
rule of their masters, to the life of loneliness, apprehension, hunger,
and anxiety, which meets them on their first arrival in a free state.
It is difficult for a freeman to enter into the feelings of such
fugitives. He cannot see things in the same light with the slave,
because he does not, and cannot, look from the same point from which
the slave does. “Why do you tremble,” he says to the slave “you are in
a free state;” but the difficulty is, in realizing that he is in a free
state, the slave might reply. A freeman cannot understand why the
slave-master’s shadow is bigger, to the slave, than the might and
majesty of a free state; but when he reflects that the slave knows more
about the slavery of his master than he does of the might and majesty
of the free state, he has the explanation. The slave has been all his
life learning the power of his master—being trained to dread his
approach—and only a few hours learning the power of the state. The
master is to him a stern and flinty reality, but the state is little
more than a dream. He has been accustomed to regard every white man as
the friend of his master, and every colored man as more or less under
the control of his master’s friends—the white people. It takes stout
nerves to stand up, in such circumstances. A man, homeless,
shelterless, breadless, friendless, and moneyless, is not in a
condition to assume a very proud or joyous tone; and in just this
condition was I, while wandering about the streets of New York city and
lodging, at least one night, among the barrels on one of its wharves. I
was not only free from slavery, but I was free from home, as well. The
reader will easily see that I had something more than the simple fact
of being free to think of, in this extremity.
I kept my secret as long as I could, and at last was forced to go in
search of an honest man—a man sufficiently _human_ not to betray me
into the hands of slave-catchers. I was not a bad reader of the human
face, nor long in selecting the right man, when once compelled to
disclose the facts of my condition to some one.
I found my man in the person of one who said his name was Stewart. He
was a sailor, warm-hearted and generous, and he listened to my story
with a brother’s interest. I told him I was running for my freedom—knew
not where to go—money almost gone—was hungry—thought it unsafe to go
the shipyards for work, and needed a friend. Stewart promptly put me in
the way of getting out of my trouble. He took me to his house, and went
in search of the late David Ruggles, who was then the secretary of the
New York Vigilance Committee, and a very active man in all anti-slavery
works. Once in the hands of Mr. Ruggles, I was comparatively safe. I
was hidden with Mr. Ruggles several days. In the meantime, my intended
wife, Anna, came on from Baltimore—to whom I had written, informing her
of my safe arrival at New York—and, in the presence of Mrs. Mitchell
and Mr. Ruggles, we were married, by Rev. James W. C. Pennington.
Mr. Ruggles 7 was the first officer on the under-ground railroad with
whom I met after reaching the north, and, indeed, the first of whom I
ever heard anything. Learning that I was a calker by trade, he promptly
decided that New Bedford was the proper place to send me. “Many ships,”
said he, “are there fitted out for the whaling business, and you may
there find work at your trade, and make a good living.” Thus, in one
fortnight after my flight from Maryland, I was safe in New Bedford,
regularly entered upon the exercise of the rights, responsibilities,
and duties of a freeman.
I may mention a little circumstance which annoyed me on reaching New
Bedford. I had not a cent of money, and lacked two dollars toward
paying our fare from Newport, and our baggage not very costly—was taken
by the stage driver, and held until I could raise the money to redeem
it. This difficulty was soon surmounted. Mr. Nathan Johnson, to whom we
had a line from Mr. Ruggles, not only received us kindly and
hospitably, but, on being informed about our baggage, promptly loaned
me two dollars with which to redeem my little property. I shall ever be
deeply grateful, both to Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Johnson, for the lively
interest they were pleased to take in me, in this hour of my extremest
need. They not only gave myself and wife bread and shelter, but taught
us how to begin to secure those benefits for ourselves. Long may they
live, and may blessings attend them in this life and in that which is
to come!
Once initiated into the new life of freedom, and assured by Mr. Johnson
that New Bedford was a safe place, the comparatively unimportant
matter, as to what should be my name, came up for considertion(sic). It
was necessary to have a name in my new relations. The name given me by
my beloved mother was no less pretentious than “Frederick Augustus
Washington Bailey.” I had, however, before leaving Maryland, dispensed
with the _Augustus Washington_, and retained the name _Frederick
Bailey_. Between Baltimore and New Bedford, however, I had several
different names, the better to avoid being overhauled by the hunters,
which I had good reason to believe would be put on my track. Among
honest men an honest man may well be content with one name, and to
acknowledge it at all times and in all places; but toward fugitives,
Americans are not honest. When I arrived at New Bedford, my name was
Johnson; and finding that the Johnson family in New Bedford were
already quite numerous—sufficiently so to produce some confusion in
attempts to distinguish one from another—there was the more reason for
making another change in my name. In fact, “Johnson” had been assumed
by nearly every slave who had arrived in New Bedford from Maryland, and
this, much to the annoyance of the original “Johnsons” (of whom there
were many) in that place. Mine host, unwilling to have another of his
own name added to the community in this unauthorized way, after I spent
a night and a day at his house, gave me my present name. He had been
reading the “Lady of the Lake,” and was pleased to regard me as a
suitable person to wear this, one of Scotland’s many famous names.
Considering the noble hospitality and manly character of Nathan
Johnson, I have felt that he, better than I, illustrated the virtues of
the great Scottish chief. Sure I am, that had any slave-catcher entered
his domicile, with a view to molest any one of his household, he would
have shown himself like him of the “stalwart hand.”
The reader will be amused at my ignorance, when I tell the notions I
had of the state of northern wealth, enterprise, and civilization. Of
wealth and refinement, I supposed the north had none. My _Columbian
Orator_, which was almost my only book, had not done much to enlighten
me concerning northern society. The impressions I had received were all
wide of the truth. New Bedford, especially, took me by surprise, in the
solid wealth and grandeur there exhibited. I had formed my notions
respecting the social condition of the free states, by what I had seen
and known of free, white, non-slaveholding people in the slave states.
Regarding slavery as the basis of wealth, I fancied that no people
could become very wealthy without slavery. A free white man, holding no
slaves, in the country, I had known to be the most ignorant and
poverty-stricken of men, and the laughing stock even of slaves
themselves—called generally by them, in derision, _“poor white trash_.”
Like the non-slaveholders at the south, in holding no slaves, I suppose
the northern people like them, also, in poverty and degradation. Judge,
then, of my amazement and joy, when I found—as I did find—the very
laboring population of New Bedford living in better houses, more
elegantly furnished—surrounded by more comfort and refinement—than a
majority of the slaveholders on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. There
was my friend, Mr. Johnson, himself a colored man (who at the south
would have been regarded as a proper marketable commodity), who lived
in a better house—dined at a richer board—was the owner of more
books—the reader of more newspapers—was more conversant with the
political and social condition of this nation and the world—than
nine-tenths of all the slaveholders of Talbot county, Maryland. Yet Mr.
Johnson was a working man, and his hands were hardened by honest toil.
Here, then, was something for observation and study. Whence the
difference? The explanation was soon furnished, in the superiority of
mind over simple brute force. Many pages might be given to the
contrast, and in explanation of its causes. But an incident or two will
suffice to show the reader as to how the mystery gradually vanished
before me.
My first afternoon, on reaching New Bedford, was spent in visiting the
wharves and viewing the shipping. The sight of the broad brim and the
plain, Quaker dress, which met me at every turn, greatly increased my
sense of freedom and security. “I am among the Quakers,” thought I,
“and am safe.” Lying at the wharves and riding in the stream, were
full-rigged ships of finest model, ready to start on whaling voyages.
Upon the right and the left, I was walled in by large granite-fronted
warehouses, crowded with the good things of this world. On the wharves,
I saw industry without bustle, labor without noise, and heavy toil
without the whip. There was no loud singing, as in southern ports,
where ships are loading or unloading—no loud cursing or swearing—but
everything went on as smoothly as the works of a well adjusted machine.
How different was all this from the nosily fierce and clumsily absurd
manner of labor-life in Baltimore and St. Michael’s! One of the first
incidents which illustrated the superior mental character of northern
labor over that of the south, was the manner of unloading a ship’s
cargo of oil. In a southern port, twenty or thirty hands would have
been employed to do what five or six did here, with the aid of a single
ox attached to the end of a fall. Main strength, unassisted by skill,
is slavery’s method of labor. An old ox, worth eighty dollars, was
doing, in New Bedford, what would have required fifteen thousand
dollars worth of human bones and muscles to have performed in a
southern port. I found that everything was done here with a scrupulous
regard to economy, both in regard to men and things, time and strength.
The maid servant, instead of spending at least a tenth part of her time
in bringing and carrying water, as in Baltimore, had the pump at her
elbow. The wood was dry, and snugly piled away for winter. Woodhouses,
in-door pumps, sinks, drains, self-shutting gates, washing machines,
pounding barrels, were all new things, and told me that I was among a
thoughtful and sensible people. To the ship-repairing dock I went, and
saw the same wise prudence. The carpenters struck where they aimed, and
the calkers wasted no blows in idle flourishes of the mallet. I learned
that men went from New Bedford to Baltimore, and bought old ships, and
brought them here to repair, and made them better and more valuable
than they ever were before. Men talked here of going whaling on a four
_years’_ voyage with more coolness than sailors where I came from
talked of going a four _months’_ voyage.
I now find that I could have landed in no part of the United States,
where I should have found a more striking and gratifying contrast to
the condition of the free people of color in Baltimore, than I found
here in New Bedford. No colored man is really free in a slaveholding
state. He wears the badge of bondage while nominally free, and is often
subjected to hardships to which the slave is a stranger; but here in
New Bedford, it was my good fortune to see a pretty near approach to
freedom on the part of the colored people. I was taken all aback when
Mr. Johnson—who lost no time in making me acquainted with the fact—told
me that there was nothing in the constitution of Massachusetts to
prevent a colored man from holding any office in the state. There, in
New Bedford, the black man’s children—although anti-slavery was then
far from popular—went to school side by side with the white children,
and apparently without objection from any quarter. To make me at home,
Mr. Johnson assured me that no slaveholder could take a slave from New
Bedford; that there were men there who would lay down their lives,
before such an outrage could be perpetrated. The colored people
themselves were of the best metal, and would fight for liberty to the
death.
Soon after my arrival in New Bedford, I was told the following story,
which was said to illustrate the spirit of the colored people in that
goodly town: A colored man and a fugitive slave happened to have a
little quarrel, and the former was heard to threaten the latter with
informing his master of his whereabouts. As soon as this threat became
known, a notice was read from the desk of what was then the only
colored church in the place, stating that business of importance was to
be then and there transacted. Special measures had been taken to secure
the attendance of the would-be Judas, and had proved successful.
Accordingly, at the hour appointed, the people came, and the betrayer
also. All the usual formalities of public meetings were scrupulously
gone through, even to the offering prayer for Divine direction in the
duties of the occasion. The president himself performed this part of
the ceremony, and I was told that he was unusually fervent. Yet, at the
close of his prayer, the old man (one of the numerous family of
Johnsons) rose from his knees, deliberately surveyed his audience, and
then said, in a tone of solemn resolution, _“Well, friends, we have got
him here, and I would now recommend that you young men should just take
him outside the door and kill him.”_ With this, a large body of the
congregation, who well understood the business they had come there to
transact, made a rush at the villain, and doubtless would have killed
him, had he not availed himself of an open sash, and made good his
escape. He has never shown his head in New Bedford since that time.
This little incident is perfectly characteristic of the spirit of the
colored people in New Bedford. A slave could not be taken from that
town seventeen years ago, any more than he could be so taken away now.
The reason is, that the colored people in that city are educated up to
the point of fighting for their freedom, as well as speaking for it.
Once assured of my safety in New Bedford, I put on the habiliments of a
common laborer, and went on the wharf in search of work. I had no
notion of living on the honest and generous sympathy of my colored
brother, Johnson, or that of the abolitionists. My cry was like that of
Hood’s laborer, “Oh! only give me work.” Happily for me, I was not long
in searching. I found employment, the third day after my arrival in New
Bedford, in stowing a sloop with a load of oil for the New York market.
It was new, hard, and dirty work, even for a calker, but I went at it
with a glad heart and a willing hand. I was now my own master—a
tremendous fact—and the rapturous excitement with which I seized the
job, may not easily be understood, except by some one with an
experience like mine. The thoughts—“I can work! I can work for a
living; I am not afraid of work; I have no Master Hugh to rob me of my
earnings”—placed me in a state of independence, beyond seeking
friendship or support of any man. That day’s work I considered the real
starting point of something like a new existence. Having finished this
job and got my pay for the same, I went next in pursuit of a job at
calking. It so happened that Mr. Rodney French, late mayor of the city
of New Bedford, had a ship fitting out for sea, and to which there was
a large job of calking and coppering to be done. I applied to that
noblehearted man for employment, and he promptly told me to go to work;
but going on the float-stage for the purpose, I was informed that every
white man would leave the ship if I struck a blow upon her. “Well,
well,” thought I, “this is a hardship, but yet not a very serious one
for me.” The difference between the wages of a calker and that of a
common day laborer, was an hundred per cent in favor of the former; but
then I was free, and free to work, though not at my trade. I now
prepared myself to do anything which came to hand in the way of turning
an honest penny; sawed wood—dug cellars—shoveled coal—swept chimneys
with Uncle Lucas Debuty—rolled oil casks on the wharves—helped to load
and unload vessels—worked in Ricketson’s candle works—in Richmond’s
brass foundery, and elsewhere; and thus supported myself and family for
three years.
The first winter was unusually severe, in consequence of the high
prices of food; but even during that winter we probably suffered less
than many who had been free all their lives. During the hardest of the
winter, I hired out for nine dolars(sic) a month; and out of this
rented two rooms for nine dollars per quarter, and supplied my wife—who
was unable to work—with food and some necessary articles of furniture.
We were closely pinched to bring our wants within our means; but the
jail stood over the way, and I had a wholesome dread of the
consequences of running in debt. This winter past, and I was up with
the times—got plenty of work—got well paid for it—and felt that I had
not done a foolish thing to leave Master Hugh and Master Thomas. I was
now living in a new world, and was wide awake to its advantages. I
early began to attend the meetings of the colored people of New
Bedford, and to take part in them. I was somewhat amazed to see colored
men drawing up resolutions and offering them for consideration. Several
colored young men of New Bedford, at that period, gave promise of great
usefulness. They were educated, and possessed what seemed to me, at the
time, very superior talents. Some of them have been cut down by death,
and others have removed to different parts of the world, and some
remain there now, and justify, in their present activities, my early
impressions of them.
Among my first concerns on reaching New Bedford, was to become united
with the church, for I had never given up, in reality, my religious
faith. I had become lukewarm and in a backslidden state, but I was
still convinced that it was my duty to join the Methodist church. I was
not then aware of the powerful influence of that religious body in
favor of the enslavement of my race, nor did I see how the northern
churches could be responsible for the conduct of southern churches;
neither did I fully understand how it could be my duty to remain
separate from the church, because bad men were connected with it. The
slaveholding church, with its Coveys, Weedens, Aulds, and Hopkins, I
could see through at once, but I could not see how Elm Street church,
in New Bedford, could be regarded as sanctioning the Christianity of
these characters in the church at St. Michael’s. I therefore resolved
to join the Methodist church in New Bedford, and to enjoy the spiritual
advantage of public worship. The minister of the Elm Street Methodist
church, was the Rev. Mr. Bonney; and although I was not allowed a seat
in the body of the house, and was proscribed on account of my color,
regarding this proscription simply as an accommodation of the
uncoverted congregation who had not yet been won to Christ and his
brotherhood, I was willing thus to be proscribed, lest sinners should
be driven away form the saving power of the gospel. Once converted, I
thought they would be sure to treat me as a man and a brother.
“Surely,” thought I, “these Christian people have none of this feeling
against color. They, at least, have renounced this unholy feeling.”
Judge, then, dear reader, of my astonishment and mortification, when I
found, as soon I did find, all my charitable assumptions at fault.
An opportunity was soon afforded me for ascertaining the exact position
of Elm Street church on that subject. I had a chance of seeing the
religious part of the congregation by themselves; and although they
disowned, in effect, their black brothers and sisters, before the
world, I did think that where none but the saints were assembled, and
no offense could be given to the wicked, and the gospel could not be
“blamed,” they would certainly recognize us as children of the same
Father, and heirs of the same salvation, on equal terms with
themselves.
The occasion to which I refer, was the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper,
that most sacred and most solemn of all the ordinances of the Christian
church. Mr. Bonney had preached a very solemn and searching discourse,
which really proved him to be acquainted with the inmost secerts(sic)
of the human heart. At the close of his discourse, the congregation was
dismissed, and the church remained to partake of the sacrament. I
remained to see, as I thought, this holy sacrament celebrated in the
spirit of its great Founder.
There were only about a half dozen colored members attached to the Elm
Street church, at this time. After the congregation was dismissed,
these descended from the gallery, and took a seat against the wall most
distant from the altar. Brother Bonney was very animated, and sung very
sweetly, “Salvation ‘tis a joyful sound,” and soon began to administer
the sacrament. I was anxious to observe the bearing of the colored
members, and the result was most humiliating. During the whole
ceremony, they looked like sheep without a shepherd. The white members
went forward to the altar by the bench full; and when it was evident
that all the whites had been served with the bread and wine, Brother
Bonney—pious Brother Bonney—after a long pause, as if inquiring whether
all the whites members had been served, and fully assuring himself on
that important point, then raised his voice to an unnatural pitch, and
looking to the corner where his black sheep seemed penned, beckoned
with his hand, exclaiming, “Come forward, colored friends! come
forward! You, too, have an interest in the blood of Christ. God is no
respecter of persons. Come forward, and take this holy sacrament to
your comfort.” The colored members poor, slavish souls went forward, as
invited. I went out, and have never been in that church since, although
I honestly went there with a view to joining that body. I found it
impossible to respect the religious profession of any who were under
the dominion of this wicked prejudice, and I could not, therefore, feel
that in joining them, I was joining a Christian church, at all. I tried
other churches in New Bedford, with the same result, and finally, I
attached myself to a small body of colored Methodists, known as the
Zion Methodists. Favored with the affection and confidence of the
members of this humble communion, I was soon made a classleader and a
local preacher among them. Many seasons of peace and joy I experienced
among them, the remembrance of which is still precious, although I
could not see it to be my duty to remain with that body, when I found
that it consented to the same spirit which held my brethren in chains.
In four or five months after reaching New Bedford, 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 remarked further, that I was unable to pay for it
then; the agent, however, very willingly took me as a subscriber, and
appeared to be much pleased with securing my name to his list. From
this time I was brought in contact with the mind of William Lloyd
Garrison. His paper took its place with me next to the bible.
The _Liberator_ was a paper after my own heart. It detested slavery
exposed hypocrisy and wickedness in high places—made no truce with the
traffickers in the bodies and souls of men; it preached human
brotherhood, denounced oppression, and, with all the solemnity of God’s
word, demanded the complete emancipation of my race. I not only liked—I
_loved_ this paper, and its editor. He seemed a match for all the
oponents(sic) of emancipation, whether they spoke in the name of the
law, or the gospel. His words were few, full of holy fire, and straight
to the point. Learning to love him, through his paper, I was prepared
to be pleased with his presence. Something of a hero worshiper, by
nature, here was one, on first sight, to excite my love and reverence.
Seventeen years ago, few men possessed a more heavenly countenance than
William Lloyd Garrison, and few men evinced a more genuine or a more
exalted piety. The bible was his text book—held sacred, as the word of
the Eternal Father—sinless perfection—complete submission to insults
and injuries—literal obedience to the injunction, if smitten on one
side to turn the other also. Not only was Sunday a Sabbath, but all
days were Sabbaths, and to be kept holy. All sectarism false and
mischievous—the regenerated, throughout the world, 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. Never loud or noisy—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 listener to its
editor, before I got a clear apprehension of the principles of the
anti-slavery movement. I had already the spirit of the movement, and
only needed to understand its principles and measures. These I got from
the _Liberator_, and from those who believed in that paper. My
acquaintance with the movement increased my hope for the ultimate
freedom of my race, and I united with it from a sense of delight, as
well as duty.
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 burning at every true utterance against the
slave system, and every rebuke of its friends and supporters. Thus
passed the first three years of my residence in New Bedford. I had not
then dreamed of the posibility(sic) 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 breast.