11. CHAPTER XI.
"A CHANGE CAME O'ER THE SPIRIT OF MY DREAM."
HOW I LEARNED TO READ—MY MISTRESS—HER SLAVEHOLDING DUTIES—THEIR DEPLORABLE EFFECTS UPON HER ORIGINALLY NOBLE NATURE—THE
CONFLICT IN HER MIND—HER FINAL OPPOSITION TO MY LEARNING TO
READ—TOO LATE—SHE HAD GIVEN ME THE INCH, I WAS RESOLVED TO TAKE
THE ELL—HOW I PURSUED MY EDUCATION—MY TUTORS—HOW I COMPENSATED
THEM—WHAT PROGRESS I MADE—SLAVERY—WHAT I HEARD SAID ABOUT IT—THIRTEEN YEARS OLD—THE Columbian Orator—A RICH SCENE—A
DIALOGUE—SPEECHES OF CHATHAM, SHERIDAN, PITT AND FOX—KNOWLEDGE
EVER INCREASING—MY EYES OPENED—LIBERTY—HOW I PINED FOR IT—MY
SADNESS—THE DISSATISFACTION OF MY POOR MISTRESS—MY HATRED OF
SLAVERY—ONE UPAS TREE OVERSHADOWED US BOTH.
I lived in the family of Master Hugh, at Baltimore, seven
years, during which time—as the almanac makers say of the
weather—my condition was variable. The most interesting feature
of my history here, was my learning to read and write, under
somewhat marked disadvantages. In attaining this knowledge, I
was compelled to resort to indirections by no means congenial to
my nature, and which were really humiliating to me. My
mistress—who, as the reader has already seen, had begun to teach
me was suddenly checked in her benevolent design, by the strong
advice of her husband. In faithful compliance with this advice,
the good lady had not only ceased to instruct me, herself, but
had set her face as a flint against my learning to read by any
means. It is due,
however, to my mistress to say, that she did
not adopt this course in all its stringency at the first. She
either thought it unnecessary, or she lacked the depravity
indispensable to shutting me up in
mental darkness. It was, at least, necessary for
her to have some training, and some hardening, in the exercise of
the slaveholder's prerogative, to make her equal to forgetting my
human nature and character, and to treating me as a thing
destitute of a moral or an intellectual nature. Mrs. Auld—my
mistress—was, as I have said, a most kind and tender-hearted
woman; and, in the humanity of her heart, and the simplicity of
her mind, she set out, when I first went to live with her, to
treat me as she supposed one human being ought to treat another.
It is easy to see, that, in entering upon the duties of a
slaveholder, some little experience is needed. Nature has done
almost nothing to prepare men and women to be either slaves or
slaveholders. Nothing but rigid training, long persisted in, can
perfect the character of the one or the other. One cannot easily
forget to love freedom; and it is as hard to cease to respect
that natural love in our fellow creatures. On entering upon the
career of a slaveholding mistress, Mrs. Auld was singularly
deficient; nature, which fits nobody for such an office, had done
less for her than any lady I had known. It was no easy matter to
induce her to think and to feel that the curly-headed boy, who
stood by her side, and even leaned on her lap; who was loved by
little Tommy, and who loved little Tommy in turn; sustained to
her only the relation of a chattel. I was more than that,
and she felt
me to be more than that. I could talk and sing; I
could laugh and weep; I could reason and remember; I could love
and hate. I was human, and she, dear lady, knew and felt me to
be so. How could she, then, treat me as a brute, without a
mighty struggle with all the noble powers of her own soul. That
struggle came, and the will and power of the husband was
victorious. Her noble soul was overthrown; but, he that
overthrew it did not, himself, escape the consequences. He, not
less than the other parties, was injured in his domestic peace by
the fall.
When I went into their family, it was the abode of
happiness and contentment. The mistress of the house was a model
of affec
tion and tenderness. Her fervent piety and watchful
uprightness made it impossible to see her without thinking and
feeling—"that woman is a Christian." There was no sorrow
nor suffering for which she had not a tear, and there was no
innocent joy for which she did not a smile. She had bread for
the hungry, clothes for the naked, and comfort for every mourner
that came within her reach. Slavery soon proved its ability to
divest her of these excellent qualities, and her home of its
early happiness. Conscience cannot stand much violence. Once
thoroughly broken down, who is he that can repair the
damage? It may be broken toward the slave, on Sunday, and toward
the master on Monday. It cannot endure such shocks. It must
stand entire, or it does not stand at all. If my condition waxed
bad, that of the family waxed not better. The first step, in the
wrong direction, was the violence done to nature
and to
conscience, in arresting the benevolence that would have
enlightened my young mind. In ceasing to instruct me, she must
begin to justify herself
to herself; and, once consenting
to take sides in such a debate, she was riveted to her position.
One needs very little knowledge of moral philosophy, to see
where my mistress now landed. She finally became even
more violent in her opposition to my learning to read, than was
her husband himself. She was not satisfied with simply doing as
well as her husband had commanded her, but seemed resolved
to better his instruction. Nothing appeared to make my poor
mistress—after her turning toward the downward path—more angry,
than seeing me, seated in some nook or corner, quietly reading a
book or a newspaper. I have had her rush at me, with the utmost
fury, and snatch from my hand such newspaper or book, with
something of the wrath and consternation which a traitor might be
supposed to feel on being discovered in a plot by some dangerous
spy.
Mrs. Auld was an apt woman, and the advice of her husband,
and her own experience, soon demonstrated, to her entire satisfaction, that education and slavery are incompatible with each
other. When this conviction was thoroughly established, I was
most narrowly watched in all my
movements. If I remained in a separate room from the family for
any considerable length of time, I was sure to be suspected of
having a book, and was at once called upon to give an account of
myself. All this, however, was entirely too late. The
first, and never to be retraced, step had been taken. In
teaching me the alphabet, in the
days of her simplicity and
kindness, my mistress had given me the
"inch," and now, no
ordinary precaution could prevent me from taking the
"ell."
Seized with a determination to learn to read, at any cost,
I hit upon many expedients to accomplish the desired end. The
plea which I mainly adopted, and the one by which I was most
successful, was that of using my young white playmates, with whom
I met in the streets as teachers. I used to carry, almost constantly, a copy of Webster's spelling book in my pocket; and,
when sent of errands, or when play time was allowed me, I would
step, with my young friends, aside, and take a lesson in
spelling. I generally paid my tuition fee to the boys,
with bread, which I also carried in my pocket. For a single
biscuit, any of my hungry little comrades would give me a lesson
more valuable to me than bread. Not every one, however, demanded
this consideration, for there were those who took pleasure in
teaching me, whenever I had a chance to be taught by them. I am
strongly tempted to give the names of two or three of those
little boys, as a slight testimonial of the gratitude and
affection I bear them, but prudence forbids; not that it would
injure me, but it might, possibly, embarrass them; for it is
almost an unpardonable offense to do any thing, directly or
indirectly, to promote a slave's freedom, in a slave state. It
is enough to say, of my warm-hearted little play fellows, that
they lived on Philpot street, very near Durgin & Bailey's
shipyard.
Although slavery was a delicate subject, and very
cautiously talked about among grown up people in Maryland, I
frequently talked about it—and that very
freely—with the white
boys. I would, sometimes, say to them, while seated on a
curb stone or a cellar door, "I wish I could be free, as you will
be when you get to be men." "You will be free, you know, as soon
as you are twenty-one, and can go where you like, but I am a
slave for life. Have I not as good a right to be free as you
have?" Words like these, I observed, always troubled them; and I
had no small satisfaction in wringing from the boys,
occasionally, that fresh and bitter condemnation of slavery, that
springs from nature, unseared and unperverted. Of all
consciences let me have those to deal with which have not been
bewildered by the cares of life. I do not remember ever to have
met with a
boy, while I was in slavery, who defended the
slave system; but I have often had boys to console me, with the
hope that something would yet occur, by which I might be made
free. Over and over again, they have told me, that "they
believed I had as good a right to be free as
they had;"
and that "they did not believe God ever made any one to be a
slave." The reader will easily see, that such little
conversations with my play fellows, had no tendency to weaken my
love of liberty, nor to render me contented with my condition as
a slave.
When I was about thirteen years old, and had succeeded in
learning to read, every increase of knowledge, especially
respecting the FREE STATES, added something to the almost
intolerable burden of the thought—I AM A SLAVE FOR LIFE. To my
bondage I saw no end. It was a terrible reality, and I shall
never be able to tell how sadly that thought chafed my young
spirit. Fortunately, or unfortunately,
about this time in my
life, I had made enough money to buy what was then a very popular
school book, viz: the
Columbian Orator. I bought this
addition to my library, of Mr. Knight, on Thames street, Fell's
Point, Baltimore, and paid him fifty cents for it. I was first
led to buy this book, by hearing some little boys say they were
going to learn some little pieces out of it for the Exhibition.
This volume was, indeed, a rich treasure, and every opportunity
afforded me, for
a time, was spent in diligently perusing it. Among much other
interesting matter, that which I had perused and reperused with
unflagging satisfaction, was a short dialogue between a master
and his slave. The slave is represented as having been recaptured, in a second attempt to run away; and the master opens the
dialogue with an upbraiding speech, charging the slave with
ingratitude, and demanding to know what he has to say in his own
defense. Thus upbraided, and thus called upon to reply, the
slave rejoins, that he knows how little anything that he can say
will avail, seeing that he is completely in the hands of his
owner; and with noble resolution, calmly says, "I submit to my
fate." Touched by the slave's answer, the master insists upon
his further speaking, and recapitulates the many acts of kindness
which he has performed toward the slave, and tells him he is
permitted to speak for himself. Thus invited to the debate, the
quondam slave made a spirited defense of himself, and thereafter
the whole argument, for and against slavery, was brought out.
The master was vanquished at every turn in the argument; and
seeing himself to be thus vanquished, he
generously and meekly
emancipates the slave, with his best wishes for his prosperity.
It is scarcely necessary to say, that a dialogue, with such
an origin, and such an ending—read when the fact of my being a
slave was a constant burden of grief—powerfully affected me; and
I could not help feeling that the day might come, when the well-directed answers made by the slave to the master, in this
instance, would find their counterpart in myself.
This, however, was not all the fanaticism which I found in
this Columbian Orator. I met there one of Sheridan's
mighty speeches, on the subject of Catholic Emancipation, Lord
Chatham's speech on the American war, and speeches by the great
William Pitt and by Fox. These were all choice documents to me,
and I read them, over and over again, with an interest that was
ever increasing, because it was ever gaining in intelligence; for
the more I read them, the better I understood them. The reading
of these speeches added much to my limited stock of
language, and enabled me to give tongue to many interesting
thoughts, which had frequently flashed through my soul, and died
away for want of utterance. The mighty power and heart-searching
directness of truth, penetrating even the heart of a slaveholder,
compelling him to yield up his earthly interests to the claims of
eternal justice, were finely illustrated in the dialogue, just
referred to; and from the speeches of Sheridan, I got a bold and
powerful denunciation of oppression, and a most brilliant
vindication of the rights of man. Here was, indeed, a noble
acquisition. If I ever wavered under the consideration, that the
Almighty,
in some way, ordained slavery, and willed my
enslavement for his own glory, I wavered no longer. I had now
penetrated the secret of all slavery and oppression, and had
ascertained their true foundation to be in the pride, the power
and the avarice of man. The dialogue and the speeches were all
redolent of the principles of liberty, and poured floods of light
on the nature and character of slavery. With a book of this kind
in my hand, my own human nature, and the facts of my experience,
to help me, I was equal to a contest with the religious advocates
of slavery, whether among the whites or among the colored people,
for blindness, in this matter, is not confined to the former. I
have met many religious colored people, at the south, who are
under the delusion that God requires them to submit to slavery,
and to wear their chains with meekness and humility. I could
entertain no such nonsense as this; and I almost lost my patience
when I found any colored man weak enough to believe such stuff.
Nevertheless, the increase of knowledge was attended with bitter,
as well as sweet results. The more I read, the more I was led to
abhor and detest slavery, and my enslavers. "Slaveholders,"
thought I, "are only a band of successful robbers, who left their
homes and went into Africa for the purpose of stealing and
reducing my people to slavery." I loathed them as the meanest
and the most wicked of men. As I read, behold! the very
discontent so graphically predicted by Master
Hugh, had already come upon me. I was no longer the light-hearted, gleesome boy, full of mirth and play, as when I landed
first at Baltimore. Knowledge had
come; light had penetrated the
moral dungeon where I dwelt; and, behold! there lay the bloody
whip, for my back, and here was the iron chain; and my good,
kind master, he was the author of my situation. The
revelation haunted me, stung me, and made me gloomy and
miserable. As I writhed under the sting and torment of this
knowledge, I almost envied my fellow slaves their stupid contentment. This knowledge opened my eyes to the horrible pit, and
revealed the teeth of the frightful dragon that was ready to
pounce upon me, but it opened no way for my escape. I have often
wished myself a beast, or a bird—anything, rather than a slave.
I was wretched and gloomy, beyond my ability to describe. I was
too thoughtful to be happy. It was this everlasting thinking
which distressed and tormented me; and yet there was no getting
rid of the subject of my thoughts. All nature was redolent of
it. Once awakened by the silver trump of knowledge, my spirit
was roused to eternal wakefulness. Liberty! the inestimable
birthright of every man, had, for me, converted every object into
an asserter of this great right. It was heard in every sound,
and beheld in every object. It was ever present, to torment me
with a sense of my wretched condition. The more beautiful and
charming were the smiles of nature, the more horrible and
desolate was my condition. I saw nothing without seeing it, and
I heard nothing without hearing it. I do not exaggerate, when I
say, that it looked from every star, smiled in every calm,
breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.
I have no doubt that my state of mind had something
to do
with the change in the treatment adopted, by my once kind mistress toward me. I can easily believe, that my leaden, downcast,
and discontented look, was very offensive to her. Poor lady!
She did not know my trouble, and I dared not tell her. Could I
have freely made her acquainted with the real state of my mind,
and given her the reasons therefor, it might have been well
for both of us. Her abuse of me fell upon me like the blows of
the false prophet upon his ass; she did not know that an
angel stood in the way; and—such is the relation of
master and slave I could not tell her. Nature had made us
friends; slavery made us
enemies. My interests
were in a direction opposite to hers, and we both had our private
thoughts and plans. She aimed to keep me ignorant; and I
resolved to know, although knowledge only increased my
discontent. My feelings were not the result of any marked
cruelty in the treatment I received; they sprung from the
consideration of my being a slave at all. It was
slavery—not its mere
incidents—that I hated. I
had been cheated. I saw through the attempt to keep me in
ignorance; I saw that slaveholders would have gladly made me
believe that they were merely acting under the authority of God,
in making a slave of me, and in making slaves of others; and I
treated them as robbers and deceivers. The feeding and clothing
me well, could not atone for taking my liberty from me. The
smiles of my mistress could not remove the deep sorrow that dwelt
in my young bosom. Indeed, these, in time, came only to deepen
my sorrow. She had changed; and the reader will see that I had
changed, too. We
were both victims to the same overshadowing
evil—
she, as mistress, I, as slave. I will not censure
her harshly; she cannot censure me, for she knows I speak but the
truth, and have acted in my opposition to slavery, just as she
herself would have acted, in a reverse of circumstances.