University of Virginia Library

XIII.
THE CHURCH AND SLAVERY.

After the alarm caused by Nat Turner's insurrection
had subsided, the slaveholders came to the conclusion
that it would be well to give the slaves enough of religious
instruction to keep them from murdering their
masters. The Episcopal clergyman offered to hold a
separate service on Sundays for their benefit. His
colored members were very few, and also very respectable
— a fact which I presume had some weight with
him. The difficulty was to decide on a suitable place
for them to worship. The Methodist and Baptist
churches admitted them in the afternoon; but their
carpets and cushions were not so costly as those at the
Episcopal church. It was at last decided that they
should meet at the house of a free colored man, who
was a member.

I was invited to attend, because I could read. Sunday
evening came, and, trusting to the cover of night,
I ventured out. I rarely ventured out by daylight,
for I always went with fear, expecting at every turn to
encounter Dr. Flint, who was sure to turn me back, or
order me to his office to inquire where I got my bonnet,
or some other article of dress. When the Rev.
Mr. Pike came, there were some twenty persons present.
The reverend gentleman knelt in prayer, then
seated himself, and requested all present, who could
read, to open their books, while he gave out the portions
he wished them to repeat or respond to.

His text was, “Servants, be obedient to them that
are your masters according to the flesh, with fear
and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto
Christ.”

Pious Mr. Pike brushed up his hair till it stood upright,
and, in deep, solemn tones, began: “Hearken,
ye servants! Give strict heed unto my words. You
are rebellious sinners. Your hearts are filled with all
manner of evil. 'Tis the devil who tempts you. God
is angry with you, and will surely punish you, if you
don't forsake your wicked ways. You that live in
town are eye-servants behind your master's back.
Instead of serving your masters faithfully, which is
pleasing in the sight of your heavenly Master, you are
idle, and shirk your work. God sees you. You tell
lies. God hears you. Instead of being engaged in
worshipping him, you are hidden away somewhere,
feasting on your master's substance; tossing coffee-grounds
with some wicked fortuneteller, or cutting
cards with another old hag. Your masters may not
find you out, but God sees you, and will punish you.
O, the depravity of your hearts! When your master's
work is done, are you quietly together, thinking of the
goodness of God to such sinful creatures? No; you
are quarrelling, and tying up little bags of roots to
bury under the door-steps to poison each other with.
God sees you. You men steal away to every grog
shop to sell your master's corn, that you may buy
rum to drink. God sees you. You sneak into the
back streets, or among the bushes, to pitch coppers.
Although your masters may not find you out, God
sees you; and he will punish you. You must forsake

your sinful ways, and be faithful servants. Obey your
old master and your young master — your old mistress
and your young mistress. If you disobey your earthly
master, you offend your heavenly Master. You must
obey God's commandments. When you go from here,
don't stop at the corners of the streets to talk, but go
directly home, and let your master and mistress see
that you have come.”

The benediction was pronounced. We went home,
highly amused at brother Pike's gospel teaching, and
we determined to hear him again. I went the next
Sabbath evening, and heard pretty much a repetition
of the last discourse. At the close of the meeting,
Mr. Pike informed us that he found it very inconvenient
to meet at the friend's house, and he should be
glad to see us, every Sunday evening, at his own
kitchen.

I went home with the feeling that I had heard the
Reverend Mr. Pike for the last time. Some of his
members repaired to his house, and found that the
kitchen sported two tallow candles; the first time, I
am sure, since its present occupant owned it, for the
servants never had any thing but pine knots. It was
so long before the reverend gentleman descended from
his comfortable parlor that the slaves left, and went to
enjoy a Methodist shout. They never seem so happy
as when shouting and singing at religious meetings.
Many of them are sincere, and nearer to the gate of
heaven than sanctimonious Mr. Pike, and other long-faced
Christians, who see wounded Samaritans, and
pass by on the other side.

The slaves generally compose their own songs and

hymns; and they do not trouble their heads much about
the measure. They often sing the following verses:

I well remember one occasion when I attended a
Methodist class meeting. I went with a burdened
spirit, and happened to sit next a poor, bereaved
mother, whose heart was still heavier than mine.
The class leader was the town constable — a man who
bought and sold slaves, who whipped his brethren and
sisters of the church at the public whipping post, in
jail or out of jail. He was ready to perform that
Christian office any where for fifty cents. This white-faced,
black-hearted brother came near us, and said to
the stricken woman, “Sister, can't you tell us how the
Lord deals with your soul? Do you love him as you
did formerly?”

She rose to her feet, and said, in piteous tones,
“My Lord and Master, help me! My load is more
than I can bear. God has hid himself from me, and
I am left in darkness and misery.” Then, striking
her breast, she continued, “I can't tell you what is in
here! They've got all my children. Last week they
took the last one. God only knows where they've
sold her. They let me have her sixteen years, and
then — O! O! Pray for her brothers and sisters!

I've got nothing to live for now. God make my time
short!”

She sat down, quivering in every limb. I saw that
constable class leader become crimson in the face with
suppressed laughter, while he held up his handkerchief,
that those who were weeping for the poor woman's
calamity might not see his merriment. Then,
with assumed gravity, he said to the bereaved mother,
“Sister, pray to the Lord that every dispensation of
his divine will may be sanctified to the good of your
poor needy soul!”

The congregation struck up a hymn, and sung as
though they were as free as the birds that warbled
round us, —

Precious are such moments to the poor slaves. If
you were to hear them at such times, you might think
they were happy. But can that hour of singing and
shouting sustain them through the dreary week, toiling
without wages, under constant dread of the lash?

The Episcopal clergyman, who, ever since my earliest
recollection, had been a sort of god among the
slaveholders, concluded, as his family was large, that
he must go where money was more abundant. A

very different clergyman took his place. The change
was very agreeable to the colored people, who said,
“God has sent us a good man this time.” They loved
him, and their children followed him for a smile or a
kind word. Even the slaveholders felt his influence.
He brought to the rectory five slaves. His wife taught
them to read and write, and to be useful to her and
themselves. As soon as he was settled, he turned his
attention to the needy slaves around him. He urged
upon his parishioners the duty of having a meeting
expressly for them every Sunday, with a sermon
adapted to their comprehension. After much argument
and importunity, it was finally agreed that they
might occupy the gallery of the church on Sunday
evenings. Many colored people, hitherto unaccustomed
to attend church, now gladly went to hear the
gospel preached. The sermons were simple, and they
understood them. Moreover, it was the first time they
had ever been addressed as human beings. It was not
long before his white parishioners began to be dissatisfied.
He was accused of preaching better sermons to
the negroes than he did to them. He honestly confessed
that he bestowed more pains upon those sermons
than upon any others; for the slaves were reared in
such ignorance that it was a difficult task to adapt himself
to their comprehension. Dissensions arose in the
parish. Some wanted he should preach to them in
the evening, and to the slaves in the afternoon. In the
midst of these disputings his wife died, after a very
short illness. Her slaves gathered round her dying
bed in great sorrow. She said, “I have tried to do
you good and promote your happiness; and if I have
failed, it has not been for want of interest in your
welfare. Do not weep for me; but prepare for the
new duties that lie before you. I leave you all free.
May we meet in a better world.” Her liberated slaves
were sent away, with funds to establish them comfortably.
The colored people will long bless the memory
of that truly Christian woman. Soon after her death
her husband preached his farewell sermon, and many
tears were shed at his departure.

Several years after, he passed through our town and
preached to his former congregation. In his afternoon
sermon he addressed the colored people. “My
friends,” said he, “it affords me great happiness to
have an opportunity of speaking to you again. For
two years I have been striving to do something for the
colored people of my own parish; but nothing is yet
accomplished. I have not even preached a sermon to
them. Try to live according to the word of God, my
friends. Your skin is darker than mine; but God
judges men by their hearts, not by the color of their
skins.” This was strange doctrine from a southern
pulpit. It was very offensive to slaveholders. They
said he and his wife had made fools of their slaves,
and that he preached like a fool to the negroes.

I knew an old black man, whose piety and childlike
trust in God were beautiful to witness. At fifty-three
years old he joined the Baptist church. He had
a most earnest desire to learn to read. He thought he
should know how to serve God better if he could only
read the Bible. He came to me, and begged me to
teach him. He said he could not pay me, for he had

no money; but he would bring me nice fruit when
the season for it came. I asked him if he didn't know
it was contrary to law; and that slaves were whipped
and imprisoned for teaching each other to read. This
brought the tears into his eyes. “Don't be troubled,
uncle Fred,” said I. “I have no thoughts of refusing
to teach you. I only told you of the law, that you
might know the danger, and be on your guard.” He
thought he could plan to come three times a week
without its being suspected. I selected a quiet nook,
where no intruder was likely to penetrate, and there I
taught him his A, B, C. Considering his age, his
progress was astonishing. As soon as he could spell
in two syllables he wanted to spell out words in the
Bible. The happy smile that illuminated his face put
joy into my heart. After spelling out a few words, he
paused, and said, “Honey, it 'pears when I can read
dis good book I shall be nearer to God. White man
is got all de sense. He can larn easy. It ain't easy
for ole black man like me. I only wants to read dis
book, dat I may know how to live; den I hab no fear
'bout dying.”

I tried to encourage him by speaking of the rapid
progress he had made. “Hab patience, child,” he
replied. “I larns slow.”

I had no need of patience. His gratitude, and the
happiness I imparted, were more than a recompense
for all my trouble.

At the end of six months he had read through the
New Testament, and could find any text in it. One
day, when he had recited unusually well, I said,

“Uncle Fred, how do you manage to get your lessons
so well?”

“Lord bress you, chile,” he replied. “You nebber
gibs me a lesson dat I don't pray to God to help me
to understan' what I spells and what I reads. And he
does help me, chile. Bress his holy name!”

There are thousands, who, like good uncle Fred, are
thirsting for the water of life; but the law forbids it,
and the churches withhold it. They send the Bible to
heathen abroad, and neglect the heathen at home. I
am glad that missionaries go out to the dark corners of
the earth; but I ask them not to overlook the dark
corners at home. Talk to American slaveholders as
you talk to savages in Africa. Tell them it is wrong
to traffic in men. Tell them it is sinful to sell their
own children, and atrocious to violate their own
daughters. Tell them that all men are brethren, and
that man has no right to shut out the light of knowledge
from his brother. Tell them they are answerable
to God for sealing up the Fountain of Life from souls
that are thirsting for it.

There are men who would gladly undertake such
missionary work as this; but, alas! their number is
small. They are hated by the south, and would be
driven from its soil, or dragged to prison to die, as
others have been before them. The field is ripe for
the harvest, and awaits the reapers. Perhaps the
great grandchildren of uncle Fred may have freely
imparted to them the divine treasures, which he
sought by stealth, at the risk of the prison and the
scourge.

Are doctors of divinity blind, or are they hypocrites?

I suppose some are the one, and some the
other; but I think if they felt the interest in the poor
and the lowly, that they ought to feel, they would not
be so easily blinded. A clergyman who goes to the
south, for the first time, has usually some feeling,
however vague, that slavery is wrong. The slaveholder
suspects this, and plays his game accordingly.
He makes himself as agreeable as possible; talks on
theology, and other kindred topics. The reverend
gentleman is asked to invoke a blessing on a table
loaded with luxuries. After dinner he walks round
the premises, and sees the beautiful groves and flowering
vines, and the comfortable huts of favored household
slaves. The southerner invites him to talk with
these slaves. He asks them if they want to be free,
and they say, “O, no, massa.” This is sufficient to
satisfy him. He comes home to publish a “South-Side
View of Slavery,” and to complain of the exaggerations
of abolitionists. He assures people that he
has been to the south, and seen slavery for himself;
that it is a beautiful “patriarchal institution;” that
the slaves don't want their freedom; that they have
hallelujah meetings, and other religious privileges.

What does he know of the half-starved wretches toiling
from dawn till dark on the plantations? of mothers
shrieking for their children, torn from their arms
by slave traders? of young girls dragged down into
moral filth? of pools of blood around the whipping
post? of hounds trained to tear human flesh? of men
screwed into cotton gins to die? The slaveholder
showed him none of these things, and the slaves dared
not tell of them if he had asked them.

There is a great difference between Christianity and
religion at the south. If a man goes to the communion
table, and pays money into the treasury of the
church, no matter if it be the price of blood, he is
called religious. If a pastor has offspring by a woman
not his wife, the church dismiss him, if she is a white
woman; but if she is colored, it does not hinder his
continuing to be their good shepherd.

When I was told that Dr. Flint had joined the
Episcopal church, I was much surprised. I supposed
that religion had a purifying effect on the character
of men; but the worst persecutions I endured from
him were after he was a communicant. The conversation
of the doctor, the day after he had been confirmed,
certainly gave me no indication that he had
“renounced the devil and all his works.” In answer
to some of his usual talk, I reminded him that he had
just joined the church. “Yes, Linda,” said he. “It
was proper for me to do so. I am getting in years,
and my position in society requires it, and it puts an
end to all the damned slang. You would do well to
join the church, too, Linda.”

“There are sinners enough in it already,” rejoined
I. “If I could be allowed to live like a Christian,
I should be glad.”

“You can do what I require; and if you are
faithful to me, you will be as virtuous as my wife,” he
replied.

I answered that the Bible didn't say so.

His voice became hoarse with rage. “How dare
you preach to me about your infernal Bible!” he

exclaimed. “What right have you, who are my
negro, to talk to me about what you would like, and
what you wouldn't like? I am your master, and you
shall obey me.”

No wonder the slaves sing, —