Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
Den how my stam’ring tongue would have sung;
But I am ole, and now I stand
A narrow chance for to tread dat heavenly land.”
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,—
“Ole Satan thought he had a mighty aim;
He missed my soul, and caught my sins.
Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!
“He took my sins upon his back;
Went muttering and grumbling down to hell.
Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!
“Ole Satan’s church is here below.
Up to God’s free church I hope to go.
Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!”
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