My Bondage and My Freedom
friends, Mr. Garrison and Mr. Phillips, had no faith in the power of
Massachusetts to protect me in my right to liberty. Public sentiment
and the law, in their opinion, would hand me over to the tormentors.
Mr. Phillips, especially, considered me in danger, and said, when I
showed him the manuscript of my story, if in my place, he would throw
it into the fire. Thus, the reader will observe, the settling of one
difficulty only opened the way for another; and that though I had
reached a free state, and had attained position for public usefulness,
I ws(sic) still tormented with the liability of losing my liberty. How
this liability was dispelled, will be related, with other incidents, in
the next chapter.
CHAPTER XXIV. _Twenty-One Months in Great Britain_
GOOD ARISING OUT OF UNPROPITIOUS EVENTS—DENIED CABIN
PASSAGE—PROSCRIPTION TURNED TO GOOD ACCOUNT—THE HUTCHINSON FAMILY—THE
MOB ON BOARD THE “CAMBRIA”—HAPPY INTRODUCTION TO THE BRITISH
PUBLIC—LETTER ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON—TIME AND LABORS WHILE
ABROAD—FREEDOM PURCHASED—MRS. HENRY RICHARDSON—FREE
PAPERS—ABOLITIONISTS DISPLEASED WITH THE RANSOM—HOW MY ENERGIES WERE
DIRECTED—RECEPTION SPEECH IN LONDON—CHARACTER OF THE SPEECH
DEFENDED—CIRCUMSTANCES EXPLAINED—CAUSES CONTRIBUTING TO THE SUCCESS OF
MY MISSION—FREE CHURCH OF SCOTLAND—TESTIMONIAL.
The allotments of Providence, when coupled with trouble and anxiety,
often conceal from finite vision the wisdom and goodness in which they
are sent; and, frequently, what seemed a harsh and invidious
dispensation, is converted by after experience into a happy and
beneficial arrangement. Thus, the painful liability to be returned
again to slavery, which haunted me by day, and troubled my dreams by
night, proved to be a necessary step in the path of knowledge and
usefulness. The writing of my pamphlet, in the spring of 1845,
endangered my liberty, and led me to seek a refuge from republican
slavery in monarchical England. A rude, uncultivated fugitive slave was
driven, by stern necessity, to that country to which young American
gentlemen go to increase their stock of knowledge, to seek pleasure, to
have their rough, democratic manners softened by contact with English
aristocratic refinement. On applying for a passage to England, on board
the “Cambria”, of the Cunard line, my friend, James N. Buffum, of Lynn,
Massachusetts, was informed that I could not be received on board as a
cabin passenger. American prejudice against color triumphed over
British liberality and civilization, and erected a color test and
condition for crossing the sea in the cabin of a British vessel. The
insult was keenly felt by my white friends, but to me, it was common,
expected, and therefore, a thing of no great consequence, whether I
went in the cabin or in the steerage. Moreover, I felt that if I could
not go into the first cabin, first-cabin passengers could come into the
second cabin, and the result justified my anticipations to the fullest
extent. Indeed, I soon found myself an object of more general interest
than I wished to be; and so far from being degraded by being placed in
the second cabin, that part of the ship became the scene of as much
pleasure and refinement, during the voyage, as the cabin itself. The
Hutchinson Family, celebrated vocalists—fellow-passengers—often came to
my rude forecastle deck, and sung their sweetest songs, enlivening the
place with eloquent music, as well as spirited conversation, during the
voyage. In two days after leaving Boston, one part of the ship was
about as free to me as another. My fellow-passengers not only visited
me, but invited me to visit them, on the saloon deck. My visits there,
however, were but seldom. I preferred to live within my privileges, and
keep upon my own premises. I found this quite as much in accordance
with good policy, as with my own feelings. The effect was, that with
the majority of the passengers, all color distinctions were flung to
the winds, and I found myself treated with every mark of respect, from
the beginning to the end of the voyage, except in a single instance;
and in that, I came near being mobbed, for complying with an invitation
given me by the passengers, and the captain of the “Cambria,” to
deliver a lecture on slavery. Our New Orleans and Georgia passengers
were pleased to regard my lecture as an insult offered to them, and
swore I should not speak. They went so far as to threaten to throw me
overboard, and but for the firmness of Captain Judkins, probably would
have (under the inspiration of _slavery_ and _brandy_) attempted to put
their threats into execution. I have no space to describe this scene,
although its tragic and comic peculiarities are well worth describing.
An end was put to the _melee_, by the captain’s calling the ship’s
company to put the salt water mobocrats in irons. At this determined
order, the gentlemen of the lash scampered, and for the rest of the
voyage conducted themselves very decorously.
This incident of the voyage, in two days after landing at Liverpool,
brought me at once before the British public, and that by no act of my
own. The gentlemen so promptly snubbed in their meditated violence,
flew to the press to justify their conduct, and to denounce me as a
worthless and insolent Negro. This course was even less wise than the
conduct it was intended to sustain; for, besides awakening something
like a national interest in me, and securing me an audience, it brought
out counter statements, and threw the blame upon themselves, which they
had sought to fasten upon me and the gallant captain of the ship.
Some notion may be formed of the difference in my feelings and
circumstances, while abroad, from the following extract from one of a
series of letters addressed by me to Mr. Garrison, and published in the
_Liberator_. It was written on the first day of January, 1846:
MY DEAR FRIEND GARRISON: Up to this time, I have given no direct
expression of the views, feelings, and opinions which I have formed,
respecting the character and condition of the people of this land. I
have refrained thus, purposely. I wish to speak advisedly, and in order
to do this, I have waited till, I trust, experience has brought my
opinions to an intelligent maturity. I have been thus careful, not
because I think what I say will have much effect in shaping the
opinions of the world, but because whatever of influence I may possess,
whether little or much, I wish it to go in the right direction, and
according to truth. I hardly need say that, in speaking of Ireland, I
shall be influenced by no prejudices in favor of America. I think my
circumstances all forbid that. I have no end to serve, no creed to
uphold, no government to defend; and as to nation, I belong to none. I
have no protection at home, or resting-place abroad. The land of my
birth welcomes me to her shores only as a slave, and spurns with
contempt the idea of treating me differently; so that I am an outcast
from the society of my childhood, and an outlaw in the land of my
birth. “I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers
were.” That men should be patriotic, is to me perfectly natural; and as
a philosophical fact, I am able to give it an _intellectual_
recognition. But no further can I go. If ever I had any patriotism, or
any capacity for the feeling, it was whipped out of me long since, by
the lash of the American soul-drivers.
In thinking of America, I sometimes find myself admiring her bright
blue sky, her grand old woods, her fertile fields, her beautiful
rivers, her mighty lakes, and star-crowned mountains. But my rapture is
soon checked, my joy is soon turned to mourning. When I remember that
all is cursed with the infernal spirit of slaveholding, robbery, and
wrong; when I remember that with the waters of her noblest rivers, the
tears of my brethren are borne to the ocean, disregarded and forgotten,
and that her most fertile fields drink daily of the warm blood of my
outraged sisters; I am filled with unutterable loathing, and led to
reproach myself that anything could fall from my lips in praise of such
a land. America will not allow her children to love her. She seems bent
on compelling those who would be her warmest friends, to be her worst
enemies. May God give her repentance, before it is too late, is the
ardent prayer of my heart. I will continue to pray, labor, and wait,
believing that she cannot always be insensible to the dictates of
justice, or deaf to the voice of humanity.
My opportunities for learning the character and condition of the people
of this land have been very great. I have traveled almost from the Hill
of Howth to the Giant’s Causeway, and from the Giant’s Causway, to Cape
Clear. During these travels, I have met with much in the chara@@ and
condition of the people to approve, and much to condemn; much that
@@thrilled me with pleasure, and very much that has filled me with
pain. I @@ @@t, in this letter, attempt to give any description of
those scenes which have given me pain. This I will do hereafter. I have
enough, and more than your subscribers will be disposed to read at one
time, of the bright side of the picture. I can truly say, I have spent
some of the happiest moments of my life since landing in this country.
I seem to have undergone a transformation. I live a new life. The warm
and generous cooperation extended to me by the friends of my despised
race; the prompt and liberal manner with which the press has rendered
me its aid; the glorious enthusiasm with which thousands have flocked
to hear the cruel wrongs of my down-trodden and long-enslaved
fellow-countrymen portrayed; the deep sympathy for the slave, and the
strong abhorrence of the slaveholder, everywhere evinced; the
cordiality with which members and ministers of various religious
bodies, and of various shades of religious opinion, have embraced me,
and lent me their aid; the kind of hospitality constantly proffered to
me by persons of the highest rank in society; the spirit of freedom
that seems to animate all with whom I come in contact, and the entire
absence of everything that looked like prejudice against me, on account
of the color of my skin—contrasted so strongly with my long and bitter
experience in the United States, that I look with wonder and amazement
on the transition. In the southern part of the United States, I was a
slave, thought of and spoken of as property; in the language of the
LAW, “_held, taken, reputed, and adjudged to be a chattel in the hands
of my owners and possessors, and their executors, administrators, and
assigns, to all intents, constructions, and purposes whatsoever_.”
(Brev. Digest, 224). In the northern states, a fugitive slave, liable
to be hunted at any moment, like a felon, and to be hurled into the
terrible jaws of slavery—doomed by an inveterate prejudice against
color to insult and outrage on every hand (Massachusetts out of the
question)—denied the privileges and courtesies common to others in the
use of the most humble means of conveyance—shut out from the cabins on
steamboats—refused admission to respectable hotels—caricatured,
scorned, scoffed, mocked, and maltreated with impunity by any one (no
matter how black his heart), so he has a white skin. But now behold the
change! Eleven days and a half gone, and I have crossed three thousand
miles of the perilous deep. Instead of a democratic government, I am
under a monarchical government. Instead of the bright, blue sky of
America, I am covered with the soft, grey fog of the Emerald Isle. I
breathe, and lo! the chattel becomes a man. I gaze around in vain for
one who will question my equal humanity, claim me as his slave, or
offer me an insult. I employ a cab—I am seated beside white people—I