Girlhood and Its Sorrows

I must pass rapidly over the stirring events of my early life. When I was about fourteen years old I went to live with my master's eldest son, a Presbyterian minister. His salary was small, and he was burdened with a helpless wife, a girl that he had married in the humble walks of life. She was morbidly sensitive, and imagined that I regarded her with contemptuous feelings because she was of poor parentage. I was their only servant, and a gracious loan at that. They were not able to buy me, so my old master sought to render them assistance by allowing them the benefit of my services. From the very first I did the work of three servants, and yet I was scolded and regarded with distrust. The years passed slowly, and I continued to serve them, and at the same time grew into strong, healthy womanhood. I was nearly eighteen when we removed from Virginia to Hillsboro', North Carolina, where young Mr. Burwell took charge of a church. The salary was small, and we still had to practise the closest economy. Mr. Bingham, a hard, cruel man, the village schoolmaster, was a member of my young master's church, and he was a frequent visitor to the parsonage. She whom I called mistress seemed to be desirous to wreak vengeance on me for something, and Bingham became her ready tool. During this time my master was unusually kind to me; he was naturally a good-hearted man, but was influenced by his wife. It was Saturday evening, and while I was bending over the bed, watching the baby that I had just hushed into slumber, Mr. Bingham came to the door and asked me to go with him to his study. Wondering what he meant by his strange request, I followed him, and when we had entered the study he closed the door, and in his blunt way remarked: "Lizzie, I am going to flog you." I was thunderstruck, and tried to think if I had been remiss in anything. I could not recollect of doing anything to deserve punishment, and with surprise exclaimed: "Whip me, Mr. Bingham! what for?"

I must pass quickly over the dramatic events of my early life. When I was about fourteen, I went to live with my master's eldest son, a Presbyterian minister. His salary was small, and he was burdened with a helpless wife. He had married her when she was a girl from a humble background. She was painfully sensitive and imagined that I looked down on her because her parents were poor. I was their only servant, and a generous loan at that. They could not afford to buy me, so my old master helped them by letting them use my services. From the beginning, I did the work of three servants. Yet I was scolded and treated with distrust. The years passed slowly, and I continued to serve them while growing into a strong, healthy woman. I was nearly eighteen when we moved from Virginia to Hillsboro', North Carolina. There, young Mr. Burwell took charge of a church. His salary was small, and we still had to live as frugally as possible. Mr. Bingham, the village schoolmaster, was a harsh, cruel man and a member of my young master's church. He often visited the parsonage. The woman I called mistress seemed eager to take revenge on me for something, and Bingham became her willing tool. During this time, my master was unusually kind to me. He was naturally good-hearted, but his wife influenced him. One Saturday evening, I was bending over the bed, watching the baby I had just soothed to sleep. Mr. Bingham came to the door and asked me to go with him to his study. I wondered what he meant by this strange request, but I followed him. Once we were inside, he closed the door and said bluntly, "Lizzie, I am going to flog you." I was stunned and tried to think whether I had neglected any duty. I could not remember doing anything to deserve punishment. Surprised, I exclaimed, "Whip me, Mr. Bingham! What for?"

"No matter," he replied, "I am going to whip you, so take down your dress this instant."

"It doesn't matter," he replied. "I'm going to whip you, so pull down your dress right now."

Recollect, I was eighteen years of age, was a woman fully developed, and yet this man coolly bade me take down my dress. I drew myself up proudly, firmly, and said: "No, Mr. Bingham, I shall not take down my dress before you. Moreover, you shall not whip me unless you prove the stronger. Nobody has a right to whip me but my own master, and nobody shall do so if I can prevent it."

Remember, I was eighteen years old and a fully grown woman. Yet this man calmly told me to take down my dress. I drew myself up proudly and said firmly: "No, Mr. Bingham, I will not take down my dress in front of you. And you will not whip me unless you prove stronger than I am. Nobody has the right to whip me but my own master, and nobody will do it if I can prevent it."

My words seemed to exasperate him. He seized a rope, caught me roughly, and tried to tie me. I resisted with all my strength, but he was the stronger of the two, and after a hard struggle succeeded in binding my hands and tearing my dress from my back. Then he picked up a rawhide, and began to ply it freely over my shoulders. With steady hand and practised eye he would raise the instrument of torture, nerve himself for a blow, and with fearful force the rawhide descended upon the quivering flesh. It cut the skin, raised great welts, and the warm blood trickled down my back. Oh God! I can feel the torture now—the terrible, excruciating agony of those moments. I did not scream; I was too proud to let my tormentor know what I was suffering. I closed my lips firmly, that not even a groan might escape from them, and I stood like a statue while the keen lash cut deep into my flesh. As soon as I was released, stunned with pain, bruised and bleeding, I went home and rushed into the presence of the pastor and his wife, wildly exclaiming: "Master Robert, why did you let Mr. Bingham flog me? What have I done that I should be so punished?"

My words seemed to make him furious. He grabbed a rope, seized me roughly, and tried to tie me up. I resisted with all my strength, but he was stronger than I was. After a hard struggle, he bound my hands and tore the dress from my back. Then he picked up a rawhide whip and began to lash my shoulders freely. With a steady hand and a practiced eye, he raised the instrument of torture and braced himself for each blow. The rawhide came down on my trembling flesh with terrible force. It cut my skin, raised great welts, and warm blood trickled down my back. Oh God! I can still feel the torture, the terrible, unbearable agony of those moments. I did not scream. I was too proud to let my tormentor know how much I was suffering. I pressed my lips tightly together so that not even a groan could escape. I stood like a statue while the sharp lash cut deep into my flesh. As soon as I was released, I went home, stunned with pain, bruised and bleeding. I rushed in to see the pastor and his wife and cried out wildly: "Master Robert, why did you let Mr. Bingham whip me? What have I done to deserve such punishment?"

"Go away," he gruffly answered, "do not bother me."

"Go away," he answered gruffly. "Do not bother me."

I would not be put off thus. "What have I done? I will know why I have been flogged."

I would not be dismissed like that. "What have I done? I will know why I have been whipped."

I saw his cheeks flush with anger, but I did not move. He rose to his feet, and on my refusing to go without an explanation, seized a chair, struck me, and felled me to the floor. I rose, bewildered, almost dead with pain, crept to my room, dressed my bruised arms and back as best I could, and then lay down, but not to sleep. No, I could not sleep, for I was suffering mental as well as bodily torture. My spirit rebelled against the unjustness that had been inflicted upon me, and though I tried to smother my anger and to forgive those who had been so cruel to me, it was impossible. The next morning I was more calm, and I believe that I could then have forgiven everything for the sake of one kind word. But the kind word was not proffered, and it may be possible that I grew somewhat wayward and sullen. Though I had faults, I know now, as I felt then, harshness was the poorest inducement for the correction of them. It seems that Mr. Bingham had pledged himself to Mrs. Burwell to subdue what he called my "stubborn pride." On Friday following the Saturday on which I was so savagely beaten, Mr. Bingham again directed me come to his study. I went, but with the determination to offer resistance should he attempt to flog me again. On entering the room I found him prepared with a new rope and a new cowhide. I told him that I was ready to die, but that he could not conquer me. In struggling with him I bit his finger severely, when he seized a heavy stick and beat me with it in a shameful manner. Again I went home sore and bleeding, but with pride as strong and defiant as ever. The following Thursday Mr. Bingham again tried to conquer me, but in vain. We struggled, and he struck me many savage blows. As I stood bleeding before him, nearly exhausted with his efforts, he burst into tears, and declared that it would be a sin to beat me any more. My suffering at last subdued his hard heart; he asked my forgiveness, and afterwards was an altered man. He was never known to strike one of his servants from that day forward. Mr. Burwell, he who preached the love of Heaven, who glorified the precepts and examples of Christ, who expounded the Holy Scriptures Sabbath after Sabbath from the pulpit, when Mr. Bingham refused to whip me any more, was urged by his wife to punish me himself. One morning he went to the wood-pile, took an oak broom, cut the handle off, and with this heavy handle attempted to conquer me. I fought him, but he proved the strongest. At the sight of my bleeding form, his wife fell upon her knees and begged him to desist. My distress even touched her cold, jealous heart. I was so badly bruised that I was unable to leave my bed for five days. I will not dwell upon the bitter anguish of these hours, for even the thought of them now makes me shudder. The Rev. Mr. Burwell was not yet satisfied. He resolved to make another attempt to subdue my proud, rebellious spirit—made the attempt and again failed, when he told me, with an air of penitence, that he should never strike me another blow; and faithfully he kept his word. These revolting scenes created a great sensation at the time, were the talk of the town and neighborhood, and I flatter myself that the actions of those who had conspired against me were not viewed in a light to reflect much credit upon them.

I saw his cheeks flush with anger, but I did not move. He stood up, and I refused to leave without an explanation. He grabbed a chair, struck me with it, and knocked me to the floor. I got up, bewildered and nearly dead with pain. I crept to my room, tended my bruised arms and back as best I could, and lay down. But I did not sleep. No, I could not sleep, because I was suffering both mental and physical torture. My spirit rebelled against the injustice done to me. I tried to suppress my anger and forgive those who had been so cruel to me, but I could not. The next morning I was calmer. I believe I could have forgiven everything then for the sake of one kind word. But no kind word came, and perhaps I became somewhat defiant and sullen. Though I had faults, I know now, as I felt then, that harshness was the worst way to correct them. It seems that Mr. Bingham had promised Mrs. Burwell that he would subdue what he called my "stubborn pride." On the Friday after the Saturday when I was so savagely beaten, Mr. Bingham again ordered me to his study. I went, but I was determined to resist if he tried to whip me again. When I entered the room, I found him ready with a new rope and a new cowhide whip. I told him I was ready to die, but he could not conquer me. As we struggled, I bit his finger severely. He then grabbed a heavy stick and beat me with it in a shameful manner. Again I went home sore and bleeding, but my pride was as strong and defiant as ever. The following Thursday, Mr. Bingham again tried to conquer me, but he failed. We struggled, and he struck me many savage blows. As I stood bleeding before him, he was nearly exhausted from his efforts. He burst into tears and declared that it would be a sin to beat me any more. My suffering finally softened his hard heart. He asked my forgiveness, and afterward he was a changed man. He was never known to strike one of his servants from that day on. Mr. Burwell preached the love of Heaven and praised the teachings and example of Christ. Sunday after Sunday, he explained the Holy Scriptures from the pulpit. When Mr. Bingham refused to whip me any more, Mrs. Burwell urged her husband to punish me himself. One morning he went to the woodpile and took an oak broom. He cut off its handle and tried to conquer me with the heavy handle. I fought him, but he was stronger. When his wife saw my bleeding body, she fell to her knees and begged him to stop. My suffering touched even her cold, jealous heart. I was so badly bruised that I could not leave my bed for five days. I will not dwell on the bitter anguish of those hours. Even the thought of them now makes me shudder. The Rev. Mr. Burwell was not yet satisfied. He resolved to try again to subdue my proud, rebellious spirit. He made the attempt and failed again. Then he told me, with an air of regret, that he would never strike me another blow. He faithfully kept his word. These revolting scenes caused a great sensation at the time. They were the talk of the town and the surrounding neighborhood. I like to think that the actions of those who had conspired against me did not reflect much credit on them.

The savage efforts to subdue my pride were not the only things that brought me suffering and deep mortification during my residence at Hillsboro'. I was regarded as fair-looking for one of my race, and for four years a white man—I spare the world his name—had base designs upon me. I do not care to dwell upon this subject, for it is one that is fraught with pain. Suffice it to say, that he persecuted me for four years, and I—I—became a mother. The child of which he was the father was the only child that I ever brought into the world. If my poor boy ever suffered any humiliating pangs on account of birth, he could not blame his mother, for God knows that she did not wish to give him life; he must blame the edicts of that society which deemed it no crime to undermine the virtue of girls in my then position.

The brutal attempts to crush my pride were not the only things that caused me suffering and deep humiliation during my time at Hillsboro'. I was thought to be good-looking for one of my race. For four years, a white man had vile intentions toward me. I will spare the world his name. I do not want to dwell on this subject, because it is painful. It is enough to say that he persecuted me for four years, and I, I became a mother. The child he fathered was the only child I ever brought into the world. If my poor boy ever suffered humiliation because of his birth, he could not blame his mother. God knows that she did not want to give him life. He must blame the rules of a society that saw no crime in violating the virtue of girls in my position at the time.

Among the old letters preserved by my mother I find the following, written by myself while at Hillsboro'. In this connection I desire to state that Rev. Robert Burwell is now living^A at Charlotte, North Carolina:—

Among the old letters my mother kept, I found the following letter, which I wrote while at Hillsboro'. I should also note that Rev. Robert Burwell now lives^A in Charlotte, North Carolina: