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.

After the alarm caused by Nat Turner’s insurrection had died down, the slaveholders reached a conclusion. They decided it would be wise to give the enslaved people enough religious instruction to keep them from murdering their masters. The Episcopal clergyman offered to hold a separate Sunday service for them. He had very few Black members, and they were very respectable. I suppose that fact had some influence on him. The difficulty was finding a suitable place for them to worship. The Methodist and Baptist churches admitted Black people in the afternoon. But their carpets and cushions were not as expensive as those in the Episcopal church. At last, it was decided that they would meet at the home of a free Black 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.

I was invited to attend because I could read. On Sunday evening, I ventured out, trusting the darkness to conceal me. I rarely went out in daylight because I was always afraid. At every turn, I expected to encounter Dr. Flint. He was sure to send me back or order me to his office. There, he would ask where I had gotten my bonnet or some other article of clothing. When the Rev. Mr. Pike arrived, about twenty people were present. He knelt in prayer, then sat down. He asked everyone who could read to open their books. Then he gave them the passages he wanted 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.”

His text was: “Servants, obey your earthly masters with fear and trembling. Serve them sincerely, as you would serve 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.”

Pious Mr. Pike brushed his hair until it stood straight up. Then, in a deep, solemn voice, he began: “Listen, servants! Pay close attention to my words. You are rebellious sinners. Your hearts are filled with every kind of evil. The devil is tempting you. God is angry with you and will surely punish you if you do not give up your wicked ways. “You who live in town work only when your masters are watching. Instead of serving your masters faithfully, as your heavenly Master wants, you are idle and avoid your work. God sees you. You tell lies. God hears you. Instead of worshipping him, you hide somewhere and feast on your master’s food. You toss coffee grounds with some wicked fortune-teller or cut cards with another old hag. Your masters may not find out, but God sees you and will punish you. “Oh, how wicked your hearts are! When your master’s work is done, do you sit quietly together, thinking of God’s goodness to such sinful creatures? No. You quarrel and tie up little bags of roots to bury under the doorsteps to poison each other. God sees you. You men sneak off to every liquor shop to sell your master’s corn so you can buy rum to drink. God sees you. You sneak into the back streets or among the bushes to gamble with coins. Although your masters may not find out, God sees you, and he will punish you. “You must give up 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 leave here, do not stop on street corners to talk. Go straight home and let your master and mistress see that you have arrived.”

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.

The closing blessing was given. We went home, greatly amused by brother Pike’s gospel teaching, and decided to hear him again. I went the next Sunday evening and heard much the same sermon. At the end of the meeting, Mr. Pike told us that meeting at the friend’s house was very inconvenient for him. He said he would be glad to see us in his own kitchen every Sunday evening.

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.

I went home feeling that I had heard the Reverend Mr. Pike for the last time. Some members of his congregation went to his house and found two tallow candles in the kitchen. I am sure the kitchen had never had two candles since its current owner took possession. The servants had never had anything but pine knots for light. The reverend gentleman took so long to come down from his comfortable parlor that the slaves left. They went to enjoy a Methodist shout instead. They never seem so happy as when they are shouting and singing at religious meetings. Many of them are sincere and closer to the gate of heaven than sanctimonious Mr. Pike. They are also closer than 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:

Enslaved people generally make up their own songs and hymns, and they do not worry much about the rhythm. 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?”

I remember one time when I attended a Methodist class meeting. I went with a heavy heart and happened to sit next to a poor mother who had lost a child. Her heart was even heavier than mine. The class leader was the town constable. He bought and sold enslaved people and whipped his church brothers and sisters at the public whipping post, whether they were in jail or not. He was willing to perform that Christian service anywhere for fifty cents. This white-faced, black-hearted brother came up to us and said to the grieving woman, “Sister, can’t you tell us how the Lord is treating your soul? Do you love him as you used to?”

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 stood up and said in a pleading voice, “My Lord and Master, help me! My burden is more than I can bear. God has hidden himself from me, and I am left in darkness and misery.” Then she struck her chest and continued, “I can’t tell you what’s in here! They’ve taken all my children. Last week they took the last one. God only knows where they’ve sold her. They let me keep her for sixteen years, and then, oh! Oh! Pray for her brothers and sisters! I have nothing to live for now. God, let me die soon!”

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!”

She sat down, trembling all over. I saw the constable, who was also a class leader, turn red as he held back his laughter. He held up his handkerchief so those weeping over the poor woman’s misfortune would not see his amusement. Then, pretending to be serious, he said to the grieving mother, “Sister, pray that the Lord will make every act of his divine will a blessing to 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,—

The congregation began to sing a hymn, as if they were as free as the birds singing around 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?

Such moments are precious to enslaved people. If you heard them at those times, you might think they were happy. But can that hour of singing and shouting sustain them through the dreary week? They work without pay, always fearing 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.

The Episcopal clergyman had been like a god among the slaveholders for as long as I could remember. Because he had a large family, he decided he had to go where money was more plentiful. A very different clergyman took his place. The colored people were very pleased with the change. They said, “God has sent us a good man this time.” They loved him, and their children followed him, hoping for a smile or a kind word. Even the slaveholders felt his influence. He brought five enslaved people to the rectory. His wife taught them to read and write and to be useful both to her and to themselves. As soon as he had settled in, he turned his attention to the needy enslaved people around him. He urged his parishioners to hold a service especially for them every Sunday. The sermon would be suited to what they could understand. After much debate and persistent urging, the parishioners finally agreed to let them use the church gallery on Sunday evenings. Many colored people who had not attended church before now gladly went to hear the gospel preached. The sermons were simple, and they understood them. More than that, it was the first time anyone had ever addressed them as human beings. Before long, his white parishioners began to complain. They accused him of preaching better sermons to the Black people than he did to them. He honestly admitted that he put more effort into those sermons than into any others. The enslaved people had been raised with so little education that it was difficult to make himself understood by them. Disagreements arose in the parish. Some wanted him to preach to the white parishioners in the evening and to the enslaved people in the afternoon. In the middle of these disputes, his wife died after a very short illness. The people she enslaved gathered around her deathbed in great sorrow. She said, “I have tried to do you good and make you happy. If I have failed, it is not because I did not care about your well-being. Do not weep for me. Instead, prepare for the new duties ahead of you. I leave you all free. May we meet in a better world.” The people she had freed were sent away with enough money to settle comfortably. The colored people will long bless the memory of that truly Christian woman. Soon after her death, her husband preached his farewell sermon. Many tears were shed when he left.

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.

Several years later, he passed through our town and preached to his former congregation. In his afternoon sermon, he spoke to the Black people. “My friends,” he said, “I am very happy to have a chance to speak to you again. For two years, I have tried to do something for the Black people in my own parish. But I have accomplished nothing yet. I have not even preached a sermon to them. My friends, try to live according to the word of God. Your skin is darker than mine, but God judges people by their hearts, not by their skin color.” This was a strange message to hear from a Southern pulpit. It deeply offended slaveholders. They said he and his wife had made fools of their slaves, and that he preached like a fool to Black people.

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 knew an old Black man whose devotion and childlike trust in God were beautiful to see. At fifty-three, he joined the Baptist church. He deeply wanted to learn to read. He thought that if he could read the Bible, he would know how to serve God better. He came to me and begged me to teach him. He said he could not pay me because he had no money. But he would bring me nice fruit when it was in season. I asked if he knew that it was against the law. Enslaved people were whipped and imprisoned for teaching each other to read. This brought tears to his eyes. “Don’t be troubled, uncle Fred,” I said. “I have no intention of refusing to teach you. I only told you about the law so you would know the danger and be on your guard.” He thought he could arrange to come three times a week without anyone growing suspicious. I chose a quiet corner where no one was likely to intrude, and there I taught him his ABCs. Considering his age, his progress was astonishing. As soon as he could spell two-syllable words, he wanted to spell out words in the Bible. The happy smile that lit up his face filled my heart with joy. After spelling out a few words, he paused and said, “Honey, it seems that when I can read this good book, I will be closer to God. White men have all the sense. They can learn easily. It isn’t easy for an old Black man like me. I only want to read this book so I can know how to live. Then I won’t be afraid of dying.”

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

I tried to encourage him by telling him how quickly he had made progress. “Have patience, child,” he replied. “I learn slowly.”

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

I had no need for patience. His gratitude and the happiness I gave him more than made up 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?”

After six months, he had read the whole New Testament and could find any passage in it. One day, after he had recited his lesson unusually well, I said, “Uncle Fred, how do you learn 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!”

“Lord bless you, child,” he replied. “Whenever you give me a lesson, I pray to God to help me understand what I spell and read. And he does help me, child. Bless 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.

Thousands of people, like good uncle Fred, thirst for the water of life. But the law forbids them access to it, and the churches withhold it. Churches send the Bible to heathens abroad but neglect the heathens at home. I am glad missionaries go to the dark corners of the earth. But I ask them not to overlook the dark corners at home. Speak to American slaveholders as you speak to savages in Africa. Tell them it is wrong to trade in human beings. Tell them it is sinful to sell their own children and monstrous to sexually violate their own daughters. Tell them that all people are brothers and sisters. Tell them that no one has the right to shut a brother or sister out from the light of knowledge. Tell them they must answer to God for sealing off the Fountain of Life from souls 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.

There are men who would gladly undertake such missionary work, but sadly, there are few of them. They are hated by the South. They would be driven from its soil or dragged to prison to die, as others have been before them. The field is ripe for harvest and awaits the reapers. Perhaps uncle Fred's great-grandchildren may freely receive the divine treasures he sought in secret, risking prison and the whip.

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.

Are theologians blind, or are they hypocrites? I suppose some are blind, and some are hypocrites. But I think they would not be so easily blinded if they cared for the poor and lowly as they should. A clergyman visiting the South for the first time usually has some sense, however vague, that slavery is wrong. The slaveholder suspects this and plans accordingly. He makes himself as agreeable as possible. He talks about theology and related subjects. The clergyman is asked to say a blessing over a table loaded with luxuries. After dinner, he walks around the property. He sees the beautiful groves, flowering vines, and 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, “Oh, no, master.” That is enough to satisfy him. He returns home and publishes a “South-Side View of Slavery.” He complains that abolitionists exaggerate. He assures people that he has been to the South and seen slavery for himself. He says it is a beautiful “patriarchal institution.” He says the slaves do not want their freedom. He says 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.

What does he know of the half-starved people working from dawn until dark on the plantations? What does he know of mothers screaming for their children, torn from their arms by slave traders? Of young girls dragged into moral filth? Of pools of blood around the whipping post? Of hounds trained to tear human flesh? Of men screwed into cotton gins and left to die? The slaveholder showed him none of these things. And even if he had asked, the slaves would not have dared tell him.

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.

There is a great difference between Christianity and religion in the South. If a man takes communion and gives money to the church, he is called religious. It does not matter if the money is the price of blood. If a pastor has children with a woman who is not his wife, the church dismisses him if she is white. But if she is a woman of color, he can continue 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.”

When I was told that Dr. Flint had joined the Episcopal church, I was very surprised. I thought religion made men better. But he persecuted me most severely after he became a church member. The day after his confirmation, the doctor’s conversation certainly gave me no sign that he had “renounced the devil and all his works.” In response to some of his usual talk, I reminded him that he had just joined the church. “Yes, Linda,” he said. “It was proper for me to do so. I am getting older, and my position in society requires it. And joining puts an end to all the damned gossip. 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.”

“There are already enough sinners in it,” I replied. “If I were allowed to live like a Christian, I would 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.

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

I answered that the Bible didn’t say so.

I replied that the Bible didn’t say that.

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.”

His voice grew hoarse with rage. “How dare you preach to me about your damned Bible!” he shouted. “What right do you have to tell me what you would or wouldn’t like? You are my slave. I am your master, and you will obey me.”

No wonder the slaves sing,—

No wonder the slaves sing: