Letter from Wendell Phillips

My Dear Friend:

My dear friend:

You remember the old fable of “The Man and the Lion,” where the lion complained that he should not be so misrepresented “when the lions wrote history.”

You remember the old fable of “The Man and the Lion.” The lion complained that he would not be so misrepresented “when the lions wrote history.”

I am glad the time has come when the “lions write history.” We have been left long enough to gather the character of slavery from the involuntary evidence of the masters. One might, indeed, rest sufficiently satisfied with what, it is evident, must be, in general, the results of such a relation, without seeking farther to find whether they have followed in every instance. Indeed, those who stare at the half-peck of corn a week, and love to count the lashes on the slave’s back, are seldom the “stuff” out of which reformers and abolitionists are to be made. I remember that, in 1838, many were waiting for the results of the West India experiment, before they could come into our ranks. Those “results” have come long ago; but, alas! few of that number have come with them, as converts. A man must be disposed to judge of emancipation by other tests than whether it has increased the produce of sugar,—and to hate slavery for other reasons than because it starves men and whips women,—before he is ready to lay the first stone of his anti-slavery life.

I am glad the time has come when the “lions write history.” For too long, we have learned what slavery is like from evidence the masters unwittingly provide. We could, in fact, be satisfied knowing what such a relationship must generally produce. We need not investigate further to see whether those results have followed in every case. Indeed, those who fixate on the half-peck of corn a week and count the lashes on an enslaved person’s back are seldom the “stuff” reformers and abolitionists are made of. I remember that, in 1838, many waited for the results of emancipation in the West Indies before joining our ranks. Those “results” came long ago. But, sadly, few of those people have since joined us as converts. A person must judge emancipation by more than whether it has increased sugar production. They must hate slavery for reasons beyond its starving men and whipping women. Only then are they ready to take the first step in a life devoted to opposing slavery.

I was glad to learn, in your story, how early the most neglected of God’s children waken to a sense of their rights, and of the injustice done them. Experience is a keen teacher; and long before you had mastered your A B C, or knew where the “white sails” of the Chesapeake were bound, you began, I see, to gauge the wretchedness of the slave, not by his hunger and want, not by his lashes and toil, but by the cruel and blighting death which gathers over his soul.

I was glad your story showed how early even God’s most neglected children become aware of their rights. They also recognize the injustice done to them. Experience is a sharp teacher. You began to understand a slave’s misery long before you had learned your ABCs. You did not yet know where the “white sails” of the Chesapeake were headed. Even then, I see, you measured that misery not by hunger and need, nor by whippings and toil. You measured it by the cruel, devastating death that settles over the slave’s soul.

In connection with this, there is one circumstance which makes your recollections peculiarly valuable, and renders your early insight the more remarkable. You come from that part of the country where we are told slavery appears with its fairest features. Let us hear, then, what it is at its best estate—gaze on its bright side, if it has one; and then imagination may task her powers to add dark lines to the picture, as she travels southward to that (for the colored man) Valley of the Shadow of Death, where the Mississippi sweeps along.

One circumstance makes your memories especially valuable and your early understanding all the more remarkable. You come from the part of the country where, we are told, slavery looks its best. Let us hear, then, what slavery is like at its best. Let us look at its bright side, if it has one. Then imagination can strain its powers to add darker lines to the picture as it travels south. There, along the sweeping Mississippi, lies what is, for the Black man, the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

Again, we have known you long, and can put the most entire confidence in your truth, candor, and sincerity. Every one who has heard you speak has felt, and, I am confident, every one who reads your book will feel, persuaded that you give them a fair specimen of the whole truth. No one-sided portrait,—no wholesale complaints,—but strict justice done, whenever individual kindliness has neutralized, for a moment, the deadly system with which it was strangely allied. You have been with us, too, some years, and can fairly compare the twilight of rights, which your race enjoy at the North, with that “noon of night” under which they labor south of Mason and Dixon’s line. Tell us whether, after all, the half-free colored man of Massachusetts is worse off than the pampered slave of the rice swamps!

Again, we have known you a long time and can fully trust your honesty, openness, and sincerity. Everyone who has heard you speak has felt that you give them a fair picture of the whole truth. I am confident everyone who reads your book will feel the same. You offer no one-sided portrait or sweeping complaints. Instead, you give full credit whenever individual kindness briefly softened the deadly system it was so strangely tied to. You have also lived among us for some years. You can fairly compare the dim light of rights your race enjoys in the North with conditions in the South. South of the Mason-Dixon line, they suffer under that “noon of night.” Tell us, after all, is the half-free Black man in Massachusetts worse off than the pampered slave in the rice swamps?

In reading your life, no one can say that we have unfairly picked out some rare specimens of cruelty. We know that the bitter drops, which even you have drained from the cup, are no incidental aggravations, no individual ills, but such as must mingle always and necessarily in the lot of every slave. They are the essential ingredients, not the occasional results, of the system.

No one who reads your life story can say we have unfairly singled out a few rare examples of cruelty. We know that the bitter suffering even you have endured is not some added hardship or merely your own misfortune. Such suffering must always and inevitably be part of every slave’s life. It is an essential part of the system, not an occasional result.

After all, I shall read your book with trembling for you. Some years ago, when you were beginning to tell me your real name and birthplace, you may remember I stopped you, and preferred to remain ignorant of all. With the exception of a vague description, so I continued, till the other day, when you read me your memoirs. I hardly knew, at the time, whether to thank you or not for the sight of them, when I reflected that it was still dangerous, in Massachusetts, for honest men to tell their names! They say the fathers, in 1776, signed the Declaration of Independence with the halter about their necks. You, too, publish your declaration of freedom with danger compassing you around. In all the broad lands which the Constitution of the United States overshadows, there is no single spot,—however narrow or desolate,—where a fugitive slave can plant himself and say, “I am safe.” The whole armory of Northern Law has no shield for you. I am free to say that, in your place, I should throw the MS. into the fire.

Even so, I will read your book trembling with fear for you. Some years ago, you began telling me your real name and birthplace. You may remember that I stopped you, preferring to know neither. Apart from a vague description, I knew nothing until the other day, when you read me your memoirs. At the time, I hardly knew whether to thank you for letting me see them. I thought about how dangerous it still was, even in Massachusetts, for honest men to give their names! They say the founding fathers signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776 with nooses around their necks. You, too, are publishing your declaration of freedom with danger all around you. Throughout the vast lands under the United States Constitution, there is not a single safe spot for a fugitive slave. No matter how small or desolate, nowhere can he stand and say, “I am safe.” All the power of Northern law offers you no protection. I freely admit that, in your place, I would throw the manuscript into the fire.

You, perhaps, may tell your story in safety, endeared as you are to so many warm hearts by rare gifts, and a still rarer devotion of them to the service of others. But it will be owing only to your labors, and the fearless efforts of those who, trampling the laws and Constitution of the country under their feet, are determined that they will “hide the outcast,” and that their hearths shall be, spite of the law, an asylum for the oppressed, if, some time or other, the humblest may stand in our streets, and bear witness in safety against the cruelties of which he has been the victim.

Perhaps you can tell your story safely. Your rare gifts have won you the love of many warm hearts. Still rarer is your devotion to using those gifts to serve others. But only your work and the fearless efforts of others can make that safety possible for even the humblest person. These others defy the country’s laws and Constitution, determined to “hide the outcast.” Despite the law, they insist that their homes will shelter the oppressed. Only through these efforts may even the humblest person someday stand in our streets and safely testify about the cruelties they suffered.

Yet it is sad to think, that these very throbbing hearts which welcome your story, and form your best safeguard in telling it, are all beating contrary to the “statute in such case made and provided.” Go on, my dear friend, till you, and those who, like you, have been saved, so as by fire, from the dark prison-house, shall stereotype these free, illegal pulses into statutes; and New England, cutting loose from a blood-stained Union, shall glory in being the house of refuge for the oppressed,—till we no longer merely “hide the outcast,” or make a merit of standing idly by while he is hunted in our midst; but, consecrating anew the soil of the Pilgrims as an asylum for the oppressed, proclaim our welcome to the slave so loudly, that the tones shall reach every hut in the Carolinas, and make the broken-hearted bondman leap up at the thought of old Massachusetts.

Yet it is sad to think that the very hearts welcoming your story are all beating against the law. Those hearts are your best protection as you tell it. Go on, my dear friend, until you and others rescued like you turn these free, illegal heartbeats into laws. You have escaped the dark prison of slavery as though rescued from fire. Keep going until New England breaks away from a bloodstained Union and proudly becomes a refuge for the oppressed. Then we will no longer merely “hide the outcast.” Nor will we take credit for standing idly by while he is hunted among us. Instead, we will dedicate the Pilgrims’ land anew as a refuge for the oppressed. We will proclaim our welcome to the slave so loudly that it reaches every hut in the Carolinas. It will make the brokenhearted enslaved man leap up at the thought of old Massachusetts.