A Slave Among Slaves

I was born a slave on a plantation in Franklin County, Virginia. I am not quite sure of the exact place or exact date of my birth, but at any rate I suspect I must have been born somewhere and at some time. As nearly as I have been able to learn, I was born near a cross-roads post-office called Hale’s Ford, and the year was 1858 or 1859. I do not know the month or the day. The earliest impressions I can now recall are of the plantation and the slave quarters—the latter being the part of the plantation where the slaves had their cabins.

I was born a slave on a plantation in Franklin County, Virginia. I am not quite sure exactly where or when I was born. But I suppose I must have been born somewhere, at some time. As best I have been able to learn, I was born near a crossroads post office called Hale’s Ford. The year was 1858 or 1859. I do not know the month or the day. My earliest memories are of the plantation and the slave quarters. The slave quarters were the part of the plantation where the slaves had their cabins.

My life had its beginning in the midst of the most miserable, desolate, and discouraging surroundings. This was so, however, not because my owners were especially cruel, for they were not, as compared with many others. I was born in a typical log cabin, about fourteen by sixteen feet square. In this cabin I lived with my mother and a brother and sister till after the Civil War, when we were all declared free.

My life began in deeply miserable, desolate, and discouraging surroundings. But that was not because my owners were especially cruel. Compared with many others, they were not. I was born in a typical log cabin, about fourteen by sixteen feet. I lived there with my mother, brother, and sister until after the Civil War, when we were all declared free.

Of my ancestry I know almost nothing. In the slave quarters, and even later, I heard whispered conversations among the coloured people of the tortures which the slaves, including, no doubt, my ancestors on my mother’s side, suffered in the middle passage of the slave ship while being conveyed from Africa to America. I have been unsuccessful in securing any information that would throw any accurate light upon the history of my family beyond my mother. She, I remember, had a half-brother and a half-sister. In the days of slavery not very much attention was given to family history and family records—that is, black family records. My mother, I suppose, attracted the attention of a purchaser who was afterward my owner and hers. Her addition to the slave family attracted about as much attention as the purchase of a new horse or cow. Of my father I know even less than of my mother. I do not even know his name. I have heard reports to the effect that he was a white man who lived on one of the near-by plantations. Whoever he was, I never heard of his taking the least interest in me or providing in any way for my rearing. But I do not find especial fault with him. He was simply another unfortunate victim of the institution which the Nation unhappily had engrafted upon it at that time.

I know almost nothing about my ancestors. In the slave quarters, and even later, I heard Black people whisper about the torture slaves suffered during the Middle Passage. They were being carried from Africa to America on slave ships. No doubt my ancestors on my mother’s side suffered the same torture. I have been unable to find any reliable information about my family’s history before my mother. I remember that she had a half-brother and a half-sister. During slavery, little attention was paid to family history and records, at least for Black families. I suppose my mother caught the eye of a buyer who later became her owner and mine. Her addition to the enslaved household attracted about as much attention as the purchase of a new horse or cow. I know even less about my father than I do about my mother. I do not even know his name. I have heard that he was a white man who lived on a nearby plantation. Whoever he was, I never heard that he took the least interest in me or helped provide for my upbringing. But I do not especially blame him. He was simply another unfortunate victim of the institution of slavery, which the nation had unhappily imposed upon itself at that time.

The cabin was not only our living-place, but was also used as the kitchen for the plantation. My mother was the plantation cook. The cabin was without glass windows; it had only openings in the side which let in the light, and also the cold, chilly air of winter. There was a door to the cabin—that is, something that was called a door—but the uncertain hinges by which it was hung, and the large cracks in it, to say nothing of the fact that it was too small, made the room a very uncomfortable one. In addition to these openings there was, in the lower right-hand corner of the room, the “cat-hole,”—a contrivance which almost every mansion or cabin in Virginia possessed during the ante-bellum period. The “cat-hole” was a square opening, about seven by eight inches, provided for the purpose of letting the cat pass in and out of the house at will during the night. In the case of our particular cabin I could never understand the necessity for this convenience, since there were at least a half-dozen other places in the cabin that would have accommodated the cats. There was no wooden floor in our cabin, the naked earth being used as a floor. In the centre of the earthen floor there was a large, deep opening covered with boards, which was used as a place in which to store sweet potatoes during the winter. An impression of this potato-hole is very distinctly engraved upon my memory, because I recall that during the process of putting the potatoes in or taking them out I would often come into possession of one or two, which I roasted and thoroughly enjoyed. There was no cooking-stove on our plantation, and all the cooking for the whites and slaves my mother had to do over an open fireplace, mostly in pots and “skillets.” While the poorly built cabin caused us to suffer with cold in the winter, the heat from the open fireplace in summer was equally trying.

The cabin was not only our home. It was also the kitchen for the plantation, where my mother was the cook. The cabin had no glass windows, only openings in the walls. These let in light, but also the cold, chilly air of winter. The cabin had a door, or at least something called a door. But its hinges were unreliable, it had large cracks, and it was too small. All this made the room very uncomfortable. Besides these openings, there was a “cat-hole” in the lower right-hand corner of the room. Almost every mansion or cabin in Virginia had one before the Civil War. The “cat-hole” was a square opening, about seven by eight inches. It allowed the cat to come and go as it pleased during the night. I could never understand why our cabin needed this convenience. There were at least half a dozen other places where cats could have gotten in and out. Our cabin had no wooden floor, only bare earth. In the center of the floor was a large, deep hole covered with boards. Sweet potatoes were stored there during the winter. I remember this potato-hole very clearly. When the potatoes were put in or taken out, I often got hold of one or two. I roasted them and enjoyed them thoroughly. There was no cooking stove on our plantation. My mother had to cook all the food for the white people and the slaves over an open fireplace. She cooked mostly in pots and “skillets.” The poorly built cabin made us suffer from the cold in winter. But the heat from the open fireplace was just as hard to bear in summer.

The early years of my life, which were spent in the little cabin, were not very different from those of thousands of other slaves. My mother, of course, had little time in which to give attention to the training of her children during the day. She snatched a few moments for our care in the early morning before her work began, and at night after the day’s work was done. One of my earliest recollections is that of my mother cooking a chicken late at night, and awakening her children for the purpose of feeding them. How or where she got it I do not know. I presume, however, it was procured from our owner’s farm. Some people may call this theft. If such a thing were to happen now, I should condemn it as theft myself. But taking place at the time it did, and for the reason that it did, no one could ever make me believe that my mother was guilty of thieving. She was simply a victim of the system of slavery. I cannot remember having slept in a bed until after our family was declared free by the Emancipation Proclamation. Three children—John, my older brother, Amanda, my sister, and myself—had a pallet on the dirt floor, or, to be more correct, we slept in and on a bundle of filthy rags laid upon the dirt floor.

My early years in the little cabin were not very different from those of thousands of other slaves. My mother, of course, had little time during the day to guide her children. She found a few moments to care for us early in the morning before work and at night afterward. One of my earliest memories is of my mother cooking a chicken late at night. She woke her children to feed them. I do not know how or where she got the chicken. I suppose, though, that she got it from our owner’s farm. Some people may call this theft. If it happened now, I would call it theft myself. But given when it happened and why, no one could ever make me believe my mother was guilty of stealing. She was simply a victim of the system of slavery. I cannot remember sleeping in a bed until after our family was declared free by the Emancipation Proclamation. Three children, my older brother John, my sister Amanda, and I, had a pallet on the dirt floor. More accurately, we slept in and on a bundle of filthy rags laid on the dirt floor.

I was asked not long ago to tell something about the sports and pastimes that I engaged in during my youth. Until that question was asked it had never occurred to me that there was no period of my life that was devoted to play. From the time that I can remember anything, almost every day of my life had been occupied in some kind of labour; though I think I would now be a more useful man if I had had time for sports. During the period that I spent in slavery I was not large enough to be of much service, still I was occupied most of the time in cleaning the yards, carrying water to the men in the fields, or going to the mill to which I used to take the corn, once a week, to be ground. The mill was about three miles from the plantation. This work I always dreaded. The heavy bag of corn would be thrown across the back of the horse, and the corn divided about evenly on each side; but in some way, almost without exception, on these trips, the corn would so shift as to become unbalanced and would fall off the horse, and often I would fall with it. As I was not strong enough to reload the corn upon the horse, I would have to wait, sometimes for many hours, till a chance passer-by came along who would help me out of my trouble. The hours while waiting for some one were usually spent in crying. The time consumed in this way made me late in reaching the mill, and by the time I got my corn ground and reached home it would be far into the night. The road was a lonely one, and often led through dense forests. I was always frightened. The woods were said to be full of soldiers who had deserted from the army, and I had been told that the first thing a deserter did to a Negro boy when he found him alone was to cut off his ears. Besides, when I was late in getting home I knew I would always get a severe scolding or a flogging.

Not long ago, I was asked to talk about the sports and pastimes I enjoyed as a child. Until then, it had never occurred to me that I had never had a period of my life devoted to play. For as long as I can remember, I have spent almost every day doing some kind of work. Yet I think I would be a more useful man now if I had had time for sports. During slavery, I was not big enough to be of much use. Still, I spent most of my time cleaning the yards or carrying water to the men in the fields. Once a week, I also took corn to the mill to be ground. The mill was about three miles from the plantation. I always dreaded this task. The heavy bag of corn would be thrown across the horse’s back, with the corn divided fairly evenly between the two sides. But on these trips, the corn would shift and become unbalanced, almost without exception. The bag would fall off the horse, and I would often fall with it. I was not strong enough to load the corn back onto the horse. So I would have to wait, sometimes for many hours, until a passerby came along and helped me. I usually spent those hours crying. The time spent waiting made me late in reaching the mill. By the time I had the corn ground and got home, it would be far into the night. The road was lonely and often led through dense forests. I was always frightened. People said the woods were full of soldiers who had deserted from the army. I had been told that the first thing a deserter did on finding a Negro boy alone was to cut off his ears. Besides, I knew that whenever I got home late, I would be severely scolded or flogged.

I had no schooling whatever while I was a slave, though I remember on several occasions I went as far as the schoolhouse door with one of my young mistresses to carry her books. The picture of several dozen boys and girls in a schoolroom engaged in study made a deep impression upon me, and I had the feeling that to get into a schoolhouse and study in this way would be about the same as getting into paradise.

I had no schooling at all while I was a slave. But I remember going to the schoolhouse door several times to carry books for one of my young mistresses. The sight of several dozen boys and girls studying in a classroom made a deep impression on me. I felt that being able to go into a schoolhouse and study like that would be almost like entering paradise.

So far as I can now recall, the first knowledge that I got of the fact that we were slaves, and that freedom of the slaves was being discussed, was early one morning before day, when I was awakened by my mother kneeling over her children and fervently praying that Lincoln and his armies might be successful, and that one day she and her children might be free. In this connection I have never been able to understand how the slaves throughout the South, completely ignorant as were the masses so far as books or newspapers were concerned, were able to keep themselves so accurately and completely informed about the great National questions that were agitating the country. From the time that Garrison, Lovejoy, and others began to agitate for freedom, the slaves throughout the South kept in close touch with the progress of the movement. Though I was a mere child during the preparation for the Civil War and during the war itself, I now recall the many late-at-night whispered discussions that I heard my mother and the other slaves on the plantation indulge in. These discussions showed that they understood the situation, and that they kept themselves informed of events by what was termed the “grape-vine” telegraph.

As best I can recall, I first learned that we were slaves and that people were discussing freedom for slaves early one morning before dawn. I woke to find my mother kneeling over her children. She was praying fervently that Lincoln and his armies would succeed, and that she and her children might one day be free. I have never been able to understand how slaves throughout the South kept so accurately and fully informed about the great national questions troubling the country. Most of them had no knowledge of books or newspapers. From the time Garrison, Lovejoy, and others began to campaign for freedom, slaves throughout the South closely followed the movement’s progress. I was only a child in the years leading up to the Civil War and during the war itself. Even so, I remember the many late-night discussions I heard my mother and the other slaves on the plantation whispering. These discussions showed that they understood the situation. They kept themselves informed of events through what was called the “grape-vine” telegraph.

During the campaign when Lincoln was first a candidate for the Presidency, the slaves on our far-off plantation, miles from any railroad or large city or daily newspaper, knew what the issues involved were. When war was begun between the North and the South, every slave on our plantation felt and knew that, though other issues were discussed, the primal one was that of slavery. Even the most ignorant members of my race on the remote plantations felt in their hearts, with a certainty that admitted of no doubt, that the freedom of the slaves would be the one great result of the war, if the Northern armies conquered. Every success of the Federal armies and every defeat of the Confederate forces was watched with the keenest and most intense interest. Often the slaves got knowledge of the results of great battles before the white people received it. This news was usually gotten from the coloured man who was sent to the post-office for the mail. In our case the post-office was about three miles from the plantation, and the mail came once or twice a week. The man who was sent to the office would linger about the place long enough to get the drift of the conversation from the group of white people who naturally congregated there, after receiving their mail, to discuss the latest news. The mail-carrier on his way back to our master’s house would as naturally retail the news that he had secured among the slaves, and in this way they often heard of important events before the white people at the “big house,” as the master’s house was called.

When Lincoln first ran for President, the slaves on our distant plantation knew what the issues were. The plantation was miles from any railroad, large city, or daily newspaper. When war began between the North and the South, every slave on our plantation knew that slavery was the main issue, though others were discussed. Even the most uninformed members of my race on remote plantations felt certain in their hearts that the slaves would gain their freedom if the Northern armies won. They watched every victory of the Federal armies and every defeat of the Confederate forces with the keenest interest. The slaves often learned the results of great battles before the white people did. The news usually came from the Black man sent to the post office for the mail. In our case, the post office was about three miles from the plantation, and mail arrived once or twice a week. The man sent to collect it would linger there. He stayed long enough to get a sense of the conversation among the white people. They naturally gathered there after receiving their mail to discuss the latest news. On his way back to our master’s house, the mail carrier would just as naturally pass the news along to the slaves. In this way, the slaves often heard of important events before the white people at the “big house,” as the master’s house was called.

I cannot remember a single instance during my childhood or early boyhood when our entire family sat down to the table together, and God’s blessing was asked, and the family ate a meal in a civilized manner. On the plantation in Virginia, and even later, meals were gotten by the children very much as dumb animals get theirs. It was a piece of bread here and a scrap of meat there. It was a cup of milk at one time and some potatoes at another. Sometimes a portion of our family would eat out of the skillet or pot, while some one else would eat from a tin plate held on the knees, and often using nothing but the hands with which to hold the food. When I had grown to sufficient size, I was required to go to the “big house” at meal-times to fan the flies from the table by means of a large set of paper fans operated by a pulley. Naturally much of the conversation of the white people turned upon the subject of freedom and the war, and I absorbed a good deal of it. I remember that at one time I saw two of my young mistresses and some lady visitors eating ginger-cakes, in the yard. At that time those cakes seemed to me to be absolutely the most tempting and desirable things that I had ever seen; and I then and there resolved that, if I ever got free, the height of my ambition would be reached if I could get to the point where I could secure and eat ginger-cakes in the way that I saw those ladies doing.

I cannot remember a single time in my childhood or early boyhood when our whole family sat down together at a table, asked God’s blessing, and ate a meal in a civilized way. On the plantation in Virginia, and even later, the children got their meals much as animals do. We had a piece of bread here and a scrap of meat there. We had a cup of milk at one time and some potatoes at another. Sometimes some of the family ate from the skillet or pot, while someone else ate from a tin plate held on their knees. Often, we used only our hands to hold the food. When I was big enough, I had to go to the “big house” at mealtimes. There, I used a large set of paper fans, operated by a pulley, to fan the flies away from the table. Naturally, much of the white people’s conversation was about freedom and the war, and I absorbed a good deal of it. I remember seeing two of my young mistresses and some lady visitors eating ginger cakes in the yard. Those cakes seemed to me the most tempting and desirable things I had ever seen. Right then, I decided that if I ever became free, my greatest ambition would be fulfilled if I could get and eat ginger cakes as I saw those ladies doing.

Of course as the war was prolonged the white people, in many cases, often found it difficult to secure food for themselves. I think the slaves felt the deprivation less than the whites, because the usual diet for slaves was corn bread and pork, and these could be raised on the plantation; but coffee, tea, sugar, and other articles which the whites had been accustomed to use could not be raised on the plantation, and the conditions brought about by the war frequently made it impossible to secure these things. The whites were often in great straits. Parched corn was used for coffee, and a kind of black molasses was used instead of sugar. Many times nothing was used to sweeten the so-called tea and coffee.

Of course, as the war dragged on, many white people often struggled to find food for themselves. I think the slaves suffered less from these shortages than the whites. The slaves usually ate corn bread and pork, which could be produced on the plantation. But the whites were used to coffee, tea, sugar, and other goods that could not be produced there. Wartime conditions often made those goods impossible to obtain. The whites were often in great need. They used roasted corn for coffee and a kind of black molasses instead of sugar. Many times they used nothing to sweeten the so-called tea and coffee.

The first pair of shoes that I recall wearing were wooden ones. They had rough leather on the top, but the bottoms, which were about an inch thick, were of wood. When I walked they made a fearful noise, and besides this they were very inconvenient, since there was no yielding to the natural pressure of the foot. In wearing them one presented an exceedingly awkward appearance. The most trying ordeal that I was forced to endure as a slave boy, however, was the wearing of a flax shirt. In the portion of Virginia where I lived it was common to use flax as part of the clothing for the slaves. That part of the flax from which our clothing was made was largely the refuse, which of course was the cheapest and roughest part. I can scarcely imagine any torture, except, perhaps, the pulling of a tooth, that is equal to that caused by putting on a new flax shirt for the first time. It is almost equal to the feeling that one would experience if he had a dozen or more chestnut burrs, or a hundred small pin-points, in contact with his flesh. Even to this day I can recall accurately the tortures that I underwent when putting on one of these garments. The fact that my flesh was soft and tender added to the pain. But I had no choice. I had to wear the flax shirt or none; and had it been left to me to choose, I should have chosen to wear no covering. In connection with the flax shirt, my brother John, who is several years older than I am, performed one of the most generous acts that I ever heard of one slave relative doing for another. On several occasions when I was being forced to wear a new flax shirt, he generously agreed to put it on in my stead and wear it for several days, till it was “broken in.” Until I had grown to be quite a youth this single garment was all that I wore.

The first shoes I remember wearing were wooden. They had rough leather tops, but their soles were wooden and about an inch thick. They made a terrible noise when I walked. They were also very uncomfortable because the wooden soles did not give under the natural pressure of my feet. Anyone wearing them looked extremely awkward. But the hardest ordeal I had to endure as a slave boy was wearing a flax shirt. In the part of Virginia where I lived, flax was commonly used to make some of the slaves’ clothing. Our clothing was made largely from the waste flax, which was, of course, the cheapest and roughest part. I can hardly imagine any torture, except perhaps having a tooth pulled, equal to putting on a new flax shirt for the first time. It was almost like having a dozen or more chestnut burrs or a hundred small pinpoints against your skin. Even today, I can clearly remember the torture of putting on one of those garments. The pain was worse because my skin was soft and tender. But I had no choice. I had to wear the flax shirt or nothing. If the choice had been mine, I would have worn nothing. My brother John, who is several years older than I am, did something for me involving the flax shirt. It was one of the most generous acts I ever heard of one enslaved relative doing for another. Several times, when I was being forced to wear a new flax shirt, he generously agreed to put it on instead. He wore it for several days, until it was “broken in.” Until I was quite a bit older, this single garment was all I wore.

One may get the idea, from what I have said, that there was bitter feeling toward the white people on the part of my race, because of the fact that most of the white population was away fighting in a war which would result in keeping the Negro in slavery if the South was successful. In the case of the slaves on our place this was not true, and it was not true of any large portion of the slave population in the South where the Negro was treated with anything like decency. During the Civil War one of my young masters was killed, and two were severely wounded. I recall the feeling of sorrow which existed among the slaves when they heard of the death of “Mars’ Billy.” It was no sham sorrow, but real. Some of the slaves had nursed “Mars’ Billy”; others had played with him when he was a child. “Mars’ Billy” had begged for mercy in the case of others when the overseer or master was thrashing them. The sorrow in the slave quarter was only second to that in the “big house.” When the two young masters were brought home wounded, the sympathy of the slaves was shown in many ways. They were just as anxious to assist in the nursing as the family relatives of the wounded. Some of the slaves would even beg for the privilege of sitting up at night to nurse their wounded masters. This tenderness and sympathy on the part of those held in bondage was a result of their kindly and generous nature. In order to defend and protect the women and children who were left on the plantations when the white males went to war, the slaves would have laid down their lives. The slave who was selected to sleep in the “big house” during the absence of the males was considered to have the place of honour. Any one attempting to harm “young Mistress” or “old Mistress” during the night would have had to cross the dead body of the slave to do so. I do not know how many have noticed it, but I think that it will be found to be true that there are few instances, either in slavery or freedom, in which a member of my race has been known to betray a specific trust.

From what I have said, one might think that my race felt bitter toward white people. After all, most of the white population was away fighting in a war. If the South won, the war would keep Black people in slavery. But this was not true of the slaves on our place. Nor was it true of any large portion of the Southern slave population treated with anything like decency. During the Civil War, one of my young masters was killed, and two were severely wounded. I remember the sorrow among the slaves when they heard of “Mars’ Billy’s” death. Their sorrow was not pretend, but real. Some of the slaves had nursed “Mars’ Billy.” Others had played with him as a child. “Mars’ Billy” had begged for mercy for other slaves when the overseer or master was beating them. The sorrow in the slave quarters was second only to that in the “big house.” When the two young masters were brought home wounded, the slaves showed their sympathy in many ways. They were just as eager to help nurse them as the wounded men’s relatives were. Some slaves even begged for the privilege of staying up at night to nurse their wounded masters. This tenderness and sympathy from people held in bondage came from their kind and generous nature. The slaves would have given their lives to defend and protect the women and children left on the plantations. These women and children had been left behind when the white men went to war. The slave chosen to sleep in the “big house” during the men’s absence was considered to hold a place of honor. Anyone trying to harm “young Mistress” or “old Mistress” during the night would have had to cross the slave’s dead body to do so. I do not know how many people have noticed this. But I think there are few known instances, either in slavery or freedom, of a member of my race betraying a specific trust.

As a rule, not only did the members of my race entertain no feelings of bitterness against the whites before and during the war, but there are many instances of Negroes tenderly caring for their former masters and mistresses who for some reason have become poor and dependent since the war. I know of instances where the former masters of slaves have for years been supplied with money by their former slaves to keep them from suffering. I have known of still other cases in which the former slaves have assisted in the education of the descendants of their former owners. I know of a case on a large plantation in the South in which a young white man, the son of the former owner of the estate, has become so reduced in purse and self-control by reason of drink that he is a pitiable creature; and yet, notwithstanding the poverty of the coloured people themselves on this plantation, they have for years supplied this young white man with the necessities of life. One sends him a little coffee or sugar, another a little meat, and so on. Nothing that the coloured people possess is too good for the son of “old Mars’ Tom,” who will perhaps never be permitted to suffer while any remain on the place who knew directly or indirectly of “old Mars’ Tom.”

As a rule, members of my race felt no bitterness toward white people before or during the war. And in many cases, Black people have tenderly cared for their former masters and mistresses who became poor and dependent after the war. I know of former slaveholders whose former slaves gave them money for years to keep them from suffering. I have also known former slaves to help educate the descendants of their former owners. I know of a case on a large plantation in the South. A young white man, the son of the estate’s former owner, has lost his money and self-control through drinking. He is a pitiable creature. Yet the Black people on the plantation have supplied him with the necessities of life for years, despite their own poverty. One sends him a little coffee or sugar, another a little meat, and so on. Nothing they possess is too good for the son of “old Mars’ Tom.” He will perhaps never be allowed to suffer as long as anyone remains on the plantation who knew of “old Mars’ Tom,” either firsthand or through others.

I have said that there are few instances of a member of my race betraying a specific trust. One of the best illustrations of this which I know of is in the case of an ex-slave from Virginia whom I met not long ago in a little town in the state of Ohio. I found that this man had made a contract with his master, two or three years previous to the Emancipation Proclamation, to the effect that the slave was to be permitted to buy himself, by paying so much per year for his body; and while he was paying for himself, he was to be permitted to labour where and for whom he pleased. Finding that he could secure better wages in Ohio, he went there. When freedom came, he was still in debt to his master some three hundred dollars. Notwithstanding that the Emancipation Proclamation freed him from any obligation to his master, this black man walked the greater portion of the distance back to where his old master lived in Virginia, and placed the last dollar, with interest, in his hands. In talking to me about this, the man told me that he knew that he did not have to pay the debt, but that he had given his word to the master, and his word he had never broken. He felt that he could not enjoy his freedom till he had fulfilled his promise.

I have said that members of my race rarely betray a specific trust. One of the best examples I know concerns a formerly enslaved man from Virginia. I met him not long ago in a small town in Ohio. I learned that he had made an agreement with his master two or three years before the Emancipation Proclamation. He was to be allowed to buy his freedom by paying a set amount each year. While making these payments, he could work wherever and for whomever he pleased. He found that he could earn better wages in Ohio, so he went there. When freedom came, he still owed his master about three hundred dollars. The Emancipation Proclamation freed him from any obligation to his master. Even so, he walked most of the way back to his former master's home in Virginia. There he paid him every remaining dollar, with interest. The man told me that he knew he did not have to pay the debt. But he had given his word to his master, and he had never broken his word. He felt that he could not enjoy his freedom until he had kept his promise.

From some things that I have said one may get the idea that some of the slaves did not want freedom. This is not true. I have never seen one who did not want to be free, or one who would return to slavery.

Some things I have said may suggest that some slaves did not want freedom. That is not true. I have never met a slave who did not want to be free or who would return to slavery.

I pity from the bottom of my heart any nation or body of people that is so unfortunate as to get entangled in the net of slavery. I have long since ceased to cherish any spirit of bitterness against the Southern white people on account of the enslavement of my race. No one section of our country was wholly responsible for its introduction, and, besides, it was recognized and protected for years by the General Government. Having once got its tentacles fastened on to the economic and social life of the Republic, it was no easy matter for the country to relieve itself of the institution. Then, when we rid ourselves of prejudice, or racial feeling, and look facts in the face, we must acknowledge that, notwithstanding the cruelty and moral wrong of slavery, the ten million Negroes inhabiting this country, who themselves or whose ancestors went through the school of American slavery, are in a stronger and more hopeful condition, materially, intellectually, morally, and religiously, than is true of an equal number of black people in any other portion of the globe. This is so to such an extent that Negroes in this country, who themselves or whose forefathers went through the school of slavery, are constantly returning to Africa as missionaries to enlighten those who remained in the fatherland. This I say, not to justify slavery—on the other hand, I condemn it as an institution, as we all know that in America it was established for selfish and financial reasons, and not from a missionary motive—but to call attention to a fact, and to show how Providence so often uses men and institutions to accomplish a purpose. When persons ask me in these days how, in the midst of what sometimes seem hopelessly discouraging conditions, I can have such faith in the future of my race in this country, I remind them of the wilderness through which and out of which, a good Providence has already led us.

I pity from the bottom of my heart any nation or group of people unfortunate enough to become entangled in slavery. I long ago stopped feeling bitterness toward Southern white people for the enslavement of my race. No one part of our country was entirely responsible for introducing slavery. Besides, the federal government recognized and protected it for years. Once slavery had fastened its tentacles onto the nation’s economic and social life, it was not easy for the country to free itself from the institution. We must put aside prejudice and racial feelings and face the facts. Despite the cruelty and moral wrong of slavery, ten million Black people live in this country who went through American slavery themselves or whose ancestors did. They are in a stronger and more hopeful condition materially, intellectually, morally, and religiously than an equal number of Black people anywhere else in the world. This is true to such an extent that Black people in this country are constantly returning to Africa as missionaries. They, or their ancestors, went through slavery, and they return to enlighten those who remained in the fatherland. I do not say this to justify slavery. On the contrary, I condemn it as an institution. We all know that slavery was established in America for selfish and financial reasons, not for missionary purposes. I say this to call attention to a fact and to show how Providence so often uses people and institutions to accomplish a purpose. These days, people ask me how I can have such faith in the future of my race in this country. They ask this in the midst of conditions that sometimes seem hopelessly discouraging. I remind them of the wilderness through which and out of which a good Providence has already led us.

Ever since I have been old enough to think for myself, I have entertained the idea that, notwithstanding the cruel wrongs inflicted upon us, the black man got nearly as much out of slavery as the white man did. The hurtful influences of the institution were not by any means confined to the Negro. This was fully illustrated by the life upon our own plantation. The whole machinery of slavery was so constructed as to cause labour, as a rule, to be looked upon as a badge of degradation, of inferiority. Hence labour was something that both races on the slave plantation sought to escape. The slave system on our place, in a large measure, took the spirit of self-reliance and self-help out of the white people. My old master had many boys and girls, but not one, so far as I know, ever mastered a single trade or special line of productive industry. The girls were not taught to cook, sew, or to take care of the house. All of this was left to the slaves. The slaves, of course, had little personal interest in the life of the plantation, and their ignorance prevented them from learning how to do things in the most improved and thorough manner. As a result of the system, fences were out of repair, gates were hanging half off the hinges, doors creaked, window-panes were out, plastering had fallen but was not replaced, weeds grew in the yard. As a rule, there was food for whites and blacks, but inside the house, and on the dining-room table, there was wanting that delicacy and refinement of touch and finish which can make a home the most convenient, comfortable, and attractive place in the world. Withal there was a waste of food and other materials which was sad. When freedom came, the slaves were almost as well fitted to begin life anew as the master, except in the matter of book-learning and ownership of property. The slave owner and his sons had mastered no special industry. They unconsciously had imbibed the feeling that manual labour was not the proper thing for them. On the other hand, the slaves, in many cases, had mastered some handicraft, and none were ashamed, and few unwilling, to labour.

Ever since I was old enough to think for myself, I have held an idea about slavery. Despite the cruel wrongs inflicted on us, I believe Black people gained nearly as much from slavery as white people did. The harmful effects of slavery were not confined to Black people. Life on our own plantation made this clear. The whole system of slavery was designed to make labor seem like a mark of degradation and inferiority. As a result, both races on the plantation generally tried to avoid labor. The slave system on our plantation largely robbed white people of their spirit of self-reliance and self-help. My old master had many sons and daughters. But as far as I know, not one of them ever mastered a trade or a specialized line of productive work. The girls were not taught to cook, sew, or take care of the house. All of this work was left to the slaves. The slaves, of course, had little personal interest in life on the plantation. Their lack of knowledge kept them from learning to do things in the most advanced and thorough way. As a result of the system, fences were in disrepair, and gates hung half off their hinges. Doors creaked, windowpanes were missing, and fallen plaster was not replaced. Weeds grew in the yard. As a rule, there was food for whites and Blacks. But the house and the dining table lacked the delicate, refined touches that can make a home convenient, comfortable, and attractive. There was also a sad amount of wasted food and other materials. When freedom came, the slaves were almost as well prepared as the master to start life anew. The exceptions were book learning and ownership of property. The slave owner and his sons had mastered no specialized line of work. Without realizing it, they had absorbed the belief that manual labor was not proper for them. The slaves, on the other hand, had in many cases mastered a craft. None were ashamed to work, and few were unwilling to do so.

Finally the war closed, and the day of freedom came. It was a momentous and eventful day to all upon our plantation. We had been expecting it. Freedom was in the air, and had been for months. Deserting soldiers returning to their homes were to be seen every day. Others who had been discharged, or whose regiments had been paroled, were constantly passing near our place. The “grape-vine telegraph” was kept busy night and day. The news and mutterings of great events were swiftly carried from one plantation to another. In the fear of “Yankee” invasions, the silverware and other valuables were taken from the “big house,” buried in the woods, and guarded by trusted slaves. Woe be to any one who would have attempted to disturb the buried treasure. The slaves would give the Yankee soldiers food, drink, clothing—anything but that which had been specifically intrusted to their care and honour. As the great day drew nearer, there was more singing in the slave quarters than usual. It was bolder, had more ring, and lasted later into the night. Most of the verses of the plantation songs had some reference to freedom. True, they had sung those same verses before, but they had been careful to explain that the “freedom” in these songs referred to the next world, and had no connection with life in this world. Now they gradually threw off the mask, and were not afraid to let it be known that the “freedom” in their songs meant freedom of the body in this world. The night before the eventful day, word was sent to the slave quarters to the effect that something unusual was going to take place at the “big house” the next morning. There was little, if any, sleep that night. All as excitement and expectancy. Early the next morning word was sent to all the slaves, old and young, to gather at the house. In company with my mother, brother, and sister, and a large number of other slaves, I went to the master’s house. All of our master’s family were either standing or seated on the veranda of the house, where they could see what was to take place and hear what was said. There was a feeling of deep interest, or perhaps sadness, on their faces, but not bitterness. As I now recall the impression they made upon me, they did not at the moment seem to be sad because of the loss of property, but rather because of parting with those whom they had reared and who were in many ways very close to them. The most distinct thing that I now recall in connection with the scene was that some man who seemed to be a stranger (a United States officer, I presume) made a little speech and then read a rather long paper—the Emancipation Proclamation, I think. After the reading we were told that we were all free, and could go when and where we pleased. My mother, who was standing by my side, leaned over and kissed her children, while tears of joy ran down her cheeks. She explained to us what it all meant, that this was the day for which she had been so long praying, but fearing that she would never live to see.

At last, the war ended, and the day of freedom came. It was a momentous and eventful day for everyone on our plantation. We had been expecting it. Freedom was in the air, and had been for months. Every day, we saw deserting soldiers returning home. Others who had been discharged, or whose regiments had been paroled, were constantly passing near our place. The “grape-vine telegraph” was busy night and day. News and whispers of great events traveled quickly from one plantation to another. For fear of “Yankee” invasions, the silverware and other valuables were taken from the “big house.” They were buried in the woods and guarded by trusted slaves. Woe to anyone who tried to disturb the buried treasure. The slaves would give the Yankee soldiers food, drink, clothing, anything except what had been specifically entrusted to their care and honor. As the great day drew nearer, there was more singing than usual in the slave quarters. The singing was bolder, rang out more strongly, and lasted later into the night. Most verses of the plantation songs referred in some way to freedom. Of course, the slaves had sung those same verses before. But they had been careful to explain that “freedom” in the songs referred to the next world. It had no connection with life in this world. Now they gradually dropped the mask. They were no longer afraid to let it be known that “freedom” in their songs meant freedom of the body in this world. The night before the eventful day, word was sent to the slave quarters. Something unusual was going to happen at the “big house” the next morning. There was little, if any, sleep that night. All was excitement and anticipation. Early the next morning, word was sent to all the slaves, old and young, to gather at the house. I went to the master’s house with my mother, brother, and sister, and a large number of other slaves. All of our master’s family were standing or sitting on the veranda. From there they could see what would happen and hear what was said. Their faces showed deep interest, or perhaps sadness, but not bitterness. As I now recall the impression they made on me, they did not seem sad about losing property. Rather, they seemed sad to part with people they had raised and who were, in many ways, very close to them. What I remember most clearly is that a man who seemed to be a stranger gave a short speech. I presume he was a United States officer. He then read a rather long document, the Emancipation Proclamation, I think. After the reading, we were told that we were all free. We could go when and where we pleased. My mother, who was standing beside me, leaned over and kissed her children. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks. She explained what it all meant. This was the day she had prayed for so long, though she had feared she would never live to see it.

For some minutes there was great rejoicing, and thanksgiving, and wild scenes of ecstasy. But there was no feeling of bitterness. In fact, there was pity among the slaves for our former owners. The wild rejoicing on the part of the emancipated coloured people lasted but for a brief period, for I noticed that by the time they returned to their cabins there was a change in their feelings. The great responsibility of being free, of having charge of themselves, of having to think and plan for themselves and their children, seemed to take possession of them. It was very much like suddenly turning a youth of ten or twelve years out into the world to provide for himself. In a few hours the great questions with which the Anglo-Saxon race had been grappling for centuries had been thrown upon these people to be solved. These were the questions of a home, a living, the rearing of children, education, citizenship, and the establishment and support of churches. Was it any wonder that within a few hours the wild rejoicing ceased and a feeling of deep gloom seemed to pervade the slave quarters? To some it seemed that, now that they were in actual possession of it, freedom was a more serious thing than they had expected to find it. Some of the slaves were seventy or eighty years old; their best days were gone. They had no strength with which to earn a living in a strange place and among strange people, even if they had been sure where to find a new place of abode. To this class the problem seemed especially hard. Besides, deep down in their hearts there was a strange and peculiar attachment to “old Marster” and “old Missus,” and to their children, which they found it hard to think of breaking off. With these they had spent in some cases nearly a half-century, and it was no light thing to think of parting. Gradually, one by one, stealthily at first, the older slaves began to wander from the slave quarters back to the “big house” to have a whispered conversation with their former owners as to the future.

For several minutes, there was great rejoicing, thanksgiving, and wild excitement. But there was no bitterness. In fact, we who had been enslaved felt pity for our former owners. The wild rejoicing among the newly freed Black people lasted only a short time. I noticed a change in their feelings by the time they returned to their cabins. The great responsibility of freedom seemed to take hold of them. They were now in charge of themselves and had to think and plan for themselves and their children. It was much like suddenly sending a ten or twelve-year-old child into the world to provide for themselves. In a few hours, these people faced questions the Anglo-Saxon race had struggled with for centuries. They had to find homes and make a living. They had to raise and educate children, become citizens, and establish and support churches. Was it any wonder that within a few hours the wild rejoicing stopped? A feeling of deep gloom seemed to spread through the slave quarters. Now that they actually had freedom, some found it more serious than they had expected. Some of the formerly enslaved people were seventy or eighty years old. Their best days were gone. They had no strength to earn a living in a strange place among strange people. This was true even if they had known where to find a new home. For these older people, the problem seemed especially hard. Besides, deep in their hearts, they felt a strange attachment to “old Marster” and “old Missus” and their children. They found it hard to think of breaking those ties. Some had spent nearly half a century with these families, and parting was no small matter. Gradually, one by one, the older people began to wander back from the slave quarters to the “big house.” At first, they went secretly, to whisper with their former owners about the future.