Autobiography of a Female Slave. Martha Griffith Browne
will dissent), that the owner of slaves becomes sponsor to God for the sins of his slave; and I cannot, then, think that one who accredits the existence of a just God, a Supreme Ruler, to whom we are all responsible for our deeds and words, would willingly take upon himself the burden of other people's faults and transgressions.
Whilst I stood talking with Lindy, the sound of merry laughter reached our ears.
"Oh, dat is Miss Tildy, now is my time to go in, and see what dey will say to me; maybe while dey is in a good humor, dey will not beat me."
And, thus saying, Lindy hurried away. Sad thoughts were crowding in my mind. Dark misgivings were stirring in my brain. Again I thought of the blessed society, with its humanitarian hope and aim, that dwelt afar off in the north. I longed to ask Miss Bradly more about it. I longed to hear of those holy men, blessed prophets foretelling a millennial era for my poor, down-trodden and despised race. I longed to ask questions of her; but of late she had shunned me; she scarcely spoke to me; and when she did speak, it was with indifference, and a degree of coldness that she had never before assumed.
With these thoughts in my mind I stole along through the yard, until I stood almost directly under the window of the parlor. Something in the tone of a strange voice that reached my ear, riveted my attention. It was a low, manly tone, lute-like, yet swelling on the breeze, and charming the soul! It refreshed my senses like a draught of cooling water. I caught the tone, and could not move from the spot. I was transfixed.
"I do not see why Fred Douglas is not equal to the best man in the land. What constitutes worth of character? What makes the man? What gives elevation to him?" These were the words I first distinctly heard, spoken in a deep, earnest tone, which I have never forgotten. I then heard a silly laugh, which I readily recognized as Miss Jane's, as she answered, "You can't pretend to say that you would be willing for a sister of yours to marry Fred Douglas, accomplished as you consider him?"
"I did not speak of marrying at all; and might I not be an advocate of universal liberty, without believing in amalgamation? Yet, it is a question whether even amalgamation should be forbidden by law. The negro is a different race; but I do not know that they have other than human feelings and emotions. The negroes are, with us, the direct descendants from the great progenitor of the human family, old Adam. They may, when fitted by education, even transcend us in the refinements and graces which adorn civilized character. In loftiness of purpose, in mental culture, in genius, in urbanity, in the exercise of manly virtues, such as fortitude, courage, and philanthropy, where will you show me a man that excels Fred Douglas? And must the mere fact of his tawny complexion exclude him from the pale of that society which he is so eminently fitted to grace? Might I not (if it were made a question) prefer uniting my sister's fate with such a man, even though partially black, to seeing her tied to a low fellow, a wine-bibber, a swearer, a villain, who possessed not one cubit of the stature of true manhood, yet had a complexion white as snow? Ah, Miss, it is not the skin which gives us true value as men and women; 'tis the momentum of mind and the purity of morals, the integrity of purpose and nobility of soul, that make our place in the scale of being. I care not if the skin be black as Erebus or fair and smooth as satin, so the heart and mind be right. I do not deal in externals or care for surfaces."
These words were as the bread of life to me. I could scarcely resist the temptation to leave my hiding-place and look in at the open window, to get sight of the speaker; surely, I thought, he must wear the robes of a prophet. I could not very distinctly hear what Miss Jane said in reply. I could catch many words, such as "nigger" and "marry" "white lady," and other expressions used in an expostulatory voice; but the platitudes which she employed would not have answered the demand of my higher reason. Old perversions and misinterpretations of portions of the Bible, such as the story of Hagar, and the curse pronounced upon Ham, were adduced by Miss Jane and Miss Tildy in a tone of triumph.
"Oh, I sicken over these stories," said the same winning voice. "How long will Christians willingly resist the known truth? How long will they bay at heaven with their cruel blasphemies? For I hold it to be blasphemy when a body of Christians, professing to be followers of Him who came from heaven to earth, and assumed the substance of humanity to teach us a lesson, argue thus. Our Great Model declares that 'He came not to be ministered unto but to minister.' He inculcated practically the lesson of humility in the washing of the disciples' feet; yet, these His modern disciples, the followers of to-day, preach, even from the sacred desk, the right of men to hold their fellow-creatures in bondage through endless generations, to sell them for gold, to beat them, to keep them in a heathenish ignorance; and yet declare that it all has the divine sanction. Verily, oh night of Judaism, thou wast brighter than this our noon-day of Christianity! Black and bitter is the account, oh Church of God, that thou art gathering to thyself! I could pray for a tongue of inspiration, wherewith to denounce this foul crime. I could pray for the power to show to my country the terrible stain she has painted upon the banner of freedom. How dare we, as Americans, boast of this as the home and temple of liberty? Where are the 'inalienable rights' of which our Constitution talks in such trumpet-tones? Does not our Declaration of Independence aver, that all men are born free and equal? Now, do we not make this a practical falsehood? Let the poor slave come up to the tribunal of justice, and ask the wise judge upon the bench to interpret this piece of plain English to him! How would the man of ermine blush at his own quibbles?"
I could tell from the speaker's voice that he had risen from his seat, and I knew, from the sound of footsteps, that he was approaching the window. I crouched down lower and lower, in order to conceal myself from observation, but gazed up to behold one whose noble sentiments and bold expression of them had so entranced me.
Very noble looked he, standing there, with the silver moonlight beaming upon his broad, white brow, and his deep, blue eye uplifted to the star-written skies. His features were calm and classic in their mould, and a mystic light seemed to idealize and spiritualize his face and form. Kneeling down upon the earth, I looked reverently to him, as the children of old looked upon their prophets. He did not perceive me, and even if he had, what should I have been to him—a pale-browed student, whose thought, large and expansive, was filled with the noble, the philanthropic, and the great. Yet, there I crouched in fear and trembling, lest a breath should betray my secret place. But, would not his extended pity have embraced me, even me, a poor, insignificant, uncared-for thing in the great world—one who bore upon her face the impress of the hated nation? Ay, I felt that he would not have condemned me as one devoid of the noble impulse of a heroic humanity. If the African has not heroism, pray where will you find it? Are there, in the high endurance of the heroes of old Sparta, sufferings such as the unchronicled life of many a slave can furnish forth? Martyrs have gone to the stake; but amid the pomp and sounding psaltery of a choir, and above the flame, the fagot and the scaffold, they descried the immortal crown, and even the worldly and sensuous desire of canonization may not have been dead with them. The patriot braves the battle, and dies amid the thickest of the carnage, whilst the jubilant strains of music herald him away. The soldier perishes amid the proud acclaim of his countrymen; but the poor negro dies a martyr, unknown, unsung, and uncheered. Many expire at the whipping-post, with the gleesome shouts of their inhuman tormentors, as their only cheering. Yet few pity us. We are valuable only as property. Our lives are nothing, and our souls—why they scarcely think we have any. In reflecting upon these things, in looking calmly back over my past life, and in reviewing the lives of many who are familiar to me, I have felt that the Lord's forbearance must indeed be great; and when thoughts of revenge have curdled my blood, the prayer of my suffering Saviour: "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do," has flashed through my mind, and I have repelled them as angry and unchristian. Jesus drank the wormwood and the gall; and we, oh, brethren and sisters of the banned race, must "tread the wine-press alone." We must bear firmly upon the burning ploughshare, and pass manfully through the ordeal, for vengeance is His and He will repay.
But there, in the sweet moonlight, as I looked upon this young apostle of reform, a whole troop of thoughts less bitter than these swept over my mind. There were gentle dreamings of a home, a quiet home, in that Northland, where, at least, we are countenanced as human beings. "Who," I asked myself, "is this mysterious Fred Douglas?" A black man he evidently was; but how had I heard him spoken of? As one devoted to self-culture in its noblest form, who ornamented society by his imposing and graceful bearing, who electrified audiences with