Chapter 34

EXPERIENCES AMONG FREEDMEN.

I was told by General Armstrong, commander of the post in Elizabeth City, that twenty-five thousand inhabitants had been supplied with food, and that more whites than blacks had called for rations. There were six thousand freedmen in this district. Twenty-six hundred of their children were in schools; and thirteen hundred were half or entire orphans, that drew rations. They had had no civil court here since March 20th, and no justice was shown to freedmen. There was as much complaint here as elsewhere about their unwillingness to work; but the general said it was only because they got no pay. A few plantations were rented here by Northerners; but they made no complaint for want of hands, and had more applications for work than they could furnish.

General Armstrong secured a carriage, May 18th, to take his wife and myself to the Downey School, a few miles distant, to see what a noble work the two Stewart sisters were there doing. He took us to a large farm of eight hundred and six acres, rented by a Northern man by the name of Jackson, who said he had worked it three years, and had taken it for two years longer. He had no difficulty in keeping good help. "All these people want is fair and kind treatment" he said, "to make good and faithful hands the year around. I can not employ all who come for work. I have seen them leave weeping over their disappointment."

Near this place was the school conducted by the two sisters, Emily and Jennie Stewart, of South Hill, Steuben County, New York. They had one hundred and eighty-five scholars, and were doing a grand work among the white people in that community. Two young men were converted through their instrumentality, and were exerting a powerful influence over the white people. They were attending the school, to which a number of white families sent their children. It widely differs from all others I have visited In the South. These earnest Christian girls were emphatically teaching a school of Christ on week-days as well as on the Sabbath. The two young men referred to had the ministry in view, and were very earnest in their exhortations. I addressed the school, and conversed with those young white men, who seemed in a very tender frame of mind. These dear sisters urged me to spend a week with them; and General Armstrong kindly offered to send his conveyance for me at the close of the week, or whenever I might fix the time. But as my supplies were out, I wished to hasten back to Washington.

During the day's ride we passed the place of a large Sabbath school, which was first opened by a soldier, W. Badger, Jun., a faithful laborer in this work. It had flourished ever since.

We visited a number of plantations with which the general was unacquainted. He hailed a passer-by to inquire the distance to the Old Brick Church. "O, you're smash up to it," he said. I looked up to see it, when he continued, "'T ain't but two miles ahead." The general thought it was three miles, at least, before we reached the old colonial church, built one hundred and twenty-five years ago, out of brick brought from England.

We passed through, a forest of young pines that had been rented three years to colored people in five and ten acre lots. They were to receive one-fourth of all they raised, and pay the remainder as rent. Said the general, as we came opposite a ten-acre lot where a man, his wife, and daughter were all hard at work grubbing. "That man will hardly get a meager subsistence from one-fourth of that land." And he inquired of the man if he expected to get his living off the fourth of that lot.

"I reckon so," was the answer. "After we gets the crop in my wife and gal can tend it, and I'll get work by the day while its growin'."

Sunday, May 20th, was a pleasant Sabbath. I attended a large meeting, and listened to a very interesting discourse by a freedman. At the close he earnestly exhorted his hearers to purity of life in their new freedom. He wanted to see all filthy habits left behind with bondage. "Do not let us take with us," he said, "any habit of drinking--not even using tobacco. Let us search ourselves, and see if we are worshiping God with clean hearts and mouths."

Opportunity being offered, I made a few remarks from II Chronicles, xv:12, "And they entered into covenant to seek the Lord God of their fathers with all their heart and with all their soul." After meeting, minister and people gathered around me to shake my hands, until they were lame a number of days. Said one, "Da's took de bridle off our heads, an' let us loose to serve God." Near the place was the Zion Methodist Church, that had been used occasionally for _auction sales of slaves_. There were thirty acres here, purchased by colored people, laid out in two-acre lots. Most of them had built little cabins, but others were working out by the day to earn means to pay for their lots before they built.

In the evening I visited a school of twenty-five adults, who could not attend during the day. A number of them read for me very intelligibly. James Wright did not know his letters at Christmas, but could now read fluently. He was sixty years of age. Robert Bell, aged fifty, who did not know his letters in March, could now read in the second reader.

Captain Flagg and wife invited me to take another ride out in the country where colored people had rented land.

On our way we met five carts laden with F. F. V.'s. The captain inquired of one man how far it was to Providence Church. "Sir," he answered, "you are slap-jam on to it; only a mile and a half, sure." As usual we went twice the distance; the captain said he always calculated a Virginia mile to be double the length of ours. This church had been built one hundred years before with brick brought from England. We called on six families. Said one woman, "I tried hard to serve God forty years ago, but mighty idle; Massa's lash so sharp, 'peared like we poor creturs never rest till we drop in our graves."

We visited Ex-Governor Henry A. Wise's plantation of five hundred acres, with fifty cabins in the negro quarters. This was confiscated. There were many of his former slaves here, aged and helpless, and a successful school was taught in his dwelling-house. Here were seventeen schools under the charge of the American Missionary Association, which were taught by eleven lady teachers and six gentlemen. H. C. Perry was the superintendent of schools in Norfolk District.

The Taylor plantation was the next which we visited. It contained seventeen thousand acres, seven hundred acres of which were worked, and ready for renting to freedmen. In Captain Flagg's district there were three thousand four hundred and eighty-six freed children attending day-school, and five hundred and one scholars in the night-schools. One hundred and ninety-two of these were over sixteen years of age. The above included seven counties: Norfolk, Princess Ann, Nansemond, Isle of Wight, Southampton, Accomack, and Northampton, the last two on the eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay. It is well to note the _income_ of these confiscated plantations, that had, up to May 25, 1866, been returned to original owners. There had been paid over by Captain Flagg to government toward liquidating the war debt, thirteen thousand dollars. All of this was the avails of negro help on the government farms, except the Wise and Taylor plantations, that were still occupied for the benefit of the aged, sick, blind, and crippled men, women, and orphans.

I returned to Washington, where I found a request that I should take fifteen colored orphans to our Home in Michigan.

The commissioners having charge of money sent here by all the Free States, for sanitary purposes, proposed to place five hundred dollars in my hands for the two orphan asylums in Michigan, out of the nine hundred dollars that came from our State. This was to be equally divided between Detroit Orphan Asylum and the one in Raisin Institute, known at that time as Haviland Home. A majority of the commissioners objected to its being placed in the hands of a woman, to select goods to be purchased at auction rates. Consequently, a young man was sent with me to see that wise selections were made for the little homeless waifs for whom the relief was designed. Being somewhat acquainted, with my work, he said he was ashamed of the vote of the board, in distrusting my ability to select goods for the little children of the asylums, when I had been at this work all my life, and constantly during three years past. But I told him I was thankful to get the five hundred dollars, and could waive their notions of woman's inability very comfortably. He assented to all the selections I made, and I arranged to return home with the fifteen orphans and forty laborers, who wished to go to Cleveland, Ohio, where their friends had gone for work and reported to them favorably.

I found in these people a strong attachment to their own color; hence the unwillingness for a few to go a great distance without a prospect of others to follow. It was a heavy pressure of persecution that could drive them from their old Southern homes to Washington for protection, and the heavy pressure of want staring them in the face that could induce them to leave for Northern States to find work. Fifteen thousand were then huddled in and about Washington. Hundreds could not get work at ten cents a day, besides rations. General O. O. Howard gave transportation for many car-loads to go to the States of New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and other free States. But the freedmen could not be persuaded to go into the former slave States, after having left them. General Howard said Northern humanitarians ought to have a share in this Christian enterprise of furnishing work for the able-bodied and assisting to care for these indigent children; and he urged me to bring as many as practicable.

Mrs. Ricks knew of fifteen who wished to follow their friends that had gone to Ohio, and said she would assist me in going through to Adrian, where Joseph McKenzie had spoken to me for eight or ten strong men for his brickyard. If they had families he said he would help them in building houses on his own land, and if both were suited he would eventually sell lots to them.

While calling on F. C. Beaman, member of Congress, and wife, I was urged to rest three or four days, at least, before leaving for home. But I told them I must hasten home to rest. Transportation was secured for fifty-five adults and fifteen orphans. Before we reached Altoona I found rations had not been provided for adults, and that we must purchase at least seventy-five loaves of bread at that town. As the train halted a few minutes, I left for the bakery, but found that it had been removed a block further. We went on a run, and secured the bread; and I sent the men running with it, so as to reach the cars before they should start. But I was left behind, with three young men who refused to desert me. The men with the bread reached the cars just as they were beginning to move. Mrs. Ricks being with them, I was easy as to their condition. I found I had better keep as quiet as possible, as I was threatened with an attack of dysentery. But transportation, with my official papers, had all gone on, and there was not a soul in Altoona that I ever knew. Yet I was not discouraged, but took the three young men with me to the railroad superintendent's office, and told the superintendent I had come on a queer errand, and told my short story. "And now I solicit the favor of a pass for myself and these three young men. But you do not know whether I have given you a truthful representation, for I have not so much as a scratch of a pen with me to prove it."

Said he: "You say your name is Laura S. Haviland. Did you not secure a pass to Chicago and return, three years ago, of Mr. Campbell, at Adrian?"

"I did," was my reply, "as I was going South with sanitary supplies."

"I thought I had seen you before," he said. "I was his chief clerk, and made out those passes for you; and I will give you a pass, as you request. Would you like to telegraph to the lady assistant?"

"I suppose," I said, "she will stop over at Pittsburg until I overtake them; but it would be a favor if their baggage could be properly rechecked at Pittsburg to stop over one train at Cleveland, as a portion of the adults are to stop there."

"I will telegraph the freight agent to take special care in rechecking their baggage, and request the operators to telegraph to railroad authorities at Cleveland that this car-load of blacks in charge of Mrs. Ricks are to wait over one train for you."

I told him if that could be done without fail it would be a great favor, as I was sick, and Mrs. Ricks would have time to send these colored people up town to their friends. He telegraphed all these directions, and also requested the ticket agent to meet me with the passes.

While waiting for the train I was furnished with a sofa by the kind matron who kept the ladies' waiting-room. I was met at the Pittsburg depot with passes, and conducted to the waiting-room for a few moments, when the young man came to assist me on the right car. By this time my fever ran high, but higher still on reaching Cleveland, and finding that all had gone on to Adrian. Here tickets to Adrian were waiting for me.

I met brother J. Berry at Adrian depot, who informed me that all were cared for. I left all with the Lord and the good people of Adrian, who knew nothing of my trying experiences.

My children were urgent to send for the doctor at once. I insisted on my water treatment, but promised to comply with their request if not materially better in twelve hours. A few days of rest and quiet restored my health.

Although Adrian was a little alarmed at this new experience of army stampedes, yet in due time places were found for all to work, and eventually many of them became owners of their own homes.

The children of soldiers and other homeless waifs, needed attention, and I found more than a dozen in our Orphans' Home without a shirt for a change. But sister Annie Berry donated forty yards of heavy sheeting, and within two weeks we had a hundred yards made up into substantial garments for these little homeless ones. My health being still too poor for hard work, I spent a few weeks with my son, Joseph B. Haviland, at Acme, Grand Traverse County.

On my return home, I found our commission had concluded to close the asylum work, and expend its means in supporting schools in the South. They had sold the West Hall, and it had been removed to Tecumseh, and they were about to sell the team and other property. I now stated the motive I had when I gave the deed with a proviso, and said that removing the building was a wrong step for our commission to take, in view of the proviso. I met the commission in Detroit, and laid before them my object, and my desire to make it a State asylum, for the children of soldiers and all others who were in our county poor-houses, that were mere nurseries for the prison. I had inquired of superintendents of penitentiaries, how many of the convicts had been left orphans in childhood; and the average in Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and our Michigan State Prison was more than three-fourths. Emma A. Hall, matron of the female prisoners in the Detroit house of correction, informed me that every girl and woman under her care had been left an orphan in childhood. In view of this record, and of there being a greater number of that class since the war than ever before, I had felt the necessity for this asylum.

George Duffield, D. D., the president of our commission, replied: "We know not but this check is of the Lord, for we are finding it hard work to secure homes for the forty children now in the Home who are under ten years of age." And he moved that a month be allowed me to make satisfactory arrangements according to my design. While I was endeavoring to secure ten-dollar subscriptions to effect this result, J. R. Shipherd, secretary, of the Western Division American Missionary Association, sent an agent to purchase the asylum and continue it in its present form. He stated the American Missionary Association could not take it with the proviso, but would pay me two hundred and fifty dollars of the five hundred dollars I had agreed to deduct out of the two thousand dollars purchase money, if I should relinquish the proviso. I feared the result, thinking the enterprise might be only an experiment, and might close at some future period, leaving these children a public burden. But J. R. Shipherd pledged his word that no child of whom the American Missionary Association should take control should become a public burden, and would further agree to expend on the building and grounds, at least from three thousand to five thousand dollars within a year and a half or two years at longest.

From the confidence I had in the association I yielded, though reluctantly. The agent desired me to take charge of the asylum as matron, ten days or two weeks, as Mr. Shipherd could secure a matron from Vicksburg, Mississippi, in that time. I agreed to do this free of charge. Mrs. Edgerton, whom se engaged as matron, arrived in four weeks.

It was now late in October, and my Winter cough began to trouble me. This the Southern Winters had melted away during three Winters past, and I concluded to resign my agency in our State Freedmen's Aid Commission and work under the auspices of American Missionary Association of the middle division. I secured transportation from General O. O. Howard to Atlanta, Georgia, and again left my dear ones at home for that field. I spent a few days with my dear friends, Levi and Catharine Coffin, at Cincinnati. As the secretary, brother Cravath, was on an investigating tour in the South, Levi Coffin proposed that I should go to work over the river, in Covington and Newport, Kentucky, as there were a few thousand freedmen congregated in those towns. He introduced me to a lieutenant, in whose charge the freedmen's department was left, who took me to a number of barracks, where the sick and suffering were occupying bunks with a bed sack that had, when possible, been filled with hay, leaves, or husks.

One poor woman had nothing in her sack, and that was all she had for her bed, aside from an old condemned blanket. She was suffering intensely with rheumatism. Her limbs and hands were all drawn out of shape, thus disabling her from dressing herself. I purchased some hay immediately and had her moved so as to have her bed-sack filled, and then furnished her with a warm quilt. I procured quantity of thick red flannel and made her a long-sleeved garment to reach over her feet, and made it before I slept. The next morning I took it to her and saw it on her. The poor woman could say nothing for weeping, but after commanding her feelings, she said, "This is more than I deserve. All the sufferin' I's had all the year is nothin' compared to the sufferin' of my Jesus for poor me." The colored woman who had the care of her said she never had seen such patience in all her life. The next day I took her another flannel garment, and relieved many others during the month I spent in this field.

Our lieutenant was an excellent man. One day he wished me to go with him to see his old building that he had ordered fitted up for a school for three hundred freed children in that part of his district. But he found that nothing had been done. "Upon my word," he exclaimed, "not a stroke, not a stone, not a window. O, I can't stand this red tape; I just want to leave every other duty and pitch into this house. I know I am too impulsive, but that is the way of an Irishman. I have often thought Peter was an Irishman, he was so impulsive."

I spent the greater portion of New-year's day, 1867, in calling upon twelve families and taking to the sick and aged ones, blankets and clothing. I walked nearly a mile to the ferry, and called at the mission-rooms, where I found the secretary, E, M. Cravath, just returned from his Southern tour. He thought my work was most needed in Memphis, Tennessee. I received from him my commission for that field. I met in his office Rev. A. Scofield and daughter, just driven from Camp Nelson, by returned secessionists. After a very busy New-year's day, I returned to Levi Coffin's for the night, and the next day left for Memphis, which I reached on the 6th, spending two days in Cairo.

In the evening I attended a large colored church, and at the close of the service introduced my work. The meeting, as usual, was very demonstrative. The home assigned me was a Mission Home, with thirteen teachers, Joseph Barnum, formerly of Oberlin, Ohio, being superintendent. It was a rich treat to meet several who had been co-workers in the field of clashing arms and roar of cannonading. But few can realize the strength of the tie that binds those who have labored together in the lion's den. One of the teachers being sick, at the request of the superintendent I temporarily took her place.

On my way to school, one morning, I was conducted to the place where lay twelve dead bodies till the third day after the terrible riot which occurred a few months previously. One of the bodies was half burned. I was shown another corner of the streets where lay six bodies more at the same time. O what horrible scenes were enacted then. My conductor pointed to a charred spot of earth where had stood a cabin in which lay a very sick woman, whose daughter of sixteen years stood in the door pleading with the infuriated mob not to burn their house for her mother was near dying, and it was impossible for her to carry her out. One fiend caught her up on his bayonet and tossed her into the midst of the flames of an adjoining cabin. In a moment her screams of agony were hushed by the crackling flames. Fire was then thrown into the dying woman's cabin, and both mother and daughter perished. Their charred bodies were taken out by their friends and buried with others slaughtered in the riot of May, 1866. In that riot there were forty-six negroes killed, seventy-five wounded, five rapes were committed, ten persons maltreated, and one hundred robbed, and ninety-one houses and cabins burned, besides four churches and twelve school-houses reduced to ashes. These facts were given me by white witnesses as well as colored, and they probably may be found in General Kiddoo's military record, as he was one of the officers with armed soldiers who quelled the terrible riot. I was soon relieved of school duty, and as I received a few boxes of goods, a portion of which were from England, I found constant employment in the ever-varying mission work.

The grandmother of a little girl who had died a few days before was very sick and in great distress of mind when I entered her cabin, she said imploringly, "O missus, do pray for poor me. Can God forgive sich an ole sinner as me? Can I fin' Jesus so quick as poor Mary Jane did afore she died? I knows she went so happy; I prayed all night, but 'pears like so dark; don't see de place o' de candle." I read to her of the readiness of Jesus to forgive, and how he forgave the thief on the cross, because he repented and looked to Jesus in faith even in his last moments. As I knelt by her cot I implored unbounded mercy in the Spirit's teaching this precious soul the way to enter in through the door. I left her more calm. She lingered a few days, but her mind became clear from the shadow of a cloud. She died in the triumphs of faith, leaving, she said, her little lambs with the dear Shepherd, "Dat hunted de lost sheep an' foun' her 'mid de wolves, dat scratch her mightily." The children were taken to the orphanage.

While pursuing this work our lives were daily threatened, and some had fears of another riot. One Union woman on our block told me that she had often spent sleepless nights on our account. She had heard such frequent threats that "Nigger teachers should be cleared out, as well as free niggers," that she expected every day would be our last, and every pistol shot she heard in the night, or the alarm of fire, she listened and looked in the direction of our Mission House. But I told her I did not believe we should have another riot; I believed the God of Daniel was able and willing to protect us, and that in him was my confidence.

"But you don't know these people as I do," she said, "for I have always lived here. I have sometimes thought I would not tell you. And then I made up my mind that I would, so you could be more on your guard; because they threatened, just as they do now, before that awful riot a few months ago."

The teachers who were my room-mates said they had heard of the same threats, but there were soldiers near at hand now, and when the riot broke out there were so few here they had to be called from other points to quell it.

On April 13th I visited the sick and relieved eight families. Then I went over old Fort Pickering and through the freedmen's hospital, containing one hundred and eighty-eight inmates, four of them cripples, and fifteen very old. Of one I inquired how old she was:

"I's goin' on two hundred," she answered. "Massa's book say I's one hundred and eight, an' dat is eight years for another hundred, ain't it? Dey name me Esther Jane. I was sole at sheriff's sale for debt to Massa Sparks. In de ole war Massa George Washington was a mighty kind man. He boarded wid Massa Sparks four or five weeks. He wore short breeches an' knee-buckles an' a cocked hat I kep' his room clar'd up."

She was not as blind as a number who were much younger. But her skin was full of fine as well as deep wrinkles, and of an ashen hue. I gave a little sugar and some crackers to many of them.

I returned to find a colored man who had been directed to me. He had made his escape the night before from his old master, who seemed to have no more idea of his leaving him than if there had been no proclamation of freedom. His wife had been sick a long time, and he stayed to take care of her till she died, then he watched an opportunity to bring his two little children with him. But his master he supposed was also watching, for he soon overtook him with help and took his children away from him, and his bundle of clothes that he was going to put on when he got far enough from the house to feel safe with his children. He said it was his best suit. The shirt and drawers he had on were good, and they constituted his entire wardrobe. I laid out a number of garments, and told him to go into the store-room and select a whole suit that would best fit him. The next thing to be done was to accompany him to Colonel Palmer's office, where he told his own pitiful story, and the colonel asked him if he could take care of his children if he got them.

"If you'll be so good as to help me get them, these hands," (holding them out toward the colonel) "shall take as good care of them as they do of me," and his eyes filled with tears. I left him with the colonel, who told him he would send with him an escort of soldiers the next morning, "and the master will not dare refuse to give up the children on reading the note I shall send him."

A little excitement existed over the murder of Mr. Errickson, a Union man, who fled to Memphis with his family for safety during the war. A few weeks before the present time, he returned to his home in Summerville. He had been home but a few days before he was shot dead in front of a store. His poor wife and two daughters were almost insane over his untimely death. He thought the country was becoming more quiet, and he could risk going quietly to their home. There was a very smart colored woman in town who witnessed his murder. She was at Memphis ostensibly to do a little trading; but her errand was to inquire of the real friends of the colored people which man they had better vote for--Parson Brownlow or the conservative candidate--for governor. The men did not dare to come, for fear they would be mistrusted; and she came to learn from Union men their choice for governor, to take back word, and report at Summerville.

I was one day passing the old barracks of soldiers, then occupied by freedmen. I heard distressing groans, and called to see whence they came. I found an old man of ninety-seven years, called "Uncle Philip," in great bodily distress. "How long have you been suffering like this?" I inquired.

"Only two years," he said.

"Two years must seem a great while."

"O no, it's only a little minute, compared with eternity of rest in glorious mansions Jesus went to prepare for me; for I knows I's got a home thar', missus, I knows it, 'case I's seen it, an' I feels it."

"How long have you felt this evidence?"

"I seen it cl'ar as sunshine when I was ten year ole. My massa was a mighty wicked, swearin', cruel man. An' his overseer was a mighty big wicked black man; his name was Munday. An' all the seventy-five grown han's on the plantation was mighty wicked too. I hear so much swearin' I had a bad ide' of God and Jesus; I reckon'd they's some great men, that sent people to a mighty bad place. One day a Methodis' minister stop to Massa Malachi's for dinner. When he lef' massa call me to bring his hoss to 'im. An' de preacher put his han' on my head an' say, 'Philip is a smart little boy. An' if you'll ask God to make you good he'll do it. Then when you die you'll go to that great, beautiful city up yonder, where it's all light and beautiful. Here little Philip has to go 'round among stubs and stones, barefoot; there he'll walk the golden streets in silver slippers. Here he wears his slip; there he'll be dressed in a beautiful white robe. Here he goes bareheaded; there he'll wear a beautiful crown, all glittering with stars. Wouldn't you like to go to such a beautiful city as that when you die?' 'Yes, sir,' I say. 'Well, ask God to make you good, and that will be your home; for Jesus loves little children.' An' he jump'd on his hoss and rode away, while I stood thar, wonderin' what sort of a man that could be, that knew so much 'bout God and heaven. Now I must fin' God, to ask 'im to make me good; an' f'om this man's 'scription, he must be settin' on some cloud. Day and night I watch for 'im; an' when I looked upon the stars I wondered if these sparklin' stars was what God put in de crowns he put on de heads of all good people an' good chillen.

"One day Aunt Milla, the cook, sent me to pick up an armful of wood for her. While I stood lookin' up to de clouds, huntin' for God, I hear a sweet soft voice say, 'Chile, pray.' I look all 'mong de tree-tops, to see who's thar, an' it say, 'Chile, pray,' again. An' I was sure somebody up in de tree-tops, an' I got scared, an' drop my armful of wood, an' run to Aunt Milla, all out o' bref. 'What ails you, Phil? What's the matter?' she said. 'Somebody's in de tree-tops, an' say, "Chile, pray."' 'Hush, chile,' Aunt Milla said, 'dat's God talkin to you.' 'No 't ain't. I's been huntin' for God a good many days, an' can't fin' im.' 'Honey, you can't see God wid de eyes you sees Aunt Milla. God is a great good spirit dat knows all 'bout what you want, an' what you're thinkin' 'bout. I wish I was a Christian, but I ain't. I's hearn Christians talk, an' I knows dat God's talkin' to you, honey. Now, you go by yourse'f, alone like, an' ask God to make you good, as you say you want to, an' he'll do it, sure.'

"Here was a new thought, dat I could fin' God, an' not see 'im. But I did as Aunt Milla tole me. It 'peared like I must fin' God. My heart ached like, all thro' me, I's so anxious. Only a few days after I was totin' an armful o' plates to the dinin'-room for Aunt Milla. All at once I's so happy I didn't know myse'f. I drop my plates, an' broke I don't know how many. But I didn't stop for plates; I shouted, 'Bless Massa Jesus! Glory! Glory hallelujah to God! I 'a foun' 'im; I knows it's God.' I got hold of my papa and mamma, an' tole 'em to ask God to make 'em good, an' he'd do it; an' took hold of my little mate July, 'bout my age, an' tole 'im he mus' pray, an' I'd pray for 'im. In a few days he got 'ligion too. An' two young white ladies, Massa Malachi's nieces, lived thar', an' learned us to sing the sweet hymn:

"'My Savior, my Almighty Friend, When I begin thy praise, Where shall the growing numbers end, The numbers of thy grace?'

An' I tole July we'd have prayer-meetin's in our cabin of nights, an' de ole folks gathered 'round us, an' our cabin was full. Massa Malachi Murphy was angry 'bout it; sometimes he'd scold, sometimes make fun o' me, an' call me de 'big preacher, Howlin' Phil.' But as all dat didn't put me down, he call me to 'im an' say, 'You shall stop this prayin' an' singin' in your cabin, or I'll whip you to death,' an' he swore I was ruinin' his plantation. My papa an' mamma tried to get me to stop. They said, 'You know Massa Malachi will do jus' as he say.' 'O no, I can't stop prayin' to Jesus, he's so good to poor me. I can't stop prayin', I said. But we did stop our prayer-meetin's in our cabin, but we had our night meetin's in a deep ravine over a quarter of a mile away. Forty or fifty of our fellow slaves would, meet us thar to hear us pray an' sing. At las' massa set de overseer, Munday, to watch us, an' he found us out. He ordered Munday to bring July an' me to 'im afore sun up. When we come in sight of de yard we seen two ropes hangin' to a big tree limb, an' I stop an' look to July, an' to de woods, wid a half a min' to run. But July says, 'We knows we can't stop prayin', an' we knows what we'll take jus' as well firs' as las'.' Then I was 'shamed to think I was firs' in de cause, an' July stronger'n me. An' we went through de gate an' stood afore massa, settin' in de back door in his night shirt. He began to swear we was ruinin' his whole plantation, an' now he was goin' to have us whipped to death. 'Now you see you've got to die or stop prayin'; will you stop this d----d prayin'?' 'O massa, do please let me pray to God, do please.' 'Strip off your slip, tie 'im up thar, Mun, an' give 'im a full round.' It was done accordin' to order; twenty lashes with the bull whip, an' twenty strokes with the paddle. Turning to July, he said, 'Will you stop prayin' or die?' 'Massa, do please let me pray to God,' said July. With an oath, he was bidden to take off his slip, an' tied to the other rope with a rail at the lower end, nearly touching the ground. The paddle was an inch board four inches wide, three or four feet long, whittled at one end for the handle, having six or eight inches bored full of holes, each hole drawing a blister at every stroke. The full round was given to July as ordered, twenty lashes with the bull whip and twenty strokes with the paddle. With an oath he turned again to me, 'Now, have you got enough to stop your praying or will the devil die?' 'O massa, do please let me pray to God, he is so good,' I answered. 'Mun, give 'im another full round,' and twenty lashes with the whip, and twenty strokes with the paddle was again given. Again he queried July, who gave the same reply as before, and the full round was ordered and given again. Then he ordered him to be cut down, swearing that he would whip him to death the next time he heard of his praying. But he swore he'd have the little devil, Phil, whipped to death now, as he was first in this 'devilish' praying. As I expected to die, I prayed all through this terrible ordeal that Jesus would come near to help me endure it, in his name.

"I felt him like he was by my side," continued Uncle Philip, as the tears dropped thick and fast, often stopping a moment to find utterance. "Massa bid July go home an' behave, an' he order' de overseer to give me another round unless I'd promise to stop prayin'. But it 'peared like I felt stronger in de Lo'd, an' I give de same answer, and I can't tell how long I was whipped an' paddled, for when I cum to, I was cut down, and layin' in de blood on de groun'--I fainted away. Massa was lookin' at me thar in his night shirt; I see him as cl'ar as if't was done yesterday. He swore I should never cum in his sight again, or cum inside dat gate, pointing to it. I prayed in my heart for God to give me strength to git up and walk to de quarters, for the pain an' loss of blood made me so weak an' faint. But de good Lo'd was thar, an' I presently got strong enough to get up an' took my slip in han', an' staggered out dat yard, and cum up to July. He stop on de way to see if I was 'live. When we pass de quarters all along, de old men an' women stood at their doors cryin'.

When we got out o' sight of de great house, one ole man an' 'oman called us to 'em an' oiled our backs. Da said we was all cut up to a jelly, an' put soft cloth over de gashes. Our people tried harder'n ever to stop our prayin' an' singin', caze Massa Malachi sure to kill us.

"A few days after massa sent for me, an' I 'spected he'd finish me dis time sure. But I felt Jesus was close by me; I was weak in de body, but strong in de Lo'd. I obeyed, as I stood all trimbly afore 'im. 'Well, howlin' preacher, if you are boun' to preach you shall preach,' an' he swore I should have enough of it. 'Next Sunday, at eleven o'clock you shall preach; I'm going to invite all the white folks an' black people 'round here to cum to hear de big preacher. I'm going to have a pulpit built under that big tree' (pointing to one in the yard two rods from the one the ropes were tied to when we was whipped). 'Now we'll have a big meetin' to hear de big preacher. You understan', do you?' 'Yes, massa,' I say, an' he sent me away. I tol' July what massa said. 'Now we mus' pray to God to sen' a minister, an' pray God to soften massa's heart, to let 'im preach, for you knows Massa Malachi mil do jus' as he says he will, an' God will answer our prayer.' At nights I went to one plantation an' July went to another, an' we tried to git some Christian man or some Christian woman to promise to preach if massa would consent. But not one would promise. They all knew it was just for sport. Sunday morning came with a great parade of hauling boards, an' a pulpit was built."

Uncle Philip said it looked more terrifying to him than would a gallows if built for his own hanging. People gathered from all directions, both white and colored, and filled the whole yard. The hour of eleven brought the master to the door in his arm-chair, with his family Bible in his lap. Taking his watch from his pockets, he called out, "Come on, my big preacher."

"I obeyed the command," said Uncle Philip, "as I stood afore 'im. 'Now we are to hear this howling preacher,' he said, sneeringly, 'ad you can't preach without the Bible, an' I'll hold it wide open, an' you must look right at me when you preach. The time is up; go to your pulpit.' I asked July if he would go up with me and help me sing--

"'My Savior, my Almighty Friend'

Nodding an assent, we went on. It 'peared like I was too weak to go up four or five steps. I trimbled an' sweat all over. But once I was up my strength cum to me, and we sung so loud de people say da hear ev'ry word all over dat great yard. By de time we got to de las' line of third verse de people was cryin' for mercy an' down on dair knees crying, 'Lo'd, what shall I do to be saved? 'Lo'd have mercy on me, a sinner!' 'Be merciful to poor me, or I'm lost.' These cries we hear'n from every side. I never felt happier or bolder in my life, while tears of joy ran down as I faced my ole massa. He slam de door shut, an' da said he jumped between two feather-beds to keep from hearin' de cries of de people. I tell you, honey, de Lo'd made dat hymn my sin-killer on dat blessed day, long, long to be 'membered."

"And did you preach?" I asked.

"Preach, chile; de Lo'd did all de preachin' dat day. We finish' de hymn, an' we went down an' talked an' prayed wid de seekers, an' we staid dar all night, an' afore next mornin' twenty-three was converted an' praisin' God. Massa call for me, an' I 'spected my time cum now anyhow. But I was ready for death or life. I went without fear of any thing. He looked at me as mile as a lamb, an' said, 'Phil, my boy, you may preach, pray, or sing as much as you please, an' go where you please, an' you shall never be hit another lick as long as I live.' I bowed low an' said, 'Thanky, Massa Malachi; God bless you, massa.' I praised God as I turned away from, him who had caused me so much sufferin'.

"But God turned it into a great blessin'. He dismissed his overseer, an' never 'lowed one of his slaves to be punish' after that great day. In one year seventy-three on dat plantation was converted. Two nieces of massa's was 'mong 'em, besides a few other white folks. But Massa Malachi tried to git 'em to give up 'ligion, an' sent 'em to dancin' frolics. An' da come to me for advice as if I was deir brover. I tole em Massa Malachi took keer of 'em, 'caze day was orphans, an' de sin would res' on de uncle dat make 'em go agin deir will, and not on dem. Two years after one of 'em got married an' moved thirty miles away, an' she got leave of massa to let me go an' stay a week or two at a time. At las', poor gal, she died of consumption, and sent for me a month afore she died to stay wid her, an' she often asked me to pray wid her. O how happy she died, in full faith in de 'ligion she foun' on de blessed day massa compel me to preach, little thinkin' he was 'pointin' a meetin' for de Lo'd of hosts instead of little Phil. But my people on other plantations often sent for me to preach, but I never call it preachin', only 'ligious talks. Da would have me help organize Churches all 'roun' thar. In four years we organized seven Churches an' the cause prospered.

"At las' so many persecutions an' sufferin' was goin' on I got disheartened. I began to question whether it wan't me causin' all dis sufferin', an' I stop goin' to prayer-meetin' four months, an' de ministers an' Christian men an' Christian women come to see me an' say, 'Brodder Philip, why don't you come to meetin', as you use' to?' I tole 'em, 'caze I didn't feel like it. Said one man, 'I's feared de devil's got hold of you.' I tole 'im I 'spected he'd had hold o' me a long while, for I felt bad enough to be his work. I tole 'im Massa Malachi made me preach, an' God didn't have nothin' to do wid it, for he knew massa was a wicked man."

These doubts and fears seemed to follow Uncle Philip day and night, until, as, he said, his distress was great. Then, he fell into an insensible, lifeless state, in which he lay fourteen days. Said he:

"My mother dressed me for de grave; but as my limbs did not stiffen, Mada Malachi sent for a doctor who placed a glass before my face, an' moisture gathered on it. He tole 'em it was not entirely cole over de heart, an' da mus'n't bury me until decomposition took place, cuze it might be a trance. An' da kep' me in de kitchen wid Aunt Milla, de cook, to watch me. It 'peared like I's goin' down into a horrible place of awful soun's an' rattlin' of chains; an' I prayed mightily for help, an' Jesus reached down an' took my han' an' lifted me up to a glorious palace so beautiful, an' every thing was light. Steps seemed built out of light, somehow made into sub'sance, I can't 'escribe it. My guide tole me I was wrong to doubt, when God had been so good to me in all my hard trials. He showed me de windows dat let light down to dis earth, an' to de churches I helpt organize. It seemed like bein' led from place to place into a mighty big country. When I seen 'em all dress' in pure white robes an' singin' such splendid music, I look at myself and see how filthy an' ragged I look; I say to my guide, 'I can never go in dat company.' 'Yes you can when Jesus wash you in his blood. All you see was as filthy an' ragged as you. But da is made clean.' An' we crossed over a line like, an' firs' I know I's in de pure white robe too, an' singin' wid all dat great company. O I can't 'escribe, how happy I felt in rangin' wid my guide de fields of light an' sich glorious visions. At las' he said, 'You mus' go back to earth an' teach your people de way to dis glorious home, dat is your home if you be faithful in readin' dis book.' I said, 'I am a slave back thar, an' can't read.' 'But this book you can read,' an' he laid de open book on my outstretched lef' arm; de tip of de golden leaves reach the tip of my fingers, an' the other tip of the leaves touch my head. He took me two or three little steps, an' I thought I was back to earth, an' I ask Aunt Milla for a drink as I was so thirsty. And she said de bucket of water was on de bench, an' my little cup by it.

"When I cum to myse'f I was standin' by de bucket drinkin' out o' my cup. But nobody was in de house but Mina, a little gal 'bout eight year ole, massa bought out of a drove was passin' by de kitchen door, and run to the fiel' shoutin' all de way 'Phil's alive! Phil's alive!' An' all de han's on de plantation cum runnin' to de house, an' my mother caught me firs', 'Praise God, my chile's alive.' De firs' I said, 'I's been wrong to doubt God, I never, never will doubt him any more.' I never can, for I's had a glimpse of hell, and have been in dat beautiful world of light."

I have given Uncle Philip's narrative in his own language as I took it down in my note-book at the time of my interviews with him. His was indeed a green old age; his mind remarkably clear, and his memory retentive. From time to time, as I read a chapter or a psalm, he often referred to certain passages that he had dwelt upon since I had left him. In relating his history be often shed tears; at one time with his elbows resting upon his knees, and face buried in the calico 'kerchief until it was wet. At another time he was just raising himself up from the kneeling position--when I came in. "I's jus' bin prayin' for you," he said. "I did't know as you's so near, but I felt your spirit. It sort o' lifs me up to talk wid you. I prayed dat de good seed you's sowin' 'mong our people may lodge in good groun' an' bring a hundred fol'. De men you talked to on de bridge 'bout swearin' never'll forgit your words. You's doin' more for our poor, ignorant people dan you knows on."

He lived about a year after I left Memphis, Tennessee. I sent him occasionally two or three dollars, through Superintendent Barnum or his wife, who often called to see his wants supplied. The last words he uttered were a few lines of one of his favorite hymns, "Give me wings," and his happy spirit took its flight; having faithfully read the book he said he had always kept in his heart. I was often forcibly impressed while conversing with that aged saint. How manifest is the power of our Wonderful, in his dealing with his followers, just according to their needs. That poor ignorant man could not read the written Word, but God took his own way to lead and instruct him, to fit him for an instrument in his hand of turning many souls to the knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus.

On May 11, 1867, I took the cars for home. Having instructions from the American Missionary Association and transportation, I took fifteen homeless orphans to our asylum in my former school, Raisin Institute. I left this field of arduous toiling, often passing the former residence of John P. and Thomas K. Chester, who had so often threatened my life. Both closed their earthly career by untimely deaths. I reached home on the 14th, praising the God of Daniel for his keeping power in the lion's den.