IN
the month of August, 1841, I attended an anti-slavery
convention
in Nantucket, at which it was my happiness to
become
acquainted with FREDERICK DOUGLASS, the writer of
the
following Narrative. He was a stranger to nearly every
member
of that body; but, having recently made his escape from
the
southern prison-house of bondage, and feeling his curiosity
excited
to ascertain the principles and measures of the
abolitionists,—of
whom he had heard a somewhat vague
description
while he was a slave,—he was induced to give his
attendance,
on the occasion alluded to, though at that time a
resident
in New Bedford.
Fortunate,
most fortunate occurrence!—fortunate for the
millions
of his manacled brethren, yet panting for deliverance
from
their awful thraldom!—fortunate for the cause of negro
emancipation,
and of universal liberty!—fortunate for the land
of
his birth, which he has already done so much to save and
bless!—fortunate
for a large circle of friends and acquaintances,
whose
sympathy and affection he has strongly secured by the
many
sufferings he has endured, by his virtuous traits of
character,
by his ever-abiding remembrance of those who are in
bonds,
as being bound with them!—fortunate for the multitudes,
in
various parts of our republic, whose minds he has enlightened
on
the subject of slavery, and who have been melted to tears by
his
pathos, or roused to virtuous indignation by his stirring
eloquence
against the enslavers of men!—fortunate for himself,
as
it at once brought him into the field of public usefulness,
“gave
the world assurance of a MAN,” quickened the slumbering
energies
of his soul, and consecrated him to the great work of
breaking
the rod of the oppressor, and letting the oppressed go
free!
I
shall never forget his first speech at the convention—the
extraordinary
emotion it excited in my own mind—the powerful
impression
it created upon a crowded auditory, completely
taken
by surprise—the applause which followed from the
beginning
to the end of his felicitous remarks. I think I never
hated
slavery so intensely as at that moment; certainly, my
perception
of the enormous outrage which is inflicted by it, on
the
godlike nature of its victims, was rendered far more clear
than
ever. There stood one, in physical proportion and stature
commanding
and exact—in intellect richly endowed—in natural
eloquence
a prodigy—in soul manifestly “created but a little
lower
than the angels”—yet a slave, ay, a fugitive slave,—
trembling
for his safety, hardly daring to believe that on the
American
soil, a single white person could be found who would
befriend
him at all hazards, for the love of God and humanity!
Capable
of high attainments as an intellectual and moral
being—needing
nothing but a comparatively small amount of
cultivation
to make him an ornament to society and a blessing to
his
race—by the law of the land, by the voice of the people, by
the
terms of the slave code, he was only a piece of property, a
beast
of burden, a chattel personal, nevertheless!
A
beloved friend from New Bedford prevailed on Mr.
DOUGLASS
to address the convention. He came forward to the
platform
with a hesitancy and embarrassment, necessarily the
attendants
of a sensitive mind in such a novel position. After
apologizing
for his ignorance, and reminding the audience that
slavery
was a poor school for the human intellect and heart, he
proceeded
to narrate some of the facts in his own history as a
slave,
and in the course of his speech gave utterance to manynoble thoughts and
thrilling reflections. As soon as he had taken
his
seat, filled with hope and admiration, I rose, and declared
that
PATRICK HENRY, of revolutionary fame, never made a
speech
more eloquent in the cause of liberty, than the one we
had
just listened to from the lips of that hunted fugitive. So I
believed
at that time—such is my belief now. I reminded the
audience
of the peril which surrounded this self-emancipated
young
man at the North,—even in Massachusetts, on the soil of
the
Pilgrim Fathers, among the descendants of revolutionary
sires;
and I appealed to them, whether they would ever allow
him
to be carried back into slavery,—law or no law,
constitution
or no constitution. The response was unanimous
and
in thunder-tones—“NO!” “Will you succor and protect him
as
a brother-man—a resident of the old Bay State?” “YES!”
shouted
the whole mass, with an energy so startling, that the
ruthless
tyrants south of Mason and Dixon’s line might almost
have
heard the mighty burst of feeling, and recognized it as the
pledge
of an invincible determination, on the part of those who
gave
it, never to betray him that wanders, but to hide the
outcast,
and firmly to abide the consequences.
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