“‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’
“an’ she’d say, —
“‘Matter enough, chile! I’m groanin’ to think o’ my poor children: they don’t know where I be, an’ I don’t know where they be; they looks up at the stars, an’ I looks up at the stars, but I can’t tell where they be.
“‘Now,’ she said, ‘chile, when you’re grown up, you may be sold away from your mother an’ all your ole friends, an’ have great troubles come on ye; an’ when you has these troubles come on ye, ye jes’ go to God, an’ He’ll help ye.’
“An’ says I to her, —
“‘Who is God, anyhow, mammy?’
“An’ says she, —
“‘Why, chile, you jes’ look up dar! It’s Him that made all dem!”
“Well, I didn’t mind much ‘bout God in them days. I grew up pretty lively an’ strong, an’ could row a boat, or ride a horse, or work round, an’ do ‘most anything.
“At last I got sold away to a real hard massa an’ missis. Oh, I tell you, they was hard! ‘Peared like I couldn’t please ‘em, nohow. An’ then I thought o’ what my old mammy told me about God; an’ I thought I’d got into trouble, sure enough, an’ I wanted to find God, an’ I heerd some one tell a story about a man that met God on a threshin’-floor, an’ I thought, ‘Well an’ good, I’ll have a threshin’-floor, too.’ So I went down in the lot, an’ I threshed down a place real hard, an’ I used to go down there every day, an’ pray an’ cry with all my might, a-prayin’ to the Lord to make my massa an’ missis better, but it didn’t seem to do no good; an’ so says I, one day, —
“‘O God, I been a-askin’ ye, an’ askin’ ye, an’ askin’ ye, for all this long time, to make my massa an’ missis better, an’ you don’t do it, an’ what can be the reason? Why, maybe you can’t. Well, I shouldn’t wonder ef you couldn’t. Well, now, I tell you, I’ll make a bargain with you. Ef you’ll help me to git away from my massa an’ missis, I’ll agree to be good; but ef you don’t help me, I really don’t think I can be. Now,’ says I, ‘I want to git away; but the trouble’s jest here: ef I try to git away in the night, I can’t see; an’ ef I try to git away in the daytime, they’ll see me, an’ be after me.’
“Then the Lord said to me, ‘Git up two or three hours afore daylight, an’ start off.’
“An’ says I, ‘Thank ‘ee, Lord! that’s a good thought.’
“So up I got, about three o’clock in the mornin’, an’ I started an’ travelled pretty fast, till, when the sun rose, I was clear away from our place an’ our folks, an’ out o’ sight. An’ then I begun to think I didn’t know nothin’ where to go. So I kneeled down, and says I, —
“‘Well, Lord, you’ve started me out, an’ now please to show me where to go.’
“Then the Lord made a house appear to me, an’ He said to me that I was to walk on till I saw that house, an’ then go in an’ ask the people to take me. An’ I travelled all day, an’ didn’t come to the house till late at night; but when I saw it, sure enough, I went in, an’ I told the folks that the Lord sent me; an’ they was Quakers, an’ real kind they was to me. They jes’ took me in, an’ did for me as kind as ef I’d been one of ‘em; an’ after they’d giv me supper, they took me into a room where there was a great, tall, white bed; an’ they told me to sleep there. Well, honey, I was kind o’ skeered when they left me alone with that great white bed; ‘cause I never had been in a bed in my life. It never came into my mind they could mean me to sleep in it. An’ so I jes’ camped down under it, on the floor, an’ then I slep’ pretty well. In the mornin’, when they came in, they asked me ef I hadn’t been asleep; an’ I said, ‘Yes, I never slep’ better.’ An’ they said, ‘Why, you haven’t been in the bed!’ An’ says I, ‘Laws, you didn’t think o’ such a thing as my sleepin’ in dat ‘ar’ bed, did you? I never heerd o’ such a thing in my life.’
“Well, ye see, honey, I stayed an’ lived with ‘em. An’ now jes’ look here: instead o’ keepin’ my promise an’ bein’ good, as I told the Lord I would, jest as soon as everything got a’goin’ easy, I forgot all about God.
“Pretty well don’t need no help; an’ I gin up prayin.’ I lived there two or three years, an’ then the slaves in New York were all set free, an’ ole massa came to our home to make a visit, an’ he asked me ef I didn’t want to go back an’ see the folks on the ole place. An’ I told him I did. So he said, ef I’d jes’ git into the wagon with him, he’d carry me over. Well, jest as I was goin’ out to git into the wagon, I met God! an’ says I, ‘O God, I didn’t know as you was so great!’ An’ I turned right round an’ come into the house, an’ set down in my room; for ‘t was God all around me. I could feel it burnin’, burnin’, burnin’ all around me, an’ goin’ through me; an’ I saw I was so wicked, it seemed as ef it would burn me up. An’ I said, ‘O somebody, somebody, stand between God an’ me! for it burns me!’ Then, honey, when I said so, I felt as it were somethin’ like an amberill [umbrella] that came between me an’ the light, an’ I felt it was somebody, — somebody that stood between me an’ God; an’ it felt cool, like a shade; an’ says I, ‘Who’s this that stands between me an’ God? Is it old Cato?’ He was a pious old preacher; but then I seemed to see Cato in the light, an’ he was all polluted an’ vile, like me; an’ I said, ‘Is it old Sally?’ an’ then I saw her, an’ she seemed jes’ so. An’ then says I, ‘Who is this?’ An’ then, honey, for a while it was like the sun shinin’ in a pail o’ water, when it moves up an’ down; for I begun to feel ‘t was somebody that loved me; an’ I tried to know him. An’ I said, ‘I know you! I know you! I know you!’ — an’ then I said, ‘I don’t know you! I don’t know you! I don’t know you!’ An’ when I said, ‘I know you, I know you,’ the light came; an’ when I said, ‘I don’t know you, I don’t know you,’ it went, jes’ like the sun in a pail o’ water. An’ finally somethin’ spoke out in me an’ said, ‘This is Jesus!’ An’ I spoke out with all my might, an’ says I, ‘ This is Jesus! Glory be to God!’ An’ then the whole world grew bright, an’ the trees they waved an’ waved in glory, an’ every little bit o’ stone on the ground shone like glass; an’ I shouted an’ said, ‘Praise, praise, praise to the Lord!’ An’ I begun to feel such a love in my soul as I never felt before, — love to all creatures. An’ then, all of a sudden, it stopped, an’ I said, ‘Dar’s de white folks, that have abused you an’ beat you an’ abused your people, — think o’ them!’ But then there came another rush of love through my soul, an’ I cried out loud,—’Lord, Lord, I can love even de white folks!’
“Honey, I jes’ walked round an’ round in a dream. Jesus loved me! I knowed it, — I felt it. Jesus was my Jesus. Jesus would love me always. I didn’t dare tell nobody; ‘t was a great secret. Everything had been got away from me that I ever had; an’ I thought that ef I let white folks know about this, maybe they’d get Him away, — so I said, ‘I’ll keep this close. I won’t let any one know.’”
“But, Sojourner, had you never been told about Jesus Christ?”
“No, honey. I hadn’t heerd no preachin’, — been to no meetin’. Nobody hadn’t told me. I’d kind o’ heerd of Jesus, but thought he was like Gineral Lafayette, or some o’ them. But one night there was a Methodist meetin’ somewhere in our parts, an’ I went; an’ they got up an’ begun for to tell der ‘speriences; an’ de fust one begun to speak. I started, ‘cause he told about Jesus. ‘Why,’ says I to myself, ‘dat man’s found him, too!’ An’ another got up an’ spoke, an I said, ‘He’s found him, too!’ An’ finally I said, ‘Why, they all know him!’ I was so happy! An’ then they sung this hymn”: (Here Sojourner sang, in a strange, cracked voice, but evidently with all her soul and might, mispronouncing the English, but seeming to derive as much elevation and comfort from bad English as from good): —
‘There is a holy city,
A world of light above,
Above the stairs and regions,
Built by the God of Love.
Starry r
egions.
“An Everlasting temple,
And saints arrayed in white
There serve their great Redeemer
And dwell with him in light.
“The meanest child of glory
Outshines the radiant sun;
But who can speak the splendor
Of Jesus on his throne?
“Is this the man of sorrows
Who stood at Pilate’s bar,
Condemned by haughty Herod
And by his men of war?
“He seems a mighty conqueror,
Who spoiled the powers below,
And ransomed many captives
From everlasting woe.
“The hosts of saints around him
Proclaim his work of grace,
The patriarchs and prophets,
And all the godly race,
“Who speak of fiery trials
And tortures on their way;
They came from tribulation
To everlasting day.
“And what shall be my journey,
How long I’ll stay below,
Or what shall be my trials,
Are not for me to know.
“In every day of trouble
I’ll raise my thoughts on high,
I’ll think of that bright temple
And crowns above the sky.”
I put in this whole hymn, because Sojourner, carried away with her own feeling, sang it from beginning to end with a triumphant energy that held the whole circle around her intently listening. She sang with the strong barbaric accent of the native African, and with those indescribable upward turns and those deep gutturals which give such a wild, peculiar power to the negro singing, — but above all, with such an overwhelming energy of personal appropriation that the hymn seemed to be fused in the furnace of her feelings and come out recrystallized as a production of her own.
It is said that Rachel was wont to chant the “Marseillaise” in a manner that made her seem, for the time, the very spirit and impersonation of the gaunt, wild, hungry, avenging mob which rose against aristocratic oppression; and in like manner, Sojourner, singing this hymn, seemed to impersonate the fervor of Ethiopia, wild, savage, hunted of all nations, but burning after God in her tropic heart, and stretching her scarred hands towards the glory to be revealed.
“Well, den ye see, after a while, I thought I’d go back an’ see de folks on de ole place. Well, you know, de law had passed dat de culled folks was all free; an’ my old missis, she had a daughter married about dis time who went to live in Alabama, — an’ what did she do but give her my son, a boy about de age of dis yer, for her to take down to Alabama? When I got back to de ole place, they told me about it, an’ I went right up to see ole missis, an’ says I, —
“‘Missis, have you been an’ sent my son away down to Alabama?’
“‘Yes, I have,’ says she; ‘he’s gone to live with your young missis.’
“‘Oh, Missis,’ says I, ‘how could you do it?’
“‘Poh!’ says she, ‘what a fuss you make about a little nigger! Got more of ’em now than you know what to do with.’
“I tell you, I stretched up. I felt as tall as the world!
“‘Missis,’ says I, ‘I’ll have my son back agin!’
“She laughed.
“‘You will, you nigger? How you goin’ to do it? You ha’n’t got no money.”
“‘No, Missis, — but God has, — an’ you’ll see He’ll help me!’ — an’ I turned round an’ went out.
“Oh, but I was angry to have her speak to me so haughty an’ so scornful, as ef my chile wasn’t worth anything. I said to God, ‘O Lord, render unto her double!’ It was a dreadful prayer, an’ I didn’t know how true it would come.
“Well, I didn’t rightly know which way to turn; but I went to the Lord, an’ I said to Him, ‘O Lord, ef I was as rich as you be, an’ you was as poor as I be, I’d help you, — you know I would; and, oh, do help me!’ An’ I felt sure then that He would.
“Well, I talked with people, an’ they said I must git the case before a grand jury. So I went into the town when they was holdin’ a court, to see ef I could find any grand jury. An’ I stood round the court-house, an’ when they was a-comin’ out, I walked right up to the grandest-lookin’ one I could see, an’ says I to him, —
“‘Sir, be you a grand jury?’
“An’ then he wanted to know why I asked, an’ I told him all about it; an’ he asked me all sorts of questions, an’ finally he says to me, —
“‘I think, ef you pay me ten dollars, that I’d agree to git your son for you.’ An’ says he, pointin’ to a house over the way, ‘You go ‘long an’ tell your story to the folks in that house, an’ I guess they’ll give you the money.’
“Well, I went, an’ I told them, an’ they gave me twenty dollars; an’ then I thought to myself, ‘Ef ten dollars will git him, twenty dollars will git him sartin.’ So I carried it to the man all out, an’ said, —
“‘Take it all, — only be sure an’ git him.’
“Well, finally they got the boy brought back; an’ then they tried to frighten him, an’ to make him say that I wasn’t his mammy, an’ that he didn’t know me; but they couldn’t make it out. They gave him to me, an’ I took him an’ carried him home; an’ when I came to take off his clothes, there was his poor little back all covered with scars an’ hard lumps, where they’d flogged him.
“Well, you see, honey, I told you how I prayed the Lord to render unto her double. Well, it came true; for I was up at ole missis’ house not long after, an’ I heerd ’em readin’ a letter to her how her daughter’s husband had murdered her, — how he’d thrown her down an’ stamped the life out of her, when he was in liquor; an’ my ole missis, she giv a screech, an’ fell flat on the floor. Then says I, ‘O Lord, I didn’t mean all that! You took me up too quick.’
“Well, I went in an’ tended that poor critter all night. She was out of her mind, — a-cryin’, an’ callin’ for her daughter; an’ I held her poor ole head on my arm, an’ watched for her as ef she’d been my babby. An’ I watched by her, an’ took care on her all through her sickness after that, an’ she died in my arms, poor thing!”
“Well, Sojourner, did you always go by this name?”
“No, ‘deed! My name was Isabella; but when I left the house of bondage, I left everything behind. I wa’n’t goin’ to keep nothin’ of Egypt on me, an’ so I went to the Lord an’ asked Him to give me a new name. And the Lord gave me Sojourner, because I was to travel up an’ down the land, showin’ the people their sins, an’ bein’ a sign unto them. Afterwards I told the Lord I wanted another name, ‘cause everybody else had two names; and the Lord gave me Truth, because I was to declare the truth to the people.
“Ye see some ladies have given me a white satin banner,” she said, pulling out of her pocket and unfolding a white banner, printed with many texts, such as, “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof,” and others of like nature. “Well,” she said, “I journeys round to camp-meetins, an’ wherever folks is, an’ I sets up my banner, an’ then I sings, an’ then folks always comes up round me, an’ then I preaches to ‘em. I tells ’em about Jesus, an’ I tells ’em about the sins of this people. A great many always comes to hear me; an’ they’re right good to me, too, an’ say they want to hear me agin.”
We all thought it likely; and as the company left her, they shook hands with her, and thanked her for her very original sermon; and one of the ministers was overheard to say to another, “There’s more of the gospel in that story than in most sermons.”
Sojourner stayed several days with us, a welcome guest. Her conversation was so strong, simple, shrewd, and with such a droll flavoring of humor, that the Professor was wont to say of an evening, “Come, I am dull, can’t you get Sojourner up here to talk a little?” She would come up into the parlor, and sit among pictures and ornaments, in her simple stuff gown, with her heavy travelling
-shoes, the central object of attention both to parents and children, always ready to talk or to sing, and putting into the common flow of conversation the keen edge of some shrewd remark.
“Sojourner, what do you think of Women’s Rights?”
“Well, honey, I’s ben to der meetins, an’ harked a good deal. Dey wanted me for to speak. So I got up. Says I,—’Sisters, I a’n’t clear what you’d be after. Ef women want any rights more ‘n dey’s got, why don’t dey jes’ take ‘em, an’ not be talkin’ about it?’ Some on ’em came round me, an’ asked why I didn’t wear Bloomers. An’ I told ’em I had Bloomers enough when I was in bondage. You see,” she said, “dey used to weave what dey called nigger-cloth, an’ each one of us got jes’ sech a strip, an’ had to wear it width-wise. Them that was short got along pretty well, but as for me” — She gave an indescribably droll glance at her long limbs and then at us, and added,—”Tell you, I had enough of Bloomers in them days.”
Sojourner then proceeded to give her views of the relative capacity of the sexes, in her own way.
“S’pose a man’s mind holds a quart, an’ a woman’s don’t hold but a pint; ef her pint is full, it’s as good as his quart.”
Sojourner was fond of singing an extraordinary lyric, commencing, —
“I’m on my way to Canada,
That cold, but happy land;
The dire effects of Slavery
I can no longer stand.
O righteous Father,
Do look down on me,
And help me on to Canada,
Where colored folks are free!”
The lyric ran on to state, that, when the fugitive crosses the Canada line,
“The Queen comes down unto the shore,
With arms extended wide,
To welcome the poor fugitive
Safe onto Freedom’s side.”
In the truth thus set forth she seemed to have the most simple faith.
But her chief delight was to talk of “glory,” and to sing hymns whose burden was, —
“O glory, glory, glory,
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 515
