When I Was Six Years Old, My

Southern Women Often Marry A Man Knowing That He Is The Father Of Many Little Slaves. They Do Not Trouble Themselves About It.

Notwithstanding My Grandmother's Long And Faithful Service To Her Owners, Not One Of Her Children Escaped The Auction Block. These God-breathing Machines Are No More, In The Sight Of Their Masters, Than The Cotton They Plant, Or The Horses They Tend.

For Years, My Master Had Done His Utmost To Pollute My Mind With Foul Images, And To Destroy The Pure Principles Inculcated By My Grandmother, And The Good Mistress Of My Childhood

Could You Have Seen That Mother Clinging To Her Child, When They Fastened The Irons Upon His Wrists; Could You Have Heard Her Heart-rending Groans, And Seen Her Bloodshot Eyes Wander Wildly From Face To Face, Vainly Pleading For Mercy; Could You Have Witnessed That Scene As I Saw It, You Would Exclaim, Slavery Is Damnable!

I Was Ordered To Go For Flowers, That My Mistress's House Might Be Decorated For An Evening Party. I Spent The Day Gathering Flowers And Weaving Them Into Festoons, While The Dead Body Of My Father Was Lying Within A Mile Of Me. What Cared My Owners For That? He Was Merely A Piece Of Property. Moreover, They Thought He Had Spoiled His Children, By Teaching Them To Feel That They Were Human Beings. This Was Blasphemous Doctrine For A Slave To Teach; Presumptuous In Him, And Dangerous To The Masters.