I now come to that part of my life during which I planned, and finally
succeeded in making, my escape from slavery. But before narrating any of
the peculiar circumstances, I deem it proper to make known my intention
not to state all the facts connected with the transaction. My reasons
for pursuing this course may be understood from the following: First,
were I to give a minute statement of all the facts, it is not only
possible, but quite probable, that others would thereby be involved in
the most embarrassing difficulties. Secondly, such a statement would
most undoubtedly induce greater vigilance on the part of slaveholders
than has existed heretofore among them; which would, of course, be the
means of guarding a door whereby some dear brother bondman might escape
his galling chains. I deeply regret the necessity that impels me
to suppress any thing of importance connected with my experience in
slavery. It would afford me great pleasure indeed, as well as materially
add to the interest of my narrative, were I at liberty to gratify a
curiosity, which I know exists in the minds of many, by an accurate
statement of all the facts pertaining to my most fortunate escape. But
I must deprive myself of this pleasure, and the curious of the
gratification which such a statement would afford. I would allow myself
to suffer under the greatest imputations which evil-minded men might
suggest, rather than exculpate myself, and thereby run the hazard
of closing the slightest avenue by which a brother slave might clear
himself of the chains and fetters of slavery.

I have never approved of the very public manner in which some of
our western friends have conducted what they call the _underground
railroad,_ but which I think, by their open declarations, has been made
most emphatically the _upper-ground railroad._ I honor those good
men and women for their noble daring, and applaud them for willingly
subjecting themselves to bloody persecution, by openly avowing their
participation in the escape of slaves. I, however, can see very little
good resulting from such a course, either to themselves or the slaves
escaping; while, upon the other hand, I see and feel assured that those
open declarations are a positive evil to the slaves remaining, who
are seeking to escape. They do nothing towards enlightening the slave,
whilst they do much towards enlightening the master. They stimulate him
to greater watchfulness, and enhance his power to capture his slave. We
owe something to the slave south of the line as well as to those north
of it; and in aiding the latter on their way to freedom, we should be
careful to do nothing which would be likely to hinder the former from
escaping from slavery. I would keep the merciless slaveholder profoundly
ignorant of the means of flight adopted by the slave. I would leave him
to imagine himself surrounded by myriads of invisible tormentors, ever
ready to snatch from his infernal grasp his trembling prey. Let him be
left to feel his way in the dark; let darkness commensurate with his
crime hover over him; and let him feel that at every step he takes,
in pursuit of the flying bondman, he is running the frightful risk of
having his hot brains dashed out by an invisible agency. Let us render
the tyrant no aid; let us not hold the light by which he can trace the
footprints of our flying brother. But enough of this. I will now proceed
to the statement of those facts, connected with my escape, for which
I am alone responsible, and for which no one can be made to suffer but
myself.

In the early part of the year 1838, I became quite restless. I could see
no reason why I should, at the end of each week, pour the reward of my
toil into the purse of my master. When I carried to him my weekly
wages, he would, after counting the money, look me in the face with a
robber-like fierceness, and ask, "Is this all?" He was satisfied with
nothing less than the last cent. He would, however, when I made him
six dollars, sometimes give me six cents, to encourage me. It had the
opposite effect. I regarded it as a sort of admission of my right to the
whole. The fact that he gave me any part of my wages was proof, to my
mind, that he believed me entitled to the whole of them. I always felt
worse for having received any thing; for I feared that the giving me a
few cents would ease his conscience, and make him feel himself to be a
pretty honorable sort of robber. My discontent grew upon me. I was ever
on the look-out for means of escape; and, finding no direct means, I
determined to try to hire my time, with a view of getting money with
which to make my escape. In the spring of 1838, when Master Thomas came
to Baltimore to purchase his spring goods, I got an opportunity, and
applied to him to allow me to hire my time. He unhesitatingly refused my
request, and told me this was another stratagem by which to escape. He
told me I could go nowhere but that he could get me; and that, in the
event of my running away, he should spare no pains in his efforts to
catch me. He exhorted me to content myself, and be obedient. He told me,
if I would be happy, I must lay out no plans for the future. He said, if
I behaved myself properly, he would take care of me. Indeed, he advised
me to complete thoughtlessness of the future, and taught me to depend
solely upon him for happiness. He seemed to see fully the pressing
necessity of setting aside my intellectual nature, in order to
contentment in slavery. But in spite of him, and even in spite of
myself, I continued to think, and to think about the injustice of my
enslavement, and the means of escape.

About two months after this, I applied to Master Hugh for the privilege
of hiring my time. He was not acquainted with the fact that I had
applied to Master Thomas, and had been refused. He too, at first,
seemed disposed to refuse; but, after some reflection, he granted me the
privilege, and proposed the following terms: I was to be allowed all my
time, make all contracts with those for whom I worked, and find my own
employment; and, in return for this liberty, I was to pay him three
dollars at the end of each week; find myself in calking tools, and in
board and clothing. My board was two dollars and a half per week. This,
with the wear and tear of clothing and calking tools, made my regular
expenses about six dollars per week. This amount I was compelled to make
up, or relinquish the privilege of hiring my time. Rain or shine, work
or no work, at the end of each week the money must be forthcoming, or I
must give up my privilege. This arrangement, it will be perceived, was
decidedly in my master's favor. It relieved him of all need of
looking after me. His money was sure. He received all the benefits
of slaveholding without its evils; while I endured all the evils of a
slave, and suffered all the care and anxiety of a freeman. I found it a
hard bargain. But, hard as it was, I thought it better than the old mode
of getting along. It was a step towards freedom to be allowed to bear
the responsibilities of a freeman, and I was determined to hold on upon
it. I bent myself to the work of making money. I was ready to work
at night as well as day, and by the most untiring perseverance and
industry, I made enough to meet my expenses, and lay up a little money
every week. I went on thus from May till August. Master Hugh then
refused to allow me to hire my time longer. The ground for his refusal
was a failure on my part, one Saturday night, to pay him for my week's
time. This failure was occasioned by my attending a camp meeting
about ten miles from Baltimore. During the week, I had entered into an
engagement with a number of young friends to start from Baltimore to the
camp ground early Saturday evening; and being detained by my employer,
I was unable to get down to Master Hugh's without disappointing the
company. I knew that Master Hugh was in no special need of the money
that night. I therefore decided to go to camp meeting, and upon my
return pay him the three dollars. I staid at the camp meeting one day
longer than I intended when I left. But as soon as I returned, I called
upon him to pay him what he considered his due. I found him very angry;
he could scarce restrain his wrath. He said he had a great mind to give
me a severe whipping. He wished to know how I dared go out of the city
without asking his permission. I told him I hired my time and while
I paid him the price which he asked for it, I did not know that I was
bound to ask him when and where I should go. This reply troubled him;
and, after reflecting a few moments, he turned to me, and said I should
hire my time no longer; that the next thing he should know of, I would
be running away. Upon the same plea, he told me to bring my tools and
clothing home forthwith. I did so; but instead of seeking work, as I had
been accustomed to do previously to hiring my time, I spent the whole
week without the performance of a single stroke of work. I did this in
retaliation. Saturday night, he called upon me as usual for my week's
wages. I told him I had no wages; I had done no work that week. Here
we were upon the point of coming to blows. He raved, and swore his
determination to get hold of me. I did not allow myself a single word;
but was resolved, if he laid the weight of his hand upon me, it should
be blow for blow. He did not strike me, but told me that he would find
me in constant employment in future. I thought the matter over during
the next day, Sunday, and finally resolved upon the third day of
September, as the day upon which I would make a second attempt to
secure my freedom. I now had three weeks during which to prepare for my
journey. Early on Monday morning, before Master Hugh had time to make
any engagement for me, I went out and got employment of Mr. Butler, at
his ship-yard near the drawbridge, upon what is called the City Block,
thus making it unnecessary for him to seek employment for me. At the
end of the week, I brought him between eight and nine dollars. He seemed
very well pleased, and asked why I did not do the same the week before.
He little knew what my plans were. My object in working steadily was to
remove any suspicion he might entertain of my intent to run away; and
in this I succeeded admirably. I suppose he thought I was never better
satisfied with my condition than at the very time during which I was
planning my escape. The second week passed, and again I carried him
my full wages; and so well pleased was he, that he gave me twenty-five
cents, (quite a large sum for a slaveholder to give a slave,) and bade
me to make a good use of it. I told him I would.

Things went on without very smoothly indeed, but within there was
trouble. It is impossible for me to describe my feelings as the time of
my contemplated start drew near. I had a number of warmhearted friends
in Baltimore,--friends that I loved almost as I did my life,--and
the thought of being separated from them forever was painful beyond
expression. It is my opinion that thousands would escape from slavery,
who now remain, but for the strong cords of affection that bind them to
their friends. The thought of leaving my friends was decidedly the most
painful thought with which I had to contend. The love of them was my
tender point, and shook my decision more than all things else. Besides
the pain of separation, the dread and apprehension of a failure exceeded
what I had experienced at my first attempt. The appalling defeat I then
sustained returned to torment me. I felt assured that, if I failed in
this attempt, my case would be a hopeless one--it would seal my fate as a
slave forever. I could not hope to get off with any thing less than the
severest punishment, and being placed beyond the means of escape. It
required no very vivid imagination to depict the most frightful scenes
through which I should have to pass, in case I failed. The wretchedness
of slavery, and the blessedness of freedom, were perpetually before me.
It was life and death with me. But I remained firm, and, according to my
resolution, on the third day of September, 1838, I left my chains, and
succeeded in reaching New York without the slightest interruption of any
kind. How I did so,--what means I adopted,--what direction I travelled,
and by what mode of conveyance,--I must leave unexplained, for the
reasons before mentioned.

I have been frequently asked how I felt when I found myself in a
free State. I have never been able to answer the question with any
satisfaction to myself. It was a moment of the highest excitement I ever
experienced. I suppose I felt as one may imagine the unarmed mariner to
feel when he is rescued by a friendly man-of-war from the pursuit of a
pirate. In writing to a dear friend, immediately after my arrival at New
York, I said I felt like one who had escaped a den of hungry lions. This
state of mind, however, very soon subsided; and I was again seized with
a feeling of great insecurity and loneliness. I was yet liable to be
taken back, and subjected to all the tortures of slavery. This in
itself was enough to damp the ardor of my enthusiasm. But the loneliness
overcame me. There I was in the midst of thousands, and yet a perfect
stranger; without home and without friends, in the midst of thousands
of my own brethren--children of a common Father, and yet I dared not to
unfold to any one of them my sad condition. I was afraid to speak to any
one for fear of speaking to the wrong one, and thereby falling into the
hands of money-loving kidnappers, whose business it was to lie in wait
for the panting fugitive, as the ferocious beasts of the forest lie
in wait for their prey. The motto which I adopted when I started from
slavery was this--"Trust no man!" I saw in every white man an enemy, and
in almost every colored man cause for distrust. It was a most painful
situation; and, to understand it, one must needs experience it, or
imagine himself in similar circumstances. Let him be a fugitive slave
in a strange land--a land given up to be the hunting-ground for
slaveholders--whose inhabitants are legalized kidnappers--where he is
every moment subjected to the terrible liability of being seized upon by
his fellowmen, as the hideous crocodile seizes upon his prey!--I say, let
him place himself in my situation--without home or friends--without money
or credit--wanting shelter, and no one to give it--wanting bread, and no
money to buy it,--and at the same time let him feel that he is pursued by
merciless men-hunters, and in total darkness as to what to do, where to
go, or where to stay,--perfectly helpless both as to the means of defence
and means of escape,--in the midst of plenty, yet suffering the terrible
gnawings of hunger,--in the midst of houses, yet having no home,--among
fellow-men, yet feeling as if in the midst of wild beasts, whose
greediness to swallow up the trembling and half-famished fugitive is
only equalled by that with which the monsters of the deep swallow up the
helpless fish upon which they subsist,--I say, let him be placed in this
most trying situation,--the situation in which I was placed,--then, and
not till then, will he fully appreciate the hardships of, and know how
to sympathize with, the toil-worn and whip-scarred fugitive slave.

Thank Heaven, I remained but a short time in this distressed situation.
I was relieved from it by the humane hand of _Mr. David Ruggles_, whose
vigilance, kindness, and perseverance, I shall never forget. I am
glad of an opportunity to express, as far as words can, the love and
gratitude I bear him. Mr. Ruggles is now afflicted with blindness, and
is himself in need of the same kind offices which he was once so forward
in the performance of toward others. I had been in New York but a few
days, when Mr. Ruggles sought me out, and very kindly took me to his
boarding-house at the corner of Church and Lespenard Streets. Mr.
Ruggles was then very deeply engaged in the memorable _Darg_ case, as
well as attending to a number of other fugitive slaves, devising ways
and means for their successful escape; and, though watched and hemmed in
on almost every side, he seemed to be more than a match for his enemies.

Very soon after I went to Mr. Ruggles, he wished to know of me where
I wanted to go; as he deemed it unsafe for me to remain in New York. I
told him I was a calker, and should like to go where I could get work.
I thought of going to Canada; but he decided against it, and in favor of
my going to New Bedford, thinking I should be able to get work there at
my trade. At this time, Anna,* my intended wife, came on; for I wrote
to her immediately after my arrival at New York, (notwithstanding
my homeless, houseless, and helpless condition,) informing her of my
successful flight, and wishing her to come on forthwith. In a few days
after her arrival, Mr. Ruggles called in the Rev. J. W. C. Pennington,
who, in the presence of Mr. Ruggles, Mrs. Michaels, and two or three
others, performed the marriage ceremony, and gave us a certificate, of
which the following is an exact copy:--

"This may certify, that I joined together in holy matrimony Frederick
Johnson** and Anna Murray, as man and wife, in the presence of Mr. David
Ruggles and Mrs. Michaels.

"JAMES W. C. PENNINGTON "_New York, Sept. 15, 1838_"

*She was free.

**I had changed my name from Frederick _Bailey_ to that of
_Johnson_.

Upon receiving this certificate, and a five-dollar bill from Mr.
Ruggles, I shouldered one part of our baggage, and Anna took up
the other, and we set out forthwith to take passage on board of the
steamboat John W. Richmond for Newport, on our way to New Bedford. Mr.
Ruggles gave me a letter to a Mr. Shaw in Newport, and told me, in case
my money did not serve me to New Bedford, to stop in Newport and obtain
further assistance; but upon our arrival at Newport, we were so anxious
to get to a place of safety, that, notwithstanding we lacked the
necessary money to pay our fare, we decided to take seats in the stage,
and promise to pay when we got to New Bedford. We were encouraged to do
this by two excellent gentlemen, residents of New Bedford, whose names I
afterward ascertained to be Joseph Ricketson and William C. Taber.
They seemed at once to understand our circumstances, and gave us
such assurance of their friendliness as put us fully at ease in their
presence.

It was good indeed to meet with such friends, at such a time. Upon
reaching New Bedford, we were directed to the house of Mr. Nathan
Johnson, by whom we were kindly received, and hospitably provided
for. Both Mr. and Mrs. Johnson took a deep and lively interest in
our welfare. They proved themselves quite worthy of the name of
abolitionists. When the stage-driver found us unable to pay our fare, he
held on upon our baggage as security for the debt. I had but to mention
the fact to Mr. Johnson, and he forthwith advanced the money.

We now began to feel a degree of safety, and to prepare ourselves for
the duties and responsibilities of a life of freedom. On the morning
after our arrival at New Bedford, while at the breakfast-table, the
question arose as to what name I should be called by. The name given me
by my mother was, "Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey." I, however,
had dispensed with the two middle names long before I left Maryland so
that I was generally known by the name of "Frederick Bailey." I started
from Baltimore bearing the name of "Stanley." When I got to New York, I
again changed my name to "Frederick Johnson," and thought that would
be the last change. But when I got to New Bedford, I found it necessary
again to change my name. The reason of this necessity was, that there
were so many Johnsons in New Bedford, it was already quite difficult to
distinguish between them. I gave Mr. Johnson the privilege of
choosing me a name, but told him he must not take from me the name of
"Frederick." I must hold on to that, to preserve a sense of my identity.
Mr. Johnson had just been reading the "Lady of the Lake," and at once
suggested that my name be "Douglass." From that time until now I have
been called "Frederick Douglass;" and as I am more widely known by that
name than by either of the others, I shall continue to use it as my own.

I was quite disappointed at the general appearance of things in New
Bedford. The impression which I had received respecting the character
and condition of the people of the north, I found to be singularly
erroneous. I had very strangely supposed, while in slavery, that few of
the comforts, and scarcely any of the luxuries, of life were enjoyed at
the north, compared with what were enjoyed by the slaveholders of the
south. I probably came to this conclusion from the fact that northern
people owned no slaves. I supposed that they were about upon a level
with the non-slaveholding population of the south. I knew _they_ were
exceedingly poor, and I had been accustomed to regard their poverty as
the necessary consequence of their being non-slaveholders. I had somehow
imbibed the opinion that, in the absence of slaves, there could be no
wealth, and very little refinement. And upon coming to the north, I
expected to meet with a rough, hard-handed, and uncultivated population,
living in the most Spartan-like simplicity, knowing nothing of the
ease, luxury, pomp, and grandeur of southern slaveholders. Such being my
conjectures, any one acquainted with the appearance of New Bedford may
very readily infer how palpably I must have seen my mistake.

In the afternoon of the day when I reached New Bedford, I visited the
wharves, to take a view of the shipping. Here I found myself surrounded
with the strongest proofs of wealth. Lying at the wharves, and riding in
the stream, I saw many ships of the finest model, in the best order, and
of the largest size. Upon the right and left, I was walled in by granite
warehouses of the widest dimensions, stowed to their utmost capacity
with the necessaries and comforts of life. Added to this, almost every
body seemed to be at work, but noiselessly so, compared with what I had
been accustomed to in Baltimore. There were no loud songs heard from
those engaged in loading and unloading ships. I heard no deep oaths or
horrid curses on the laborer. I saw no whipping of men; but all seemed
to go smoothly on. Every man appeared to understand his work, and went
at it with a sober, yet cheerful earnestness, which betokened the deep
interest which he felt in what he was doing, as well as a sense of his
own dignity as a man. To me this looked exceedingly strange. From the
wharves I strolled around and over the town, gazing with wonder
and admiration at the splendid churches, beautiful dwellings, and
finely-cultivated gardens; evincing an amount of wealth, comfort, taste,
and refinement, such as I had never seen in any part of slaveholding
Maryland.

Every thing looked clean, new, and beautiful. I saw few or no
dilapidated houses, with poverty-stricken inmates; no half-naked
children and barefooted women, such as I had been accustomed to see in
Hillsborough, Easton, St. Michael's, and Baltimore. The people looked
more able, stronger, healthier, and happier, than those of Maryland.
I was for once made glad by a view of extreme wealth, without being
saddened by seeing extreme poverty. But the most astonishing as well
as the most interesting thing to me was the condition of the colored
people, a great many of whom, like myself, had escaped thither as a
refuge from the hunters of men. I found many, who had not been seven
years out of their chains, living in finer houses, and evidently
enjoying more of the comforts of life, than the average of slaveholders
in Maryland. I will venture to assert, that my friend Mr. Nathan Johnson
(of whom I can say with a grateful heart, "I was hungry, and he gave me
meat; I was thirsty, and he gave me drink; I was a stranger, and he took
me in") lived in a neater house; dined at a better table; took, paid
for, and read, more newspapers; better understood the moral, religious,
and political character of the nation,--than nine tenths of the
slaveholders in Talbot county Maryland. Yet Mr. Johnson was a working
man. His hands were hardened by toil, and not his alone, but those also
of Mrs. Johnson. I found the colored people much more spirited than
I had supposed they would be. I found among them a determination to
protect each other from the blood-thirsty kidnapper, at all hazards.
Soon after my arrival, I was told of a circumstance which illustrated
their spirit. A colored man and a fugitive slave were on unfriendly
terms. The former was heard to threaten the latter with informing his
master of his whereabouts. Straightway a meeting was called among the
colored people, under the stereotyped notice, "Business of importance!"
The betrayer was invited to attend. The people came at the appointed
hour, and organized the meeting by appointing a very religious old
gentleman as president, who, I believe, made a prayer, after which he
addressed the meeting as follows: "_Friends, we have got him here, and
I would recommend that you young men just take him outside the door,
and kill him!_" With this, a number of them bolted at him; but they were
intercepted by some more timid than themselves, and the betrayer escaped
their vengeance, and has not been seen in New Bedford since. I believe
there have been no more such threats, and should there be hereafter, I
doubt not that death would be the consequence.

I found employment, the third day after my arrival, in stowing a sloop
with a load of oil. It was new, dirty, and hard work for me; but I went
at it with a glad heart and a willing hand. I was now my own master. It
was a happy moment, the rapture of which can be understood only by those
who have been slaves. It was the first work, the reward of which was to
be entirely my own. There was no Master Hugh standing ready, the moment
I earned the money, to rob me of it. I worked that day with a pleasure I
had never before experienced. I was at work for myself and newly-married
wife. It was to me the starting-point of a new existence. When I got
through with that job, I went in pursuit of a job of calking; but such
was the strength of prejudice against color, among the white calkers,
that they refused to work with me, and of course I could get no
employment.*

* I am told that colored persons can now get employment at
calking in New Bedford—a result of anti-slavery effort.

Finding my trade of no immediate benefit, I threw off my calking
habiliments, and prepared myself to do any kind of work I could get to
do. Mr. Johnson kindly let me have his wood-horse and saw, and I very
soon found myself a plenty of work. There was no work too hard--none
too dirty. I was ready to saw wood, shovel coal, carry wood, sweep the
chimney, or roll oil casks,--all of which I did for nearly three years in
New Bedford, before I became known to the anti-slavery world.

In about four months after I went to New Bedford, there came a young man
to me, and inquired if I did not wish to take the "Liberator." I told
him I did; but, just having made my escape from slavery, I remarked that
I was unable to pay for it then. I, however, finally became a subscriber
to it. The paper came, and I read it from week to week with such
feelings as it would be quite idle for me to attempt to describe. The
paper became my meat and my drink. My soul was set all on fire.
Its sympathy for my brethren in bonds--its scathing denunciations of
slaveholders--its faithful exposures of slavery--and its powerful attacks
upon the upholders of the institution--sent a thrill of joy through my
soul, such as I had never felt before!

I had not long been a reader of the "Liberator," before I got a pretty
correct idea of the principles, measures and spirit of the anti-slavery
reform. I took right hold of the cause. I could do but little; but what
I could, I did with a joyful heart, and never felt happier than when
in an anti-slavery meeting. I seldom had much to say at the meetings,
because what I wanted to say was said so much better by others. But,
while attending an anti-slavery convention at Nantucket, on the 11th of
August, 1841, I felt strongly moved to speak, and was at the same time
much urged to do so by Mr. William C. Coffin, a gentleman who had heard
me speak in the colored people's meeting at New Bedford. It was a severe
cross, and I took it up reluctantly. The truth was, I felt myself a
slave, and the idea of speaking to white people weighed me down. I spoke
but a few moments, when I felt a degree of freedom, and said what I
desired with considerable ease. From that time until now, I have been
engaged in pleading the cause of my brethren--with what success, and with
what devotion, I leave those acquainted with my labors to decide.