This is the same man who gave me the roots to prevent my being whipped by Mr. Covey.  He was “a clever soul.”  We used frequently to talk about the fight with Covey, and as often as we did so, he would claim my success as the result of the roots which he gave me.  This superstition is very common among the more ignorant slaves.  A slave seldom dies but that his death is attributed to trickery.

Henry and John were quite intelligent, and in a very little while after I went there, I succeeded in creating in them a strong desire to learn how to read.  This desire soon sprang up in the others also.  They very soon mustered up some old spelling-books, and nothing would do but that I must keep a Sabbath school.  I agreed to do so, and accordingly devoted my Sundays to teaching these my loved fellow-slaves how to read.  Neither of them knew his letters when I went there.  Some of the slaves of the neighboring farms found what was going on, and also availed themselves of this little opportunity to learn to read.  It was understood, among all who came, that there must be as little display about it as possible.  It was necessary to keep our religious masters at St. Michael’s unacquainted with the fact, that, instead of spending the Sabbath in wrestling, boxing, and drinking whisky, we were trying to learn how to read the will of God; for they had much rather see us engaged in those degrading sports, than to see us behaving like intellectual, moral, and accountable beings.  My blood boils as I think of the bloody manner in which Messrs. Wright Fairbanks and Garrison West, both class-leaders, in connection with many others, rushed in upon us with sticks and stones, and broke up our virtuous little Sabbath school, at St. Michael’s—­all calling themselves Christians! humble followers of the Lord Jesus Christ!  But I am again digressing.

I held my Sabbath school at the house of a free colored man, whose name I deem it imprudent to mention; for should it be known, it might embarrass him greatly, though the crime of holding the school was committed ten years ago.  I had at one time over forty scholars, and those of the right sort, ardently desiring to learn.  They were of all ages, though mostly men and women.  I look back to those Sundays with an amount of pleasure not to be expressed.  They were great days to my soul.  The work of instructing my dear fellow-slaves was the sweetest engagement with which I was ever blessed.  We loved each other, and to leave them at the close of the Sabbath was a severe cross indeed.  When I think that these precious souls are to-day shut up in the prison-house of slavery, my feelings overcome me, and I am almost ready to ask, “Does a righteous God govern the universe? and for what does he hold the thunders in his right hand, if not to smite the oppressor, and deliver the spoiled out of the hand of the spoiler?” These dear souls came not to Sabbath school because it was popular to do so, nor did I teach them because