I Was Born a Slave: An Anthology of Classic Slave Narratives

INTRODUCTION

NO matter how many years may pass, the stigma of slavery will remain ineradicably imprinted on our country. It was an established fact long before our birth as a nation; it caused our greatest war; it has shadowed every struggle, defeat, and victory of our land. Whites still apologize for it; blacks still resent it; and we are all oppressed by its legacy.

The slaves whose narratives are collected here tried to redeem the burden of that oppression. They transformed themselves from victims into agents of resistance just by telling their stories and protesting the vast injustice that was being done to them. Together, they established a popular literary genre, sold hundreds of thousands of books, and inflamed antislavery sentiment. On the whole, they did not write for posterity—they intended a more immediate impact—yet they produced works of lasting literary and historical value. In doing so, they performed an act of liberation.

I hope this anthology can further this act by making these invaluable documents available once again in a compact, affordable edition. I hope it can liberate these works from their isolation in libraries, used-book stores, and difficult-to-read microfilms. I hope it will prove, once and for all, that the contribution of the slaves to our literature was not only two or three works of uncommon power, but a whole body of inventive, lucid, thoughtful, and passionate works of art.

Between the importation of the first documented shipload of Africans to Virginia in 1619 to the death of the last former slave in the 1970s, some six thousand North American slaves told their own stories in writing or in written inter-views.¹ The majority of these accounts are brief (many were included in periodicals, collections, or other books), but approximately 150 of them were separately published as books or pamphlets ranging from eight pages to two volumes.²

These separately published narratives fall into three relatively distinct periods. From the 1770s to the 1820s, the narrators for the most part conceived of their lives as adventures or spiritual journeys, rather than as illustrations of a pernicious institution; in the titles of their books they called themselves Africans, not slaves.

But beginning in 1824, with the publication of the Life of William Grimes, the Runaway Slave, the reverse became the case. The slave narrative began to show distinct signs of being a cohesive genre that used the autobiographical form to enlighten the world about the facts of slavery. Over the years the narratives also became increasingly novelistic—those published after 1852, the date of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, were far more likely to employ fictionalized dialogue.

The abolitionist slave narratives written during the genre’s heyday—over eighty were published between 1836 and the end of the Civil War in 1865—exhibit a large number of common elements. The typical narrative includes a preface describing it as a plain, unvarnished tale;³ the first sentence begins, I was born . . . ; the plot includes, among other events, a slave auction, the separation of the narrator from his family, an exceptionally strong and proud slave who refuses to be whipped, and at least two escapes, one of them successful; and the narrative concludes with an appendix of some kind.⁴ Yet because the experience and voice of each slave was unique, most of the narratives avoid being formulaic.⁵

After the Civil War, the narratives underwent a fundamental shift in tone. The righteousness and anger of the classic narratives were muted; the plots ended with the narrator adjusting to newfound freedoms, rather than calling for them from exile; and certain aspects of slave life began to seem quaint, in keeping with the imagery of the Sambo tales and minstrel shows then popular. This loss of urgency can be to some degree attributed to a change in the purpose of the narratives: rather than trying to convince their audience of slavery’s evils, the writers attempted to present a balanced picture of their lives for the edification of readers. And thematically, the emphasis on freedom in the classic narratives was replaced by a corresponding emphasis on progress.⁶

Whether before or after emancipation, the slave narrative, with very few exceptions, was written or dictated by a former slave. Especially before the end of the Civil War, these narrators by no means represented a cross section of the slave population. In the history of the institution in the United States, probably between 1 and 2 percent of the slave population managed to escape. The narrators thus tended to be unusually brave, physically strong, resourceful, and imaginative individuals. Most of them hailed from near the Mason-Dixon line. They were often literate; a large number had served as house slaves and had thus acquired some of their masters’ knowledge of the world; most had excellent memories and superb analytic skills. In addition, a disproportionate number of narrators were mulattos, who constituted only between 7 and 12 percent of the slave population—mulattos were not only more likely to be house slaves, but it was easier for them to pass as white when escaping.⁷ The narrators varied in age from their early twenties (Moses Roper) to their mid-seventies ( James Mars). Between 10 and 12 percent of them were women (however, only one self-penned narrative of a female American slave was published before 1865—Harriet Ja-cobs’s 1861 Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl).

More than half of the separately published slave narratives were penned by the slaves themselves,⁸ and many were also self-published. A large number, however, were dictated by the slave to an amanuensis or editor, usually a white man. In many cases, as John W. Blassingame has shown, there is good reason to believe that the amanuensis hewed carefully to the words of the slave.⁹ Sometimes editors added passages based on their own research. And occasionally the slave’s story was more or less rewritten. For example, the Narrative of Henry Box Brown (1849) features the following words on the title page: Written from a Statement of Facts Made by Himself. With remarks upon the remedy for slavery by Charles Stearns;¹⁰ and the Narrative of Sojourner Truth (1850) is a third-person biography written by Olive Gilbert.

The function of the slave narrative, writes Crispin Sartwell, is apparently straightforward: resistance to oppression by speaking the truth¹¹—or, to quote a current catchphrase, speaking truth to power. But this is the central goal, not the only one. Considering the great variety of narratives, one might name seven distinct functions: to document the conditions of slavery; to persuade the reader of its evils; to impart religious inspiration; to affirm the narrator’s per-sonhood; to redefine what it means to be black; to earn money; and, last but not least, to delight or fascinate the reader.

Although in the first half of this century slave narratives were disparaged as biased or fictionalized, in the 1970s scholars began to recognize that they are the richest firsthand source for information about plantation life.¹² The goal of documentation is evident in the titles of certain narratives, such as Slavery in the United States (Charles Ball, 1836), or Slave Life in Georgia (John Brown, 1855); in many of the appendices to the narratives, which draw from a wide variety of documentary material; and in sections of the narratives that spell out in detail the daily regimen of the slave, the method of growing crops, what and when the slaves ate, the different kinds of whips, and so on. Later narratives are especially explicit about this purpose: in his introduction, James Mars says his reason for publishing his narrative (1864) is that many of the people now on the stage of life do not know that slavery ever lived in Connecticut; in his preface, Louis Hughes (1897) asks, To what purpose is the story which follows? and responds, the narrator presents his story . . . in the hope that it may add something of accurate information regarding the character and influence of an institution which for two hundred years dominated the country.¹³

Many narratives constituted political appeals; publishing a narrative could be as political an act as giving an abolitionist speech. Some—for example, Samuel Ringgold Ward’s Autobiography of a Fugitive Negro (1855) or the first half of the Narrative of Henry Box Brown—are little more than abolitionist rhetoric in a narrative frame. Although many a narrative called itself a plain, unvarnished tale, few were without some kind of exhortation or apostrophe on the evils of slavery and its conflict with Christian principles or those upon which this country was founded.

While edifying or inspirational matter was at times linked with political persuasion, the narratives were often fundamentally religious in character. For example, in the quasi-mystical Incidents in the Life of Solomon Bayley (1820) the narrator, a fugitive slave, is tendered divine protection by a circle of birds in the woods; and the Life of John Thompson (1856) concludes with a sermon that allegorizes the narrator’s experiences aboard a whaling vessel. Some of the narratives are explicit about their religious or inspirational aims: near the beginning of his narrative, Bayley exclaims, O! that all people would come to admire him [God] for his goodness and declare his wonders which he doth for the children of men;¹⁴ and in his preface to The Fugitive Blacksmith (1849), James W. C. Pennington declares, Especially have I felt anxious to save professing Christians, and my brethren in the ministry, from falling into a great mistake.

The slave not only identified writing with his newfound freedom, but his book with his newfound selfhood. Austin Steward (1857) goes so far as to say, "The author . . . sends out this history—presenting as it were his own body, with the marks and scars of the tender mercies of slave drivers upon it."¹⁵ Slaves were, of course, property, and therefore did not own themselves; they were also forbidden to read and write. Self-expression, then, was one of the greatest boons of freedom—witness the joy of Harriet Jacobs’s exclamation, "What a comfort it is, to be free to say so! Even if they did not put it into words, many a fugitive slave may have easily concluded that the mere act of writing was the ultimate act of self-affirmation, the ultimate denial of enslavement. As Annette Niemtzow puts it, I write, therefore I am, says the slave autobiographer."¹⁶

The literature of the slavery era is replete with stereotypes of docile, idiotic, or savage Negroes, and one of the functions of slave narratives was to counteract such racist views. The very appearance of a book written by a black man could well confound white readers; as Sartwell notes, "the notion of black authorship, particularly early on, was vexed: it appeared to many people to be a priori impossible; it was as if we had discovered a book by a baboon. Beyond that, slaves needed to redefine themselves against the prevailing notion, broadcast by Southern slaveholders and accepted by many in the North, that slaves were happy darkies gratefully accept[ing] the protection of fatherly masters."¹⁷ The narratives are notable for their complete lack of, as Kenny J. Williams puts it, lush green fields with singing slaves working hard but happily [near] the big plantation house staffed by authoritarian house slaves and beautiful women in billowing gowns.¹⁸

Naturally, the act of publication was usually influenced by pecuniary motives. Moses Grandy (1844) is one of several narrators who made this explicit: Whatever profit may be obtained by the sale of this book . . . will be faithfully employed in redeeming my remaining children and relatives from the dreadful condition of slavery.¹⁹ Another was William Grimes, who said at the end of his narrative, I hope some will buy my books from charity; but I am no beggar. I am now entirely destitute of property; where and how I shall live I don’t know. James Mars concluded the second edition of his narrative with these words: I am now in my seventy-sixth year of life, and as my joints are stiff with old age and hard labor, finding so ready a sale for my pamphlets, I am induced to take this method to get a living, as I can walk about from house to house. The Advertisement to the Second Edition (1838) of Moses Roper’s narrative states that its sale will help the author create a fund which may enable him to qualify himself to instruct the heathen; six years later Roper wrote, by the sale of my book . . . [I] have paid for my education and supported myself.²⁰ As Williams points out, the words written by himself on the title pages of so many slave narratives were used not only to assure the reader of reliability but also make certain that the reader was aware that the author would receive any monetary value from the sale of the book.²¹

The most explicitly denied function, yet the one to which slave narratives most owe their success, was their capacity to delight or fascinate the reader. To delight and instruct were the two standard aims of many eighteenth- and nineteenth-century narrative works, whether fiction or factual. Daniel Defoe, for example, writes in his preface to Moll Flanders (1722), There is in this Story abundance of delightful Incidents, and all of them usefully apply’d. There is an agreeable turn Artfully given them in the relating, that naturally Instructs the Reader either one way or other. The slave narratives, however, very rarely make explicit any such aim to delight the reader, or make any claims for their artfulness. For example, Olaudah Equiano, whose masterful narrative (1789) appears to owe a good deal to Defoe,²² implicitly denies the fact that his narrative abound[s] in great or striking events. He spells out the goals of his narrative as follows: If it affords satisfaction to my numerous friends . . . or in the smallest degree promotes the interests of humanity, the ends for which it was undertaken will be fully attained. In his dedication to Great Britain’s Parliament, he states that the chief design of his narrative is to excite in your august assemblies a sense of compassion for the miseries which the Slave-Trade has entailed on my unfortunate countrymen. However, large portions of his narrative have no relation whatever to the slave trade. Lastly, he admits,

I am sensible I ought to entreat your pardon for addressing to you a work so wholly devoid of literary merit; but, as the production of an unlettered African, who is actuated by the hope of becoming an instrument towards the relief of his suffering countrymen, I trust that such a man, pleading to such a cause, will be acquitted of boldness and presumption.

Of course this kind of statement can be attributed to literary modesty, which is as old as literature itself; it is nevertheless striking how many narratives similarly insist upon their lack of literary merit, and that almost none of them purport to delight as well as instruct.²³ The Narrative of the Life of J. D. Green (1864), for example, clearly aims to amuse the reader with the many farcical incidents it describes; but one would never guess that from the prefatory material, which simply invokes the horrors of slavery.

The method of storytelling in the narratives—often reminiscent of adventure stories or sentimental novels—implies that delighting the audience was indeed one of their goals. While this goal may constitute a primary claim on readers’ attention, however, it may have been seen at the time as detracting from their central goal (speaking truth to power). In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when the conventions used to distinguish fiction from nonfiction were not as clear as those of today, it was important that the narratives deny being even remotely fictional—especially since a number of fictional slave narratives were published in the period as well.²⁴ As William L. Andrews writes:

As a class, no group of American autobiographers has been received with more skepticism and resistance than the ex-slave. . . . Black autobiographers [were forced] to invent devices and strategies that would endow their stories with the appearance of authenticity. . . . The reception of [the black autobiographer’s] narrative as truth depended on the degree to which his artfulness could hide his art.²⁵

But their power to fascinate, delight, and thrill is a primary reason the slave narratives were so widely read. It seems that they were popular among both men and women, young and old, black and white, Northerners, Southerners (as evidenced by the scores of proslavery Confederate romances published to rebut slave narratives),²⁶ British, and, considering the number of translations into a host of languages, practically all literate people. In short, their appeal was universal. An 1855 issue of Putnam’s Monthly explained:

Our English literature has recorded many an example of genius struggling against adversity, . . . yet none of these are so impressive as the case of the solitary slave, in a remote district, surrounded by none but enemies, conceiving the project of his escape, teaching himself to read and write to facilitate it, accomplishing it at last, and subsequently raising himself to a leadership in a great movement in behalf of his brethren.²⁷

Other readers remarked on the narratives’ romantic nature. The transcendentalist minister Theodore Parker, in his oration on The American Scholar, said, there is one portion of our permanent literature . . . which is wholly indigenous and original. . . . I mean the Lives of Fugitive Slaves. . . . All the original romance of Americans is in them, not in the white man’s novel.²⁸ Angelina Grimke wrote to Theodore Dwight Weld, We rejoiced to hear of the fugitives’ escape from bondage, tho’ some of the pleasure was abridged by the caution to keep these things close. . . . Many and many a tale of romantic horror can the slaves tell.²⁹ And Senator Charles Sumner called the fugitive slaves among the heroes of our age. Romance has no storms of more thrilling interest than theirs. Classical antiquity has preserved no examples of adventurous trial more worthy of renown.³⁰ Part trickster, part pilgrim, the fugitive slave—wandering the wilderness and defying death on a quasi-religious quest for freedom—proved indeed to be the ideal American hero. And his narrative was just what readers were thirsting for.

The first slave narrative, that of James Gronniosaw,³¹ went through twelve editions between 1772 and 1800. Olaudah Equiano’s went through thirteen editions between 1789 and 1794—including translations into Dutch, German, and Russian—and twenty-two editions by 1837. The Confessions of Nat Turner (1831) is said to have sold between forty and fifty thousand copies. Charles Ball’s narrative went through at least ten editions in twenty-five years. Moses Roper’s went through eleven editions, selling thirty thousand copies between 1837 and 1844. Frederick Douglass’s 1845 Narrative went through seven U.S. and nine British editions in five years, selling over thirty thousand copies by 1860; his 1855 My Bondage and My Freedom sold five thousand copies in two days, and his 1881 Life and Times went through another dozen editions. William Wells Brown’s went through four American editions between 1847 and 1849, selling ten thousand copies; it sold another eleven thousand in England. The first version of Josiah Henson’s narrative (1849) sold six thousand copies in three years, well before his name became associated with that of Stowe’s Uncle Tom; publishers estimated that one hundred thousand copies of the various versions of his narrative had been sold by the century’s end, and it was translated into Welsh, French, Swedish, Dutch, and German. Solomon Northup’s sold twenty-seven thousand copies in 1853 and 1854. And James Mars’s 1864 narrative went into a thirteenth edition in 1876.³² (For purposes of comparison, here are a few other sales figures from the 1850s: the most popular novel of the nineteenth century, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, sold three hundred thousand copies in its first year; Longfellow’s Hiawatha sold fifty thousand copies in five months; Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter sold between thirteen and fourteen thousand copies in thirteen years; and Walden, Moby Dick, and Leaves of Grass sold fewer than two thousand copies each.)

Judging solely from these numbers, these ten slave narrators (all represented in this anthology) were probably the most popular. (If we consider Up from Slavery [1901] a slave narrative—although only its first chapter discusses slavery³³—Booker T. Washington would share that status.) However, the number of editions is a problematic indication of popularity. In the case of James Mars, for example, this number can probably be attributed more to the persistence of the author in hand-selling what were no doubt small print runs than to a truly widespread popularity. At any rate, a score of other narratives went through between three and five editions each—including those of Venture Smith (1798), Thomas Cooper (1832), James Williams (A Narrative of Events, 1837), James Williams (Narrative of James Williams, 1838),³⁴Elleanor Eldridge (1838), Lunsford Lane (1842), Moses Grandy (1843), Lewis and Milton Clarke (1845-46), Henry Bibb (1849), James W. C. Pennington (1849), Thomas H. Jones (1849), Sojourner Truth (1850), John Brown (1855), Peter Randolph (1855), Austin Steward (1856), and Jacob Stroyer (1879).

In the first half of this century slave narratives fell out of print and, because they were products of African American consciousness, were largely ignored by scholars of American history. But black writers have always appreciated them for their striking originality, complexity, and power. Nineteenth-century works influenced by slave narratives include Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1852); William Wells Brown’s Clotel (1853); Harriet Wilson’s Our Nig (1859); Martin R. Delaney’s Blake (1861); and Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884); the number of twentieth-century works is too large to count, but some of the more prominent titles include James Weldon Johnson’s Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man (1912); Claude McKay’s Home to Harlem (1928); Arna Bontemps’s Black Thunder (1936); Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937); W. E. B. Du Bois’s Dusk of Dawn (1940); Richard Wright’s Black Boy (1945); Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man (1952); James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953); The Autobiography of Malcolm X (1965); Margaret Walker’s Jubilee (1966); Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1970); Ernest Gaines’s The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman (1971); Alex Haley’s Roots (1976); Ishmael Reed’s Flight to Canada (1976); Charles Johnson’s Oxherding Tale (1982); Sherley Anne Williams’s Dessa Rose (1986); Toni Morrison’s Beloved (1987); and Caryl Philips’s Cambridge (1991). Indeed, most if not all postbellum African American prose works are descended from the slave narrative, not only because it was the first distinctive African American literary genre, but because of its potent mixture of storytelling, racial awareness, social critique, and self-reflection—elements characteristic of the greatest black literary achievements.