Step by Step; or Tidy\'s Way to Freedom

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This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE

[I have removed page numbers; all italics are emphasis only.]

Note: I have omitted running heads and have closed contractions,
e.g. "she 's" becoming "she's"; in addition, on page 180, stanza 3,
line 1, I have changed the single quotation mark at the beginning
of the line to a double quotation mark.

STEP BY STEP;

OR

TIDY'S WAY TO FREEDOM.

"Woe to all who grind
Their brethren of a common Father down!
To all who plunder from the immortal mind
Its bright and glorious crown!"
WHITTIER.

[colophon omitted]

PUBLISHED BY THE

AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,

28 CORNHILL, BOSTON.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by
THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.

RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON.

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE
I. INTRODUCTION . . . . . . 5
II. THE BABY . . . . . 13
III. SUNSHINE . . . . . 24
IV. SEVERAL EVENTS . . . . 36
V. A NEW HOME . . . . . 43
VI. BEGINNINGS OF KNOWLEDGE . 50
VII. FRANCES . . . . . 62
VIII. PRAYER . . . . . 75
IX. THE FIRST LESSON . . . . 87
X. LONY'S PETITION . . . . . 95
XI. ROUGH PLACES . . . . . 105
XII. A GREAT UNDERTAKING . . 112
XIII. A LONG JOURNEY . . . . 127
XIV. CRUELTY . . . . . 137
XV. COTTON . . . . . 147
XVI. RESCUE . . . . . 154
XVII. TRUE LIBERTY . . . . 165
XVIII. CROWNING MERCIES . . . 174
---------------
OLD DINAH JOHNSON . . . . .
STEP BY STEP.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

MY DEAR CHILDREN,--All of you who read this little book have doubtless
heard more or less of slavery. You know it is the system by which a
portion of our people hold their fellow-creatures as property, and doom
them to perpetual servitude. It is a hateful and accursed institution,
which God can not look upon but with abhorrence, and which no one
of his children should for a moment tolerate. It is opposed to every
thing Christian and humane, and full of all meanness and cruelty.
It treats a fellow-being, only because his skin is not so fair
as our own, as though he were a dumb animal or a piece of furniture.
It allows him no expression of choice about any thing, and no liberty
of action. It recognizes and employs all the instincts of the lower,
but ignores and tramples down all the faculties of his higher, nature.
Can there be a greater wrong?

It is said by some, in extenuation of this wrong, that the slaves are
well fed and clothed, and are kindly, even affectionately, looked after.
This is true, in some cases,--with the house-servants, particularly,--but,
as a general thing, their food and clothing are coarse and insufficient.
But supposing it was otherwise; supposing they were provided for
with as much liberality as are the working classes at the North,
what is that when put into the balance with all the ills they suffer?
What comfort is it, when a wife is torn from her husband, or a mother
from her children, to know that each is to have enough to eat?
None at all. The most generous provision for the body can not satisfy
the longings of the heart, or compensate for its bereavements.

They suffer, also, a constant dread and fear of change,
which is not the least of their torturing troubles.
A kind owner may be taken away by death, and the new one be harsh
and cruel; or necessity may compel him to sell his slaves,
and thus they may be thrown into most unhappy situations.
So they live with a heavy cloud of sorrow always before them,
which their eyes can not look through or beyond. There is no hope--
no EARTHLY hope--for this poor, oppressed race.

Their minds, too, are starved. No education, not even the least,
is allowed. It is a criminal offense in some of the States to teach
a slave to read. Now, if they could be made to exist without any
consciousness of intellectual capacity, it would not be so bad.
But this is impossible. They think and reason and wonder about
things which they see and hear; and, in many cases, feel an eager
desire to be instructed. This desire can not be gratified,
because it would unfit them for their servile condition;
therefore all teaching is rigidly denied them. The treasures
of knowledge are bolted and barred to their approach, and they are
kept in the utmost darkness and ignorance. Oh, to starve the mind!--
Is it not far worse than to starve the body?

There is yet another process of famishing to which the slaves
are subjected. They are not, as a general thing, taught by their
masters about God, the salvation of Jesus Christ or the way to heaven.
The SOUL is starved. To be sure, they pick up, here and there, a few
crumbs of religious truth, and make the most of their scanty supply.
Many of them truly love the Lord; and his unseen presence and joyful
anticipations of heaven make them submissive to their hardships,
and cheerful and faithful in their duties. But they can not thank
their masters for what religious light and knowledge they get.

And who are these that hold their fellow-creatures in such cruel bondage,
starving body, mind, and soul with such indifference and inhumanity?
We blush to tell you. Many of them are of the number of those
who profess to love the Lord their God with all the heart,
and their neighbor as themselves. Can it be possible that God's own
children can participate in such a wickedness; can buy and sell,
beat and kill, their fellow-creatures? Can those who have humbly
repented of sin, and by faith accepted of the salvation of Jesus Christ,
turn from his holy cross to abuse others who are redeemed by the same
precious blood, and are heirs to the same glorious immortality?
CAN such be Christians?

And, children, you probably all understand that slavery is the sole
cause of the sad war which is now ravaging our beloved country;
and Christian people are praying, not only that the war may cease,
but that the sin which has caused it may cease also. We believe
that God is overruling all things to bring about this happy result,
and before this little story shall meet your eyes, there may be no
more slaves within our borders. Still we shall not have written it
in vain, if it help you to realize, more clearly than you have done,
the sufferings and degradation to which this unfortunate class have
been subjected, and to labor with zeal in the work which will then
devolve upon us of educating and elevating them.

My story is not one of UNUSUAL interest. Thousands and ten of
thousands equally affecting might be told, and many far more romantic
and thrilling. What a day will that be, when the recorded history
of every slave-life shall be read before an assembled universe!
What a long catalogue of martyrs and heroes will then be revealed!
What complicated tales of wrongs and woes! What crowns and palms
of victory will then be awarded! What treasures of wrath heaped up
against the day of wrath will then be poured in fiery indignation
upon deserving heads! Truly, then, will come to pass the saying
of the Lord Jesus, "The first shall be last and the last first."

Then, too, will appear most gloriously the loving kindness and
tender mercy of God, who loves to stoop to the poor and humble,
and to care for those who are friendless and alone. It seems as if
our Heavenly Father took special delight in revealing the truths
of salvation to this untutored people, in a mysterious way leading
them into gospel light and liberty; so that though men take pains
to keep them in ignorance, multitudes of them give evidence of piety,
and find consolation for their miseries in the sweet love of God.

It is the dealings of God in guiding one of these to a knowledge
of himself, that I wish to relate to you in the following chapters.

CHAPTER II.

THE BABY.

IN a snug corner of a meager slave-cabin, on a low cot,
lies a little babe asleep. A scarlet honeysuckle of wild
and luxuriant growth shades the uncurtained and unsashed window;
and the humming-birds, flitting among its brilliant blossoms,
murmur a constant, gentle lullaby for the infant sleeper.
See, its skin is not so dark but that we may clearly trace the blue
veins underlying it; the lips, half parted, are lovely as a rosebud;
and the soft, silky curls are dewy as the flowers on this June morning.
A dimpled arm and one naked foot have escaped from the gay
patch-work quilt, which some fond hand has closely tucked
about the little form; and the breath comes and goes quickly,
as if the folded eyes were feasting on visions of beauty and delight.
Dear little one!

"We should see the spirits ringing
Round thee, were the clouds away;
'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing
In the silent-seeming clay."

Though that child-heart beats beneath a despised skin, though it
has its resting-place in a hovel, the angels may be there.
Their loving, pitying natures shrink not from poverty, but stoop
with heavenly sympathy to the mean abodes of suffering and misery.

A soft step steals in through the half-opened door, across the room,
and a fervent kiss is laid on the little velvet cheek.

Who is the intruder? Ah, who cares to watch and smile over
a sleeping infant, save its mother? Here, in this rude cabin,
is a mother's heart,--tender with its holy affections, and all aglow
with delight, as she gazes on the beautiful vision before her.

We must call the mother Annie. She had but one name, for she was a slave.
Like the horse or the dog, she must have some appellation by which,
as an individual, she might be designated; a sort of appendage
on which to hang, as it were, the commands, threats, and severities
that from time to time might be administered; but farther
than that, for her own personal uses, why did she need a name?
She was not a person, only a thing,--a piece of property belonging
to the Carroll estate.

But for all that, she was a woman and a mother. God had sealed her such,
and who could obliterate his impress, or rob her of the crown
he had placed about her head,--a crown of thorns though it were?
Her heart was as full of all sweet motherly instincts as if she
had been born in a more favored condition; and the swarthy
complexion of her child made it no less dear or lovely in her sight;
while a consciousness of its degradation and sad future served only
to deepen and intensify her love. She knew what her child was born
to suffer; but affection thrust far away the evil day, that she
might not lose the happiness of the present. The babe was hers,--
her own,--and for long years yet would be her joy and comfort.

Annie had other children, but they were wild, romping boys, grown out
of their babyhood, and so very naturally left to run and take care
of themselves. She had not ceased to love them, however, and would
have manifested it more, but for the idol, the little girl baby,
which had now for nearly a year nestled in her arms, and completely
possessed her heart. When they were hungry, they came like
chickens about her cabin-door, and being mistress of the kitchen,
she always had plenty of good, substantial crumbs for them;
and when they were sick, she nursed them with pitying care;
but this was about all the attention they received.

The baby engrossed every leisure moment she could command.
Many times a day she would pause in her work to caress it. She would
seat it upon the floor, amid a perfect bed of honeysuckle blossoms,
and bring the bright orange gourds that grew around the door
for its amusement. Sometimes a broken toy or a shining trinket,
which she had picked up in the house, or a smooth pebble from the yard,
would be added to the treasures of the little one. Then she would
come with food, the soft-boiled rice, or the sweet corn gruel,
she knew so well how to prepare; and often, often she would steal in,
as now, out of pure fondness, to watch its peaceful slumbers.

"Named the pickaninny yet?" asked the master one day, as he passed
the cabin, and carelessly looked in upon the mother and child
amusing themselves within. "'Tis time you did; 'most time to turn
her off now, you see."

"Oh, Massa, don't say dat word," answered the woman, imploringly.
"'Pears I couldn't b'ar to turn her off yet,--couldn't live
without her, no ways. Reckon I'll call her Tidy; dat ar's my
sister's name, and she's got dat same sweet look 'bout de eyes,--
don't you think so, Massa? Poor Tidy! she's"--and Annie stopped,
and a deep sigh, instead of words, filled up the sentence, and tears
dropped down upon the baby's forehead. Memory traveled back to that
dreadful night when this only sister had been dragged from her bed,
chained with a slave-gang, and driven off to the dreaded South,
never more to be heard from.

WE talk of the "sunny South;"--to the slave, the South is cold, dark,
and cheerless; the land of untold horrors, the grave of hope and joy.

"'Pears as if my poor old mudder," said Annie, brushing away
the tears, "never got up right smart after Tidy went away.
She'd had six children sold from her afore, and she set
stores by her and me, 'cause we was girls, and we was all she
had left, too. Tidy was pooty as a flower; and dat's just
what your fadder, Massa Carroll, sold her for. My poor mudder--
how she cried and took on! but then she grew more settled like.
She said she'd gi'n her up for de good Lord to take care on.
She said, if he could take care of de posies in de woods, he certain
sure would look after her, and so she left off groaning like;
but she's never got over that sad look in her face. 'Oh,' says she
to me, says she, 'Annie, do call dat leetle cretur's name Tidy,--
mebbe 'twill make my poor, sore heart heal up;' and so I will."

"So I would, Annie; yes, so I would," said the Master soothingly.
"So I would, if 'twill be any comfort to poor old Marcia,--clever old
soul she is. She was my mammy, and I was always fond of her. She has
trotted me on her knee, and toted me about on her back, many an hour.
I must go down to the quarters this very day, and see if she has
things comfortable. She's getting old, and we must do well by her
in her old age. And you, Annie, you mustn't mind those other things.
We mustn't borrow trouble. And we can't help it, you know;
and we mustn't cry and fret for what we can't help. What's the use?
It don't do any good, you see, and only makes a bad matter worse.
Must take things as they come, in this world of ours, Annie;"
and the Master thought thus to assuage the tide of bitter recollection
in the breast of his down-trodden bond-woman, and divert her mind
from the painful future before her and her darling child. In vain.
The tears still fell over the brow of the baby, flowing from the deep
fountain of sorrow and tenderness that springs forth only from
a mother's heart.

"Oh, Massa," she ventured timidly to say amid her sobs, "please don't
never part baby and me."

"Be a good girl, Annie," said he, "and mind your work,
and don't be borrowing trouble. We'll take good care of you.
You've got a nice baby, that's a fact,--the smartest little thing
on the whole plantation; see how well you can raise her now."

The fond heart of the trembling mother leaped back again to its
happiness at the praise bestowed upon her baby; and taking up
the little blossom, she laid it with pride upon her bosom, murmuring,
"Years of good times we'll have, sweety, afore sich dark days come,--
mebbe they'll never come to you and me."

Alas, vain hope! Scarcely a single year had passed, when one
day she came to the cot to look at the little sleeper, and lo,
her treasure was gone! The master had found it convenient,
in making a sale of some field hands, to THROW IN this infant,
by way of closing a satisfactory bargain.

None can tell, but those who have gone through the trying experience,
how hard it is for a mother to part with her child when God calls it
away by death. But oh, how much harder it must be to have a babe
torn away from the maternal arms by the stern hand of oppression,
and flung out on the cruel tide of selfishness and passion!
Let us weep, dear children, for the poor slave mothers who have
to endure such wrongs.

I will not undertake to describe the distress of this poor
woman when the knowledge of her loss burst upon her.
It was as when the tall tree is shivered by the lightning's blast.
Her strong frame shook and trembled beneath the shock; her eye
rolled and burned in tearless anguish, and her voice failed her
in the intensity of her grief. For hours she was unable to move.
Alone, uncomforted, she lay upon the earth, crushed beneath the weight
of this unexpected calamity.

"Leave her alone," said the master, "and let her grieve it out.
The cat will mew when her kittens are taken away. She'll get
over it before long, and come up again all right."

"Ye mus' b'ar it, chile," said Annie's poor, old mother,
drawing from her own experience the only comfort which could be
of any avail. "De bressed Lord will help ye; nobody else can.
I's so sorry for ye, honey; but yer poor, old mudder can't do noffin.
'Tis de yoke de Heavenly Massa puts on yer neck, and ye can't
take it off nohow till he ondoes it hissef wid his own hand.
Ye mus' b'ar it, and say, De will ob de bressed Lord be done."

But, trying as this separation was, it proved to be the first
link in that chain of loving-kindnesses by which this little
slave-child was to be drawn towards God. Do you remember this
verse in the Bible: "I have loved thee with an everlasting love;
therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee"?

CHAPTER III.

SUNSHINE.

IF ever there was a sunshiny corner of slavery, it was that into
which a kind Providence dropped this little, helpless babe,
now but a little more than two years old.

It was a pleasant day in early spring when Colonel Lee alighted from
his gig before the family mansion at Rosevale, and laid the child,
as a present, at the feet of his daughter Matilda.

Miss Matilda Lee was about thirty years of age,--
as active and thrifty a little woman as could be found any
where within the domains of this cruel system of oppression.
Slavery is like a two-edged knife, cutting both ways. It not only
destroys the black, but demoralizes and ruins the white race.
Those who hold slaves are usually indolent, proud, and inefficient.
They think it a disgrace to work by the side of the negro,
and therefore will allow things to be left in a very careless,
untidy way, rather than put forth their energy to alter or improve them.
And as it is impossible for slaves, untaught and degraded as they are,
to give a neat and thrifty appearance to their homes, we, who have
been brought up at the North, accustomed to work ourselves,
assisted by well-trained domestics, can scarcely realize
the many discomforts often to be experienced in Southern houses.
But Miss Lee was unusually energetic and helpful, desirous of having
every thing about her neat and tasteful, and not afraid to do
something towards it with her own hands.

Being the eldest daughter, the entire charge of the family had
devolved upon her since the death of her mother, which had occurred
about ten years before. Within this time, her brothers and sisters
had been married, and now she and her father were all that were left
at the old homestead.

Their servants, too, had dwindled away. Some had been given to the sons
and daughters when they left the parental roof; some had died,
and others had been sold to pay debts and furnish the means of living.
Old Rosa, the cook, Nancy, the waiting-maid, and Methuselah,
the ancient gardener, were all the house-servants that remained.
So they lived in a very quiet and frugal way; and Miss Matilda's
activities, not being entirely engrossed with family cares,
found employment in the nurture of flowers and pets.

The grounds in front of the old-fashioned mansion had been laid out
originally in very elaborate style; and, though of late years they had been
greatly neglected, they still retained traces of their former splendor.
The rose-vines on the inside of the enclosure had grown over the low,
brick wall, to meet and mingle with the trees and bushes outside,
till together they formed a solid and luxuriant mass of verdure.
White and crimson roses shone amid the dark, glossy foliage
of the mountain-laurel, which held up with sturdy stem its own
rich clusters of fluted cups, that seemed to assert equality with
the queen of flowers, and would not be eclipsed by the fragrant
loveliness of their beautiful dependents. The borders of box,
which had once been trimmed and trained into fanciful points and
tufts and convolutions of verdure, had grown into misshapen clumps;
and the white, pebbly walks no longer sparkled in the sunlight.

Still Miss Matilda, by the aid of Methuselah, in appearance almost
as ancient as we may suppose his namesake to have been, found great
pleasure in cultivating her flower-beds; and every year, her crocuses
and hyacinths, crown-imperials and tulips, pinks, lilies, and roses,
none the less beautiful because they are so commonly enjoyed,
gave a cheerful aspect to the place.

Her numerous pets made the house equally bright and pleasant.
There was Sir Walter Raleigh, the dog, and Mrs. Felina, the great,
splendid, Maltese mother of three beautiful blue kittens; Jack and Gill,
the gentle, soft-toned Java sparrows; and Ruby, the unwearying
canary singer, always in loud and uninterpretable conversation with
San Rosa, the mocking-bird. The birds hung in the broad, deep window
of the sitting-room, in the shade of the jasmine and honeysuckle
vines that embowered it and filled the air with delicious perfume.
The dog and cat, when not inclined to active enjoyments,
were accommodated with comfortable beds in the adjoining apartment,
which was the sleeping-room of their mistress.

The new household pet became an occupant of this same room.

"Laws, now, Miss Tilda, ye a'n't gwine to put de chile in ther wid
all de dogs and cats, now. 'Pears ye might have company enough o'
nights widout takin' in a cryin' baby. She'll cry sure widout
her mammy, and what ye gwine to do thin?" and old Rosa stoutly
protested against the arrangement.

"Never mind, Aunt Rosa, don't worry now; I'll manage to take
good care of the little creature. I know what you're after,--
you want her yourself."

"Ho, ho ho! Laws, now, Miss Tilda, you dun know noffing 'bout babies;
takes an old mammy like me to fotch 'em up. Come here, child;
what's yer name?"

The frightened little one, whose tongue had not yet learned to utter
many words, made no attempt to answer, but stood timidly looking
from one to another of the surrounding group.

"She ha'n't got no name, 'ta'n't likely," suggested Nance.

"We must christen her, then," said Miss Lee.

"Carroll called her Tidy," remarked the old gentleman, entering the room
at that moment.

"DAT'S a name of 'spectability," said Rosa, with a satisfied air.
"'Tis my 'pinion chillen should allus have 'spectable names,
else they're 'posed on in dis yer world. Nudd's Tidy, now, dere's a
spec'men for yer. Never was no more 'complished 'fectioner dan she.
She knowed how to cook all de earth, she did. Hi! couldn't she
barbecue a heifer, or brile a cock's comb, jest as 'spertly as
Miss Tilda here broiders a ruffle. Right smart cretur she wor.
And so YE'RE a gwine to be, honey,--your old mammy sees it in de
tips ob yer fingers;" and Rosa caught up the child, and well-nigh
smothered it with all sorts of maternal fondnesses.

"Now Nance," continued the old negress, turning with an air
of authority to the tall, loose-jointed, reed-like maid,
"Now Nance, ye mind yer doin's in dese yer premises.
Don't ye go for to kick de young un round like as ef she cost
noffin'. Ef ye do, look out;" and she shook her turbaned head,
and doubled her fist in very threatening manner before the girl.
"Now we've got a baby in dis yer house, we'll see how de tings
is gwine for to go."

A baby in the Lee mansion did indeed inaugurate a new order
of things in the family. So young a servant they had not had for
many a day on the estate; and Rosa felt at once the responsibility
of her position, and played the mother to her heart's content.
All the care of the child's education seemed from that moment
to devolve upon her, notwithstanding Miss Lee's repeated assertions
that SHE designed to bring up the little one after her own heart,
and that Tidy should never wait upon any one but herself.

Between them both, Tidy had things pretty much her own way.
Such an infant of course could not be expected to comprehend the fact
that she was a slave, and born to be ruled over, and trodden under foot.
Like any other little one, she enjoyed existence, and was as happy
as could be all the day long. Every thing around her,--the chickens
and turkeys in the yard, the flowers in the garden, the kittens
and birds in the sitting-room, and the goodies in the kitchen,--
added to her pleasure. She frisked and gamboled about the house
and grounds as free and joyous as the squirrels in the woods,
and without a thought or suspicion that any thing but happiness
was in store for her. She not only slept at night in the room
of her mistress, but when the daily meals were served, the child,
seated on a low bench beside Miss Lee, was fed from her own dish.
So that, in respect to her animal nature, she fared as well as any
child need to; but this was all. Not a word of instruction of any
kind did she receive.

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