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 it was reputable to be thus engaged. Every moment they spent
in that school, they were liable to be taken up, and given thirty-nine
lashes. They came because they wished to learn. Their minds had
been starved by their cruel masters. They had been shut up in mental
darkness. I taught them, because it was the delight of my soul to be
doing something that looked like bettering the condition of my race. I
kept up my school nearly the whole year I lived with Mr. Freeland; and,
beside my Sabbath school, I devoted three evenings in the week, during
the winter, to teaching the slaves at home. And I have the happiness to
know, that several of those who came to Sabbath school learned how to
read; and that one, at least, is now free through my agency.
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