Behind the Scenes
By Elizabeth Keckley
Behind the Scenes Or, Thirty Years a Slave and Four Years in the White
House is an autobiographical narrative by Elizabeth Keckley. In it she
tells the story of her life as a slave and her time as a seamstress for Mrs.
Lincoln in the White House.
Source: Keckley, E. (1868) Behind
the Scenes London, England: Partridge and Oakey
Preface
I have often been
asked to write my life, as those who know me know that it has been an eventful
one. At last I have acceded to the importunities of my friends, and have
hastily sketched some of the striking incidents that go to make up my history.
My life, so full of romance, may sound like a dream to the matter–of–fact
reader, nevertheless everything I have written is strictly true; much has been
omitted, but nothing has been exaggerated. In writing as I have done, I am well
aware that I have invited criticism; but before the critic judges harshly, let
my explanation be carefully read and weighed. If I have portrayed the dark side
of slavery, I also have painted the bright side. The good that I have said of
human servitude should be thrown into the scales with the evil that I have said
of it. I have kind, true–hearted friends in the South as well as in the North,
and I would not wound those Southern friends by sweeping condemnation, simply
because I was once a slave. They were not so much responsible for the curse
under which I was born, as the God of nature and the fathers who framed the
Constitution for the United States. The law descended to them, and it was but
natural that they should recognize it, since it manifestly was their interest
to do so. And yet a wrong was inflicted upon me; a cruel custom deprived me of
my liberty, and since I was robbed of my dearest right, I would not have been
human had I not rebelled against the robbery. God rules the Universe. I was a
feeble instrument in His hands, and through me and the enslaved millions of my
race, one of the problems was solved that belongs to the great problem of human
destiny; and the solution was developed so gradually that there was no great
convulsion of the harmonies of natural laws. A solemn truth was thrown to the
surface, and what is better still, it was recognized as a truth by those who
give force to moral laws. An act may be wrong, but unless the ruling power
recognizes the wrong, it is useless to hope for a correction of it. Principles
may be right, but they are not established within an hour. The masses are slow
to reason, and each principle, to acquire moral force, must come to us from the
fire of the crucible; the fire may inflict unjust punishment, but then it
purifies and renders stronger the principle, not in itself, but in the eyes of
those who arrogate judgment to themselves. When the war of the Revolution
established the independence of the American colonies, an evil was perpetuated,
slavery was more firmly established; and since the evil had been planted, it
must pass through certain stages before it could be eradicated. In fact, we
give but little thought to the plant of evil until it grows to such monstrous
proportions that it overshadows important interests; then the efforts to
destroy it become earnest. As one of the victims of slavery I drank of the
bitter water; but then, since destiny willed it so, and since I aided in
bringing a solemn truth to the surface as a truth, perhaps I have no right to
complain. Here, as in all things pertaining to life, I can afford to be
charitable.
It may be charged
that I have written too freely on some questions, especially in regard to Mrs.
Lincoln. I do not think so; at least I have been prompted by the purest motive.
Mrs. Lincoln, by her own acts, forced herself into notoriety. She stepped
beyond the formal lines which hedge about a private life, and invited public criticism.
The people have judged her harshly, and no woman was ever more traduced in the
public prints of the country. The people knew nothing of the secret history of
her transactions, therefore they judged her by what was thrown to the surface.
For an act may be wrong judged purely by itself, but when the motive that
prompted the act is understood, it is construed differently. I lay it down as
an axiom, that only that is criminal in the sight of God where crime is
meditated. Mrs. Lincoln may have been imprudent, but since her intentions were
good, she should be judged more kindly than she has been. But the world do not
know what her intentions were; they have only been made acquainted with her
acts without knowing what feeling guided her actions. If the world are to judge
her as I have judged her, they must be introduced to the secret history of her
transactions. The veil of mystery must be drawn aside; the origin of a fact
must be brought to light with the naked fact itself. If I have betrayed
confidence in anything I have published, it has been to place Mrs. Lincoln in a
better light before the world. A breach of trust—if breach it can be called—of
this kind is always excusable. My own character, as well as the character of
Mrs. Lincoln, is at stake, since I have been intimately associated with that
lady in the most eventful periods of her life. I have been her confidante, and
if evil charges are laid at her door, they also must be laid at mine, since I
have been a party to all her movements. To defend myself I must defend the lady
that I have served. The world have judged Mrs. Lincoln by the facts which float
upon the surface, and through her have partially judged me, and the only way to
convince them that wrong was not meditated is to explain the motives that
actuated us. I have written nothing that can place Mrs. Lincoln in a worse
light before the world than the light in which she now stands, therefore the
secret history that I publish can do her no harm. I have excluded everything of
a personal character from her letters; the extracts introduced only refer to
public men, and are such as to throw light upon her unfortunate adventure in
New York. These letters were not written for publication, for which reason they
are all the more valuable; they are the frank overflowings of the heart, the
outcropping of impulse, the key to genuine motives. They prove the motive to
have been pure, and if they shall help to stifle the voice of calumny, I am
content. I do not forget, before the public journals vilified Mrs. Lincoln,
that ladies who moved in the Washington circle in which she moved, freely
canvassed her character among themselves. They gloated over many a tale of
scandal that grew out of gossip in their own circle. If these ladies, could say
everything bad of the wife of the President, why should I not be permitted to
lay her secret history bare, especially when that history plainly shows that
her life, like all lives, has its good side as well as its bad side! None of us
are perfect, for which reason we should heed the voice of charity when it
whispers in our ears, "Do not magnify the imperfections of others."
Had Mrs. Lincoln's acts never become public property, I should not have
published to the world the secret chapters of her life. I am not the special
champion of the widow of our lamented President; the reader of the pages which
follow will discover that I have written with the utmost frankness in regard to
her—have exposed her faults as well as given her credit for honest motives. I
wish the world to judge her as she is, free from the exaggerations of praise or
scandal, since I have been associated with her in so many things that have
provoked hostile criticism; and the judgment that the world may pass upon her,
I flatter myself, will present my own actions in a better light.
Elizabeth Keckley.14 Carroll Place, New York,
March 14, 1868.
Chapter 1: Where I Was Born
My life has been an
eventful one. I was born a slave—was the child of slave parents—therefore I
came upon the earth free in God–like thought, but fettered in action. My
birthplace was Dinwiddie Court–House, in Virginia. My recollections of
childhood are distinct, perhaps for the reason that many stirring incidents are
associated with that period. I am now on the shady side of forty, and as I sit alone
in my room the brain is busy, and a rapidly moving panorama brings scene after
scene before me, some pleasant and others sad; and when I thus greet old
familiar faces, I often find myself wondering if I am not living the past over
again. The visions are so terribly distinct that I almost imagine them to be
real. Hour after hour I sit while the scenes are being shifted; and as I gaze
upon the panorama of the past, I realize how crowded with incidents my life has
been. Every day seems like a romance within itself, and the years grow into
ponderous volumes. As I cannot condense, I must omit many strange passages in
my history. From such a wilderness of events it is difficult to make a
selection, but as I am not writing altogether the history of myself, I will
confine my story to the most important incidents which I believe influenced the
moulding of my character. As I glance over the crowded sea of the past, these
incidents stand forth prominently, the guide–posts of memory. I presume that I
must have been four years old when I first began to remember; at least, I
cannot now recall anything occurring previous to this period. My master, Col.
A. Burwell, was somewhat unsettled in his business affairs, and while I was yet
an infant he made several removals. While living at Hampton Sidney College,
Prince Edward County, Va., Mrs. Burwell gave birth to a daughter, a sweet,
black–eyed baby, my earliest and fondest pet. To take care of this baby was my
first duty. True, I was but a child myself—only four years old—but then I had
been raised in a hardy school—had been taught to rely upon myself, and to
prepare myself to render assistance to others. The lesson was not a bitter one,
for I was too young to indulge in philosophy, and the precepts that I then
treasured and practised I believe developed those principles of character which
have enabled me to triumph over so many difficulties. Notwithstanding all the
wrongs that slavery heaped upon me, I can bless it for one thing—youth's
important lesson of self–reliance. The baby was named Elizabeth, and it was
pleasant to me to be assigned a duty in connection with it, for the discharge
of that duty transferred me from the rude cabin to the household of my master.
My simple attire was a short dress and a little white apron. My old mistress
encouraged me in rocking the cradle, by telling me that if I would watch over
the baby well, keep the flies out of its face, and not let it cry, I should be
its little maid. This was a golden promise, and I required no better inducement
for the faithful performance of my task. I began to rock the cradle most
industriously, when lo! out pitched little pet on the floor. I instantly cried
out, "Oh! the baby is on the floor;" and, not knowing what to do, I
seized the fire–shovel in my perplexity, and was trying to shovel up my tender
charge, when my mistress called to me to let the child alone, and then ordered
that I be taken out and lashed for my carelessness. The blows were not
administered with a light hand, I assure you, and doubtless the severity of the
lashing has made me remember the incident so well. This was the first time I
was punished in this cruel way, but not the last. The black–eyed baby that I
called my pet grew into a self–willed girl, and in after years was the cause of
much trouble to me. I grew strong and healthy, and, notwithstanding I knit
socks and attended to various kinds of work, I was repeatedly told, when even
fourteen years old, that I would never be worth my salt. When I was eight, Mr.
Burwell's family consisted of six sons and four daughters, with a large family
of servants. My mother was kind and forbearing; Mrs. Burwell a hard
task–master; and as mother had so much work to do in making clothes, etc., for
the family, besides the slaves, I determined to render her all the assistance
in my power, and in rendering her such assistance my young energies were taxed
to the utmost. I was my mother's only child, which made her love for me all the
stronger. I did not know much of my father, for he was the slave of another
man, and when Mr. Burwell moved from Dinwiddie he was separated from us, and
only allowed to visit my mother twice a year—during the Easter holidays and
Christmas. At last Mr. Burwell determined to reward my mother, by making an
arrangement with the owner of my father, by which the separation of my parents
could be brought to an end. It was a bright day, indeed, for my mother when it
was announced that my father was coming to live with us. The old weary look
faded from her face, and she worked as if her heart was in every task. But the
golden days did not last long. The radiant dream faded all too soon.
In the morning my
father called me to him and kissed me, then held me out at arms' length as if
he were regarding his child with pride. "She is growing into a large fine
girl," he remarked to my mother. "I dun no which I like best, you or
Lizzie, as both are so dear to me." My mother's name was Agnes, and my
father delighted to call me his "Little Lizzie." While yet my father
and mother were speaking hopefully, joyfully of the future, Mr. Burwell came to
the cabin, with a letter in his hand. He was a kind master in some things, and
as gently as possible informed my parents that they must part; for in two hours
my father must join his master at Dinwiddie, and go with him to the West, where
he had determined to make his future home. The announcement fell upon the
little circle in that rude–log cabin like a thunderbolt. I can remember the
scene as if it were but yesterday;—how my father cried out against the cruel
separation; his last kiss; his wild straining of my mother to his bosom; the
solemn prayer to Heaven; the tears and sobs—the fearful anguish of broken
hearts. The last kiss, the last good–by; and he, my father, was gone, gone
forever. The shadow eclipsed the sunshine, and love brought despair. The
parting was eternal. The cloud had no silver lining, but I trust that it will
be all silver in heaven. We who are crushed to earth with heavy chains, who
travel a weary, rugged, thorny road, groping through midnight darkness on
earth, earn our right to enjoy the sunshine in the great hereafter. At the
grave, at least, we should be permitted to lay our burdens down, that a new
world, a world of brightness, may open to us. The light that is denied us here
should grow into a flood of effulgence beyond the dark, mysterious shadows of
death. Deep as was the distress of my mother in parting with my father, her
sorrow did not screen her from insult. My old mistress said to her: "Stop
your nonsense; there is no necessity for you putting on airs. Your husband is
not the only slave that has been sold from his family, and you are not the only
one that has had to part. There are plenty more men about here, and if you want
a husband so badly, stop your crying and go and find another." To these
unfeeling words my mother made no reply. She turned away in stoical silence,
with a curl of that loathing scorn upon her lips which swelled in her heart.
My father and
mother never met again in this world. They kept up a regular correspondence for
years, and the most precious mementoes of my existence are the faded old
letters that he wrote, full of love, and always hoping that the future would
bring brighter days. In nearly every letter is a message for me. "Tell my
darling little Lizzie," he writes, "to be a good girl, and to learn
her book. Kiss her for me, and tell her that I will come to see her some
day." Thus he wrote time and again, but he never came. He lived in hope,
but died without ever seeing his wife and child.
I note a few
extracts from one of my father's letters to my mother, following copy
literally:
"SHELBYVILE, Sept. 6, 1833."Mrs. Agnes Hobbs
"Dear Wife: My
dear biloved wife I am more than glad to meet with opportun[i]ty writee thes
few lines to you by my Mistress who ar now about starterng to virginia, and
sevl others of my old friends are with her; in compeney Mrs. Ann Rus the wife
of master Thos Rus and Dan Woodiard and his family and I am very sorry that I
havn the chance to go with them as I feele Determid to see you If life last
again. I am now here and out at this pleace so I am not abble to get of at this
time. I am write well and hearty and all the rest of masters family. I heard
this eveng by Mistress that ar just from theree all sends love to you and all
my old frends. I am a living in a town called Shelbyville and I have wrote a
greate many letters since Ive beene here and almost been reeady to my selfe
that its out of the question to write any more at tall: my dear wife I dont
feeld no whys like giving out writing to you as yet and I hope when you get
this letter that you be Inncougege to write me a letter. I am well satisfied at
my living at this place I am a making money for my own benifit and I hope that
its to yours also If I live to see Nexct year I shall heve my own time from
master by giving him 100 and twenty Dollars a year and I thinke I shall be
doing good bisness at that and heve something more thean all that. I hope with
gods helpe that I may be abble to rejoys with you on the earth and In heaven
lets meet when will I am detemnid to nuver stope praying, not in this earth and
I hope to praise god In glory there weel meet to part no more forever. So my
dear wife I hope to meet you In paradase to prase god forever * * * * * I want
Elizabeth to be a good girl and not to thinke that becasue I am bound so fare
that gods not abble to open the way * * * *
"George Pleasant,"Hobbs a servant of Grum."
The last letter
that my mother received from my father was dated Shelbyville, Tennessee, March
20, 1839. He writes in a cheerful strain, and hopes to see her soon. Alas! he
looked forward to a meeting in vain. Year after year the one great hope swelled
in his heart, but the hope was only realized beyond the dark portals of the
grave.
When I was about
seven years old I witnessed, for the first time, the sale of a human being. We
were living at Prince Edward, in Virginia, and master had just purchased his
hogs for the winter, for which he was unable to pay in full. To escape from his
embarrassment it was necessary to sell one of the slaves. Little Joe, the son
of the cook, was selected as the victim. His mother was ordered to dress him up
in his Sunday clothes, and send him to the house. He came in with a bright
face, was placed in the scales, and was sold, like the hogs, at so much per
pound. His mother was kept in ignorance of the transaction, but her suspicions
were aroused. When her son started for Petersburgh in the wagon, the truth
began to dawn upon her mind, and she pleaded piteously that her boy should not
be taken from her; but master quieted her by telling her that he was simply
going to town with the wagon, and would be back in the morning. Morning came,
but little Joe did not return to his mother. Morning after morning passed, and
the mother went down to the grave without ever seeing her child again. One day
she was whipped for grieving for her lost boy. Colonel Burwell never liked to
see one of his slaves wear a sorrowful face, and those who offended in this
particular way were always punished. Alas! the sunny face of the slave is not
always an indication of sunshine in the heart. Colonel Burwell at one time
owned about seventy slaves, all of which were sold, and in a majority of
instances wives were separated from husbands and children from their parents.
Slavery in the Border States forty years ago was different from what it was
twenty years ago. Time seemed to soften the hearts of master and mistress, and
to insure kinder and more humane treatment to bondsmen and bondswomen. When I
was quite a child, an incident occurred which my mother afterward impressed
more strongly on my mind. One of my uncles, a slave of Colonel Burwell, lost a
pair of ploughlines, and when the loss was made known the master gave him a new
pair, and told him that if he did not take care of them he would punish him
severely. In a few weeks the second pair of lines was stolen, and my uncle hung
himself rather than meet the displeasure of his master. My mother went to the
spring in the morning for a pail of water, and on looking up into the willow tree
which shaded the bubbling crystal stream, she discovered the lifeless form of
her brother suspended beneath one of the strong branches. Rather than be
punished the way Colonel Burwell punished his servants, he took his own life.
Slavery had its dark side as well as its bright side.
http://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/87/behind-the-scenes/1433/chapter-1-where-i-was-born/
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