Benedict Duncan

I was a slave in Maryland, twenty-eight years. My father taught me my letters, and I had sometimes the privilege of going to the Sunday school, where I was further taught by a white teacher, and I read through a spelling-book. My father had a few other books and I had help from him in learning to read them. I received religious instruction in the Sunday school. My master and mistress belonged to the Presbyterian church, but never gave me any insight into their doctrines. I became a Methodist. My master had no overseer,—was boss himself. We considered him not so good as the generality of masters. Sometimes I did not get enough to eat, nor have clothes enough to make me comfortable. I could get straw enough, but I never had any bed,—wore the same clothes at night that I wore by day, the whole week. The other hands were not so well used,—the truth is, I was rather ahead of them. They used to get whipped with hickories or a club: I never had any severe punishment.

I left through fear of being sold, as my master’s business was going down hill. I experienced no trouble in getting off. I walked one hundred and fifty miles of the way. I remained in the States four months and then came over here a short time since.

I had rather have a day free, than a week of life in slavery: I think slavery is the worst evil that ever was.