John W. Lindsey

[Mr. Lindsey reached St. Catharines in an entirely destitute condition. He is now reputed to be worth from eight to ten thousand dollars, acquired by industry and economy.]

I was born free. At the age of seven, I was kidnapped by S—G—, and carried to West Tennessee. When I was about twenty-five years old, I went to a man who had been Postmaster General, and asked him if he would do any thing toward restoring my freedom, as I had been kidnapped wrongfully, and was unlawfully detained by Mr.—. He answered, that “Mr. G—had settled all that,” and advised me to “Go home and be a good boy.” Finding that I was to get no assistance from any quarter, and that justice was refused me, I resolved to free myself. I was whiter then than I am now, for it was twenty-one years ago, and I worked under cover at blacksmithing. A person across the street could not tell whether I were a white or a colored man. Whether I was pursued or not I am unable to say. I walked by day and rested at night.

I passed people working in the fields, and once I heard one ask another, “Do you think that is a white man?” I took no notice of this, and walked on. At one time I met a man on horseback who stopped and talked with me. I spoke so familiarly of this great man and of that great man, and talked in so important a way, that he did not dare ask me if I were a slave! At one place, I was somewhat afraid of pursuit, and there seemed to be some suspicions entertained in regard to me. I walked away from the town on the bank of the river and prayed to the Lord for deliverance. Just then a steamboat came along—she was bound for Pittsburg. I got a passage on board. The cook, who was a very black man, asked me “if I was free?” I told him that I had heard of a man in Maryland who got rich by minding his own business, and that he would find it for his own interest to attend to his own affairs. However, I found little difficulty in reaching the frontier and crossing the line.

I have travelled in Maryland, Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. If a man says slavery is a good institution, he might as well say there is no God—only a devil. Slavery is like the bottomless pit. You hear people say to the negro, “Why don’t you accomplish something?” You see the colored men, their faces scarred and wrinkled, and almost deprived of intelligence in some cases,—their manliness crushed out; stooping, awkward in gait,—kept in entire ignorance. Now, to ask them why they don’t do some great thing, is like tying a man or weakening him by medicine, and then saying, “Why don’t you go and do that piece of work, or plant that field with wheat and corn?” Slavery is mean. The slaveholders want their slaves for pocket-money. The slaves are their right hand to do their work.