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Narrative of the author's experiences as a slave in St. Louis and elsewhere.
The first African-American man of letters recalls his life as a slave in one volume featuring his two classic works, Narrative of William W. Brown, a Fugitive Slave (1848) and My Southern Home. Original.
A National Book Critics Circle Award Finalist 'Biography' A groundbreaking biography of the most pioneering and accomplished African-American writer of the nineteenth century. Born into slavery in Kentucky, raised on the Western frontier on the farm adjacent to Daniel Boone’s, “rented” out in adolescence to a succession of steamboat captains on the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, the young man known as “Sandy” reinvented himself as “William Wells” Brown after escaping to freedom. He lifted himself out of illiteracy and soon became an innovative, widely admired, and hugely popular speaker on antislavery circuits (both American and British) and went on to write the earliest African American works in a plethora of genres: travelogue, novel (the now canonized Clotel), printed play, and history. He also practiced medicine, ran for office, and campaigned for black uplift, temperance, and civil rights. Ezra Greenspan’s masterful work, elegantly written and rigorously researched, sets Brown’s life in the richly rendered context of his times, creating a fascinating portrait of an inventive writer who dared to challenge the racial orthodoxies and explore the racial complexities of nineteenth-century America.
The life of a slave in Virginia and his escape to Philadelphia.
Originally published in 1847, William W. Brown offers a first-person narrative that details his enslavement and the daring escape that ultimately led to his freedom. It's a captivating tale and testament to the perseverance and strength of the human spirit. In this narrative, William W. Brown presents the true story of his birth and life as an enslaved African American. He provides a truthful look at his origins, noting the unfortunate dynamic between his Black mother and white father. Brown goes into great detail explaining the rules and regulations of plantation life. He also discusses working on a steamboat, which eventually leads to his escape. Narrative of William W. Brown is a sobering story that illuminates the horrors of an inhumane institution. It's personal and vital record that gives insight into the darkest time in American history. With an eye-catching new cover, and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of Narrative of William W. Brown is both modern and readable.
Clotelle; or the Colored Heroine by William Wells Brown (1814 - 1884) was originally printed by the Press of Geo. C Rand and Avery in 1867. This reproduction is reset line-for-line, page-for-page from a copy in the Negro Collection of the Fisk University Library by Jeffrey Young & Associates.
Seven complete narratives from the middle of the 19th century. In addition to the well-known Nat Turner and Frederick Douglass, the authors include West Indian Mary Prince, William W. Brown on the survival ethic and slave tricks, family man Henry Bibb, an account of a daring escape, and a expose of sexual abuse. No index or annotation. Bibliographical references are limited to the introduction. Annotation copyrighted by Book News, Inc., Portland, OR
I WAS born in Lexington, Ky. The man who stole me as soon as I was born, recorded the births of all the infants which he claimed to be born his property, in a book which he kept for that purpose. My mother's name was Elizabeth. She had seven children, viz: Solomon, Leander, Benjamin, Joseph, Millford, Elizabeth, and myself. No two of us were children of the same father. My father's name, as I learned from my mother, was George Higgins. He was a white man, a relative of my master, and connected with some of the first families in Kentucky. My master owned about forty slaves, twenty-five of whom were field hands. He removed from Kentucky to Missouri, when I was quite young, and settled thirty or forty miles above St. Charles, on the Missouri, where, in addition to his practice as a physician, he carried on milling, merchandizing and farming. He had a large farm, the principal productions of which were tobacco and hemp. The slave cabins were situated on the back part of the farm, with the house of the overseer, whose name was Grove Cook, in their midst. He had the entire charge of the farm, and having no family, was allowed a woman to keep house for him, whose business it was to deal out the provisions for the hands. A woman was also kept at the quarters to do the cooking for the field hands, who were summoned to their unrequited toil every morning at four o'clock, by the ringing of a bell, hung on a post near the house of the overseer. They were allowed half an hour to eat their breakfast, and get to the field. At half past four, a horn was blown by the overseer, which was the signal to commence work; and every one that was not on the spot at the time, had to receive ten lashes from the negro-whip, with which the overseer always went armed. The handle was about three feet long, with the butt-end filled with lead, and the lash six or seven feet in length, made of cowhide, with platted wire on the end of it. This whip was put in requisition very frequently and freely, and a small offence on the part of a slave furnished an occasion for its use. During the time that Mr. Cook was overseer, I was a house servant--a situation preferable to that of a field hand, as I was better fed, better clothed, and not obliged to rise at the ringing of the bell, but about half an hour after. I have often laid and heard the crack of the whip, and the screams of the slave. My mother was a field hand, and one morning was ten or fifteen minutes behind the others in getting into the field. As soon as she reached the spot where they were at work, the overseer commenced whipping her. She cried, "Oh! pray--Oh! pray--Oh! pray"--these are generally the words of slaves, when imploring mercy at the hands of their oppressors. I heard her voice, and knew it, and jumped out of my bunk, and went to the door. Though the field was some distance from the house, I could hear every crack of the whip, and every groan and cry of my poor mother. I remained at the door, not daring to venture any farther. The cold chills ran over me, and I wept aloud. After giving her ten lashes, the sound of the whip ceased, and I returned to my bed, and found no consolation but in my tears. It was not yet daylight.