Compose an effective summary of the Frederick Douglass essay, “Escape from Slavery.” Be sure to refer to the active re

Compose an effective summary of the Frederick Douglass essay, “Escape from Slavery.” Be sure to refer to the active reading strategies of Survey and Review in this paper.

Concepts to keep in mind when writing a successful summary:

Summary Definition A summary provides a concisely expressed explanation of the selection’s content: what the author’s main points are, what particular methods the author uses, etc. Your focus in summary writing is always on the primary and main supporting points rather than on the details of the text.
The text is objective: This means you should not editorialize or evaluate the text either by reading between the lines or judging the article as “masterful” or “insulting,” etc.
The text is in third person: For a brief summary like this, there is no reason for any “I statements,” such as “I think he’s saying…” or “I believe…” etc.
The author is the subject in most, if not all, sentences. Remember: people, not articles, write, so avoid phrases such as “The article is saying…” Instead, start most sentences with subject/verb like this: “Heywood argues…,” “The author claims…,” “She supports her assertion with…” etc.


The summary is a minimum of 1 page long (maximum length is two pages), not counting the title and reference pages, which you must include.
You have maintained objectivity and refrained from passing judgment.
The author, designated by last name only, is included throughout the summary.
The first sentence includes the title of the article and the author’s name.
The text has been proofread for coherence, readability, and grammar errors.

My Escape from Slavery
By Frederick Douglass
A new world had opened upon me. If life is more than breath
and the “quick round of blood,” I lived more in that one day
than in a year of my slave life.
n the first narrative of my experience in slavery, written nearly forty years ago, and in
various writings since, I have given the public what I considered very good reasons
for withholding the manner of my escape. In substance these reasons were, first, that
such publication at any time during the existence of slavery might be used by the master
against the slave, and prevent the future escape of any who might adopt the same means
that I did. The second reason was, if possible, still more binding to silence: the
publication of details would certainly have put in peril the persons and property of those
who assisted. Murder itself was not more sternly and certainly punished in the State of
Maryland than that of aiding and abetting the escape of a slave. Many colored men, for
no other crime than that of giving aid to a fugitive slave, have, like Charles T. Torrey,
perished in prison. The abolition of slavery in my native State and throughout the
country, and the lapse of time, render the caution hitherto observed no longer necessary.
But even since the abolition of slavery, I have sometimes thought it well enough to baffle
curiosity by saying that while slavery existed there were good reasons for not telling the
manner of my escape, and since slavery had ceased to exist, there was no reason for
telling it. I shall now, however, cease to avail myself of this formula, and, as far as I can,
endeavor to satisfy this very natural curiosity. I should, perhaps, have yielded to that
feeling sooner, had there been anything very heroic or thrilling in the incidents connected
with my escape, for I am sorry to say I have nothing of that sort to tell; and yet the
courage that could risk betrayal and the bravery which was ready to encounter death, if
need be, in pursuit of freedom, were essential features in the undertaking. My success
was due to address rather than courage, to good luck rather than bravery. My means of
escape were provided for me by the very men who were making laws to hold and bind
me more securely in slavery.
It was the custom in the State of Maryland to require the free colored people to
have what were called free papers. These instruments they were required to renew very
often, and by charging a fee for this writing, considerable sums from time to time were
collected by the State. In these papers the name, age, color, height, and form of the
freeman were described, together with any scars or other marks upon his person which
could assist in his identification. This device in some measure defeated itself—since
more than one man could be found to answer the same general description. Hence many
slaves could escape by personating the owner of one set of papers; and this was often
done as follows: A slave, nearly or sufficiently answering the description set forth in the
papers, would borrow or hire them till by means of them he could escape to a free State,
and then, by mail or otherwise, would return them to the owner. The operation was a
hazardous one for the lender as well as for the borrower. A failure on the part of the
fugitive to send back the papers would imperil his benefactor, and the discovery of the
papers in possession of the wrong man would imperil both the fugitive and his friend. It
was, therefore, an act of supreme trust on the part of a freeman of color thus to put in
jeopardy his own liberty that another might be free. It was, however, not unfrequently
bravely done, and was seldom discovered. I was not so fortunate as to resemble any of
my free acquaintances sufficiently to answer the description of their papers. But I had a
friend—a sailor—who owned a sailor’s protection, which answered somewhat the
purpose of free papers—describing his person, and certifying to the fact that he was a free
American sailor. The instrument had at its head the American eagle, which gave it the
appearance at once of an authorized document. This protection, when in my hands, did
not describe its bearer very accurately. Indeed, it called for a man much darker than
myself, and close examination of it would have caused my arrest at the start.
In order to avoid this fatal scrutiny on the part of railroad officials, I arranged with
Isaac Rolls, a Baltimore hackman, to bring my baggage to the Philadelphia train just on
the moment of starting, and jumped upon the car myself when the train was in motion.
Had I gone into the station and offered to purchase a ticket, I should have been instantly
and carefully examined, and undoubtedly arrested. In choosing this plan I considered the
jostle of the train, and the natural haste of the conductor, in a train crowded with
passengers, and relied upon my skill and address in playing the sailor, as described in my
protection, to do the rest. One element in my favor was the kind feeling which prevailed
in Baltimore and other sea-ports at the time, toward “those who go down to the sea in
ships.” “Free trade and sailors’ rights” just then expressed the sentiment of the country. In
my clothing I was rigged out in sailor style. I had on a red shirt and a tarpaulin hat, and a
black cravat tied in sailor fashion carelessly and loosely about my neck. My knowledge
of ships and sailor’s talk came much to my assistance, for I knew a ship from stem to
stern, and from keelson to cross-trees, and could talk sailor like an “old salt.” I was well
on the way to Havre de Grace before the conductor came into the negro car to collect
tickets and examine the papers of his black passengers. This was a critical moment in the
drama. My whole future depended upon the decision of this conductor. Agitated though I
was while this ceremony was proceeding, still, externally, at least, I was apparently calm
and self-possessed. He went on with his duty—examining several colored passengers
before reaching me. He was somewhat harsh in tome and peremptory in manner until he
reached me, when, strange enough, and to my surprise and relief, his whole manner
changed. Seeing that I did not readily produce my free papers, as the other colored
persons in the car had done, he said to me, in friendly contrast with his bearing toward
the others:
“I suppose you have your free papers?”
To which I answered: “No sir; I never carry my free papers to sea with me.”
“But you have something to show that you are a freeman, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered; “I have a paper with the American Eagle on it, and that
will carry me around the world.”
With this I drew from my deep sailor’s pocket my seaman’s protection, as before
described. The merest glance at the paper satisfied him, and he took my fare and went on
about his business. This moment of time was one of the most anxious I ever experienced.
Had the conductor looked closely at the paper, he could not have failed to discover that it
called for a very different-looking person from myself, and in that case it would have
been his duty to arrest me on the instant, and send me back to Baltimore from the first
station. When he left me with the assurance that I was all right, though much relieved, I
realized that I was still in great danger: I was still in Maryland, and subject to arrest at
any moment. I saw on the train several persons who would have known me in any other
clothes, and I feared they might recognize me, even in my sailor “rig,” and report me to
the conductor, who would then subject me to a closer examination, which I knew well
would be fatal to me.
Though I was not a murderer fleeing from justice, I felt perhaps quite as miserable
as such a criminal. The train was moving at a very high rate of speed for that epoch of
railroad travel, but to my anxious mind it was moving far too slowly. Minutes were
hours, and hours were days during this part of my flight. After Maryland, I was to pass
through Delaware—another slave State, where slave-catchers generally awaited their
prey, for it was not in the interior of the State, but on its borders, that these human hounds
were most vigilant and active. The border lines between slavery and freedom were the
dangerous ones for the fugitives. The heart of no fox or deer, with hungry hounds on his
trail in full chase, could have beaten more anxiously or noisily than did mine from the
time I left Baltimore till I reached Philadelphia. The passage of the Susquehanna River at
Havre de Grace was at that time made by ferry-boat, on board of which I met a young
colored man by the name of Nichols, who came very near betraying me. He was a “hand”
on the boat, but, instead of minding his business, he insisted upon knowing me, and
asking me dangerous questions as to where I was going, when I was coming back, etc. I
got away from my old and inconvenient acquaintance as soon as I could decently do so,
and went to another part of the boat. Once across the river, I encountered a new danger.
Only a few days before, I had been at work on a revenue cutter, in Mr. Price’s ship-yard
in Baltimore, under the care of Captain McGowan. On the meeting at this point of the
two trains, the one going south stopped on the track just opposite to the one going north,
and it so happened that this Captain McGowan sat at a window where he could see me
very distinctly, and would certainly have recognized me had he looked at me but for a
second. Fortunately, in the hurry of the moment, he did not see me; and the trains soon
passed each other on their respective ways. But this was not my only hair-breadth escape.
A German blacksmith whom I knew well was on the train with me, and looked at me
very intently, as if he thought he had seen me somewhere before in his travels. I really
believe he knew me, but had no heart to betray me. At any rate, he saw me escaping and
held his peace.
The last point of imminent danger, and the one I dreaded most, was Wilmington.
Here we left the train and took the steam-boat for Philadelphia. In making the change
here I again apprehended arrest, but no one disturbed me, and I was soon on the broad
and beautiful Delaware, speeding away to the Quaker City. On reaching Philadelphia in
the afternoon, I inquired of a colored man how I could get on to New York. He directed
me to the William-street depot, and thither I went, taking the train that night. I reached
New York Tuesday morning, having completed the journey in less than twenty-four
My free life began on the third of September, 1838. On the morning of the fourth
of that month, after an anxious and most perilous but safe journey, I found myself in the
big city of New York, a free man—one more added to the mighty throng which, like the
confused waves of the troubled sea, surged to and fro between the lofty walls of
Broadway. Though dazzled with the wonders which met me on every hand, my thoughts
could not be much withdrawn from my strange situation. For the moment, the dreams of
my youth and the hopes of my manhood were completely fulfilled. The bonds that had
held me to “old master” were broken. No man now had a right to call me his slave or
assert mastery over me. I was in the rough and tumble of an outdoor world, to take my
chance with the rest of its busy number. I have often been asked how I felt when first I
found myself on free soil. There is scarcely anything in my experience about which I
could not give a more satisfactory answer. A new world had opened upon me. If life is
more than breath and the “quick round of blood,” I lived more in that one day than in a
year of my slave life. It was a time of joyous excitement which words can but tamely
describe. In a letter written to a friend soon after reaching New York, I said: “I felt as one
might feel upon escape from a den of hungry lions.” Anguish and grief, like darkness and
rain, may be depicted; but gladness and joy, like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen or
pencil. During ten or fifteen years I had been, as it were, dragging a heavy chain which
no strength of mine could break; I was not only a slave, but a slave for life. I might
become a husband, a father, an aged man, but through all, from birth to death, from the
cradle to the grave, I had felt myself doomed. All efforts I had previously made to secure
my freedom had not only failed, but had seemed only to rivet my fetters the more firmly,
and to render my escape more difficult. Baffled, entangled, and discouraged, I had at
times asked myself the question, May not my condition after all be God’s work, and
ordered for a wise purpose, and if so, Is not submission my duty? A contest had in fact
been going on in my mind for a long time, between the clear consciousness of right and
the plausible make-shifts of theology and superstition. The one held me an abject slave—
a prisoner for life, punished for some transgression in which I had no lot nor part; and the
other counseled me to manly endeavor to secure my freedom. This contest was now
ended; my chains were broken, and the victory brought me unspeakable joy.
But my gladness was short-lived, for I was not yet out of the reach and power of
the slave-holders. I soon found that New York was not quite so free or so safe a refuge as
I had supposed, and a sense of loneliness and insecurity again oppressed me most sadly. I
chanced to meet on the street, a few hours after my landing, a fugitive slave whom I had
once known well in slavery. The information received from him alarmed me. The
fugitive in question was known in Baltimore as “Allender’s Jake,” but in New York he
wore the more respectable name of “William Dixon.” Jake, in law, was the property of
Doctor Allender, and Tolly Allender, the son of the doctor, had once made an effort to
recapture Mr. Dixon, but had failed for want of evidence to support his claim. Jake told
me the circumstances of this attempt, and how narrowly he escaped being sent back to
slavery and torture. He told me that New York was then full of Southerners returning
from the Northern watering-places; that the colored people of New York were not to be
trusted; that there were hired men of my own color who would betray me for a few
dollars; that there were hired men ever on the lookout for fugitives; that I must trust no
man with my secret; that I must not think of going either upon the wharves or into any
colored boarding-house, for all such places were closely watched; that he was himself
unable to help me; and, in fact, he seemed while speaking to me to fear lest I myself
might be a spy and a betrayer. Under this apprehension, as I suppose, he showed signs of
wishing to be rid of me, and with whitewash brush in hand, in search of work, he soon
This picture, given by poor “Jake,” of New York, was a damper to my
enthusiasm. My little store of money would soon be exhausted, and since it would be
unsafe for me to go on the wharves for work, and I had no introductions elsewhere, the
prospect for me was far from cheerful. I saw the wisdom of keeping away from the shipyards, for, if pursued, as I felt certain I should be, Mr. Auld, my “master,” would
naturally seek me there among the calkers. Every door seemed closed against me. I was
in the midst of an ocean of my fellow-men, and yet a perfect stranger to every one. I was
without home, without acquaintance, without money, without credit, without work, and
without any definite knowledge as to what course to take, or where to look for succor. In
such an extremity, a man had something besides his new-born freedom to think of. While
wandering about the streets of New York, and lodging at least one night among the
barrels on one of the wharves, I was indeed free—from slavery, but free from food and
shelter as well. I kept my secret to myself as long as I could, but I was compelled at last
to seek some one who would befriend me without taking advantage of my destitution to
betray me. Such a person I found in a sailor named Stuart, a warm-hearted and generous
fellow, who, from his humble home on Centre street, saw me standing on the opposite
sidewalk, near the Tombs prison. As he approached me, I ventured a remark to him
which at once enlisted his interest in me. He took me to his home to spend the night, and
in the morning went with me to Mr. David Ruggles, the secretary of the New York
Vigilance Committee, a co-worker with Isaac T. Hopper, Lewis and Arthur Tappan,
Theodore S. Wright, Samuel Cornish, Thomas Downing, Philip A. Bell, and other true
men of their time. All these (save Mr. Bell, who still lives, and is editor and publisher of a
paper called the “Elevator,” in San Francisco) have finished their work on earth. Once in
the hands of these brave and wise men, I felt comparatively safe. With Mr. Ruggles, on
the corner of Lispenard and Church streets, I was hidden several days, during which time
my intended wife came on from Baltimore at my call, to share the burdens of life with
me. She was a free woman, and came at once on getting the good news of my safety. We
were married by Rev. J. W. C. Pennington, then a well-known and respected Presbyterian
minister. I had no money with which to pay the marriage fee, but he seemed well pleased
with our thanks.
Mr. Ruggles was the first officer on the “Underground Railroad” whom I met
after coming North, and was, indeed, the only one with whom I had anything to do till I
became such an officer myself. Learning that my trade was that of a calker, he promptly
decided that the best place for me was in New Bedford, Mass. He told me that many
ships for whaling voyages were fitted out there, and that I might there find work at my
trade and make a good living. So, on the day of the marriage ceremony, we took our little
luggage to the steamer John W. Richmond, which, at that time, was one of the line
running between New York and Newport, R. I. Forty-three years ago colored travelers
were not permitted in the cabin, nor allowed abaft the paddle-wheels of a steam vessel.
They were compelled, whatever the weather might be,—whether cold or hot, wet or
dry,— to spend the night on deck. Unjust as this regulation was, it did not trouble us
much; we had fared much harder before. We arrived at Newport the next morning, and
soon after an old fashioned stage-coach, with “New Bedford” in large yellow letters on its
sides, came down to the wharf. I had not money enough to pay our fare, and stood
hesitating what to do. Fortunately for us, there were two Quaker gentlemen who were
about to take passage on the stage,— Friends William C. Taber and Joseph Ricketson,—
who at once discerned our true situation, and, in a peculiarly quiet way, addressing me,
Mr. Taber said: “Thee get in.” I never obeyed an order with more alacrity, and we were
soon on our way to our new home. When we reached “Stone Bridge” the passengers
alighted for breakfast, and paid their fares to the driver. We took no breakfast, and, when
asked for our fares, I told the driver I would make it right with him when we reached
New Bedford. I expected some objection to this on his part, but he made none. When,
however, we reached New Bedford, he took our baggage, including three music-books,—
two of them collections by Dyer, and one by Shaw,—and held them until I was able to
redeem them by paying to him the amount due for our rides. This was soon done, for Mr.
Nathan Johnson not only received me kindly and hospitably, but, on being informed
about our baggage, at once loaned me the two dollars with which to square accounts with
the stage-driver. Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Johnson reached a good old age, and now rest from
their labors. I am under many grateful obligations to them. They not only “took me in
when a stranger” and “fed me when hungry,” but taught me how to make an honest
living. Thus, in a fortnight after my flight from Maryland, I was safe in New Bedford, a
citizen of the grand old commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Once initiated into my new life of freedom and assured by Mr. Johnson that I
need not fear recapture in that city, a comparatively unimportant question arose as to the
name by which I should be known thereafter in my new relation as a free man. The name
given me by my dear mother was no less pretentious and long than Frederick Augustus
Washington Bailey. I had, however, while living in Maryland, dispensed with the
Augustus Washington, and retained only Frederick Bailey. Between Baltimore and New
Bedford, the better to conceal myself from the slave-hunters, I had parted with Bailey and
called myself Johnson; but in New Bedford I found that the Johnson family was already
so numerous as to cause some confusion in distinguishing them, hence a change in this
name seemed desirable. Nathan Johnson, mine host, placed great emphasis upon this
necessity, and wished me to allow him to select a name for me. I consented, and he called
me by my present name—the one by which I have been known for three and forty
years—Frederick Douglass. Mr. Johnson had just been reading the “Lady of the Lake,”
and so pleased was he with its great character that he wished me to bear his name. Since
reading that charming poem myself, I have often thought that, considering the noble
hospitality and manly character of Nathan Johnson—black man though he was—he, far
more than I, illustrated the virtues of the Douglas of Scotland. Sure am I that, if any
slave-catcher had entered his domicile with a view to my recapture, Johnson would have
shown himself like him of the “stalwart hand.”
The reader may be surprised at the impressions I had in some way conceived of
the social and material condition of the people at the North. I had no proper idea of the
wealth, refinement, enterprise, and high civilization of this section of the country. My
Columbian Orator, almost my only book, had done nothing to enlighten me concerning
Northern society. I had been taught that slavery was the bottom fact of all wealth. With
this foundation idea, I came naturally to the conclusion that poverty must be the general
condition of the people of the free States. In the country from which I came, a white man
holding no slaves was usually an ignorant and poverty-stricken man, and men of this
class were contemptuously called “poor white trash.” Hence I supposed that, since the
non-slave-holders at the South were ignorant, poor, and degraded as a class, the nonslave-holders at the North must be in a similar condition. I could have landed in no part
of the United States where I should have found a more striking and gratifying contrast,
not only to life generally in the South, but in the condition of the colored people there,
than in New Bedford. I was amazed when Mr. Johnson told me that there was nothing in
the laws or constitution of Massachusetts that would prevent a colored man from being
governor of the State, if the people should see fit to elect him. There, too, the black man’s
children attended the public schools with the white man’s children, and apparently
without objection from any quarter. To impress me with my security from recapture and
return to slavery, Mr. Johnson assured me that no slave-holder could take a slave out of
New Bedford; that there were men there who would lay down their lives to save me from
such a fate.
The fifth day after my arrival, I put on the clothes of a common laborer, and went
upon the wharves in search of work. On my way down Union street I saw a large pile of
coal in front of the house of Rev. Ephraim Peabody, the Unitarian minister. I went to the
kitchen door and asked the privilege of bringing in and putting away this coal. “What will
you charge?” said the lady. “I will leave that to you, madam.” “You may put it away,” she
said. I was not long in accomplishing the job, when the dear lady put into my hand two
silver half-dollars. To understand the emotion which swelled my heart as I clasped this
money, realizing that I had no master who could take it from me,—that it was mine—that
my hands were my own, and could earn more of the precious coin,—one must have been
in some sense himself a slave. My next job was stowing a sloop at Uncle Gid. Howland’s
wharf with a cargo of oil for New York. I was not only a freeman, but a free workingman, and no “master” stood ready at the end of the week to seize my hard earnings.
The season was growing late and work was plenty. Ships were being fitted out for
whaling, and much wood was used in storing them. The sawing this wood was considered
a good job. With the help of old Friend Johnson (blessings on his memory) I got a saw
and “buck,” and went at it. When I went into a store to buy a cord with which to brace up
my saw in the frame, I asked for a “fip’s” worth of cord. The man behind the counter
looked rather sharply at me, and said with equal sharpness, “You don’t belong about
here.” I was alarmed, and thought I had betrayed myself. A fip in Maryland was six and a
quarter cents, called fourpence in Massachusetts. But no harm came from the “fi’pennybit” blunder, and I confidently and cheerfully went to work with my saw and buck. It was
new business to me, but I never did better work, or more of it, in the same space of time
on the plantation for Covey, the negro-breaker, than I did for myself in these earliest
years of my freedom.
Notwithstanding the just and humane sentiment of New Bedford three and forty
years ago, the place was not entirely free from race and color prejudice. The good
influence of the Roaches, Rodmans, Arnolds, Grinnells, and Robesons did not pervade all
classes of its people. The test of the real civilization of the community came when I
applied for work at my trade, and then my repulse was emphatic and decisive. It so
happened that Mr. Rodney French, a wealthy and enterprising citizen, distinguished as an
anti-slavery man, was fitting out a vessel for a whaling voyage, upon which there was a
heavy job of calking and coppering to be done. I had some skill in both branches, and
applied to Mr. French for work. He, generous man that he was, told me he would employ
me, and I might go at once to the vessel. I obeyed him, but upon reaching the float-stage,
where others calkers were at work, I was told that every white man would leave the ship,
in her unfinished condition, if I struck a blow at my trade upon her. This uncivil,
inhuman, and selfish treatment was not so shocking and scandalous in my eyes at the
time as it now appears to me. Slavery had inured me to hardships that made ordinary
trouble sit lightly upon me. Could I have worked at my trade I could have earned two
dollars a day, but as a common laborer I received but one dollar. The difference was of
great importance to me, but if I could not get two dollars, I was glad to get one; and so I
went to work for Mr. French as a common laborer. The consciousness that I was free—no
longer a slave—kept me cheerful under this, and many similar proscriptions, which I was
destined to meet in New Bedford and elsewhere on the free soil of Massachusetts. For
instance, though colored children attended the schools, and were treated kindly by their
teachers, the New Bedford Lyceum refused, till several years after my residence in that
city, to allow any colored person to attend the lectures delivered in its hall. Not until such
men as Charles Sumner, Theodore Parker, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Horace Mann
refused to lecture in their course while there was such a restriction, was it abandoned.
Becoming satisfied that I could not rely on my trade in New Bedford to give me a
living, I prepared myself to do any kind of work that came to hand. I sawed wood,
shoveled coal, dug cellars, moved rubbish from back yards, worked on the wharves,
loaded and unloaded vessels, and scoured their cabins.
I afterward got steady work at the brass-foundry owned by Mr. Richmond. My
duty here was to blow the bellows, swing the crane, and empty the flasks in which
castings were made; and at times this was hot and heavy work. The articles produced here
were mostly for ship work, and in the busy season the foundry was in operation night and
day. I have often worked two nights and every working day of the week. My foreman,
Mr. Cobb, was a good man, and more than once protected me from abuse that one or
more of the hands was disposed to throw upon me. While in this situation I had little time
for mental improvement. Hard work, night and day, over a furnace hot enough to keep
the metal running like water, was more favorable to action than thought; yet here I often
nailed a newspaper to the post near my bellows, and read while I was performing the up
and down motion of the heavy beam by which the bellows was inflated and discharged. It
was the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, and I look back to it now, after so many
years, with some complacency and a little wonder that I could have been so earnest and
persevering in any pursuit other than for my daily bread. I certainly saw nothing in the
conduct of those around to inspire me with such interest: they were all devoted
exclusively to what their hands found to do. I am glad to be able to say that, during my
engagement in this foundry, no complaint was ever made against me that I did not do my
work, and do it well. The bellows which I worked by main strength was, after I left,
moved by a steam-engine.
The Century Illustrated Magazine 23 (Nov. 1881): 125-131.

Purchase answer to see full