Harriet, the Moses of Her People

^F [ This was written in the year '68, and the old people both lived several years after that time.]

Harriet supposes that the whole family were actually free, and were kept wrongfully in a state of slavery all those long years; but she simply states the fact, without any mourning or lamenting over the wrong and the misery of it all, accepting it as the will of God, and, therefore, not to be rebelled against.

This woman, of whom you have been reading, is now old and feeble, suffering from the effects of her life of unusual labor and hardship, as well as from repeated injuries; but she is still at work for her people. For many years, even long before the war, her little home has been the refuge of the hunted and the homeless, for whom she had provided; and I have seen as many as eight or ten dependents upon her care at one time living there.

It has always been a hospital, but she feels the need of a large one, and only prays to see this, "her last work," completed ere she goes hence.

Without claiming any of my dear old Harriet's prophetic vision, I seem to see a future day when the wrongs of earth will be righted, and justice, long delayed, will assert itself. I seem to see that our poor Harriet has passed within "one of dem gates," and has received the welcome, "Come, thou blessed of my Father; for I was hungry and you gave me meat, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you took me in, naked and you clothed me, sick and in prison and you visited me."

And when she asks, "Lord, when did I do all this?" He answers:

"Inasmuch as you did it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, you did it unto me."

And as she stands in her modest way just within the celestial gate, I seem to see a kind hand laid upon her dark head, and to hear a gentle voice saying in her ear, "Friend, come up higher!"

SOME ADDITIONAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF "HARRIET."

The story of this remarkable black woman has been attracting renewed interest of late, and I have often been asked to publish another edition of the book, and to add some interesting and amusing incidents which I have related to my friends.

Harriet is very old and feeble now; she does not know how old, but probably between eighty and ninety. Her years of toil and adventure have told upon her, and she may not last much longer. If she does, she will still need help which she would never ask for herself, but which this little book may give her; when she dies, it may aid in putting up a fitting monument to her memory, which should always be "kept green."

As time goes on, the horrors of the days of slavery are by many forgotten, and the children who have been born since the War of the Rebellion know of that fearful straggle, and of the causes that led to it, only as a tradition of long ago.

Even in the city where Harriet has so long lived her quiet and unobtrusive life, it is not an uncommon thing to meet a young person who has never even heard her name.

Those who know the principal facts of her eventful history may be interested to read these few added incidents, which she has related to me from time to time.

A year or two ago, as I was staying at the summer home of my brother, Professor Hopkins, on Owasco Lake, Harriet came up to see us; it was after lunch, and my brother ordered a table to be set for her on the broad shaded piazza and waited on her himself, bringing her cups of tea and other good things, as if it were a pleasure and an honor to serve her.

There is a quiet dignity about Harriet that makes her superior or indifferent to all surrounding circumstances; whether seated at the hospitable board of Gerrit Smith or any other white gentleman, as she often was, or sent to the kitchen, where the white domestics refused to eat with a "nigger," it was all the same to Harriet; she was never elated, or humiliated; she took everything as it came, making no comments or complaints.

And so she sat quietly eating her lunch, and talking with us. After the lunch was over, as we sat on the piazza waiting for the steamboat to take her back to Auburn, she said:

"I often think, Missus, of things I wish I had told you before you wrote de book. Now, as I come up on de boat I thought of one thing thet happened to me when I was very little.

"I was only seven years old when I was sent away to take car' of a baby. I was so little dat I had to sit down on de flo' and hev de baby put in my lap. An' dat baby was allus in my lap 'cept when it was asleep, or its mother was feedin' it.

"One mornin' after breakfast she had de baby, an' I stood by de table waitin' till I was to take it; just by me was a bowl of lumps of white sugar. My Missus got into a great quarrel wid her husband; she had an awful temper, an' she would scole an' storm, an' call him all sorts of names. Now you know, Missus, I never had nothing good; no sweet, no sugar, an' dat sugar, right by me, did look so nice, an' my Missus's back was turned to me while she was fightin' wid her husband, so I jes' put my fingers in de sugar bowl to take one lump, an' maybe she heard me, an' she turned an' saw me. De nex' minute she had de raw hide down; I give one jump out of de do', an' I saw dey came after me, but I jes' flew, and dey didn't catch me. I ran, an' I ran, an' I run, I passed many a house, but I didn't dar' to stop, for dey all knew my Missus an' dey would send me back. By an' by, when I was clar tuckered out, I come to a great big pig-pen. Dar was an ole sow dar, an' perhaps eight or ten little pigs. I was too little to climb into it, but I tumbled ober de high board, an' fell in on de ground; I was so beat out I couldn't stir.

"An' dere, Missus, I stayed from Friday till de nex' Chuesday, fightin' wid dose little pigs for de potato peelin's an" oder scraps dat came down in de trough. De ole sow would push me away when I tried to git her chillen's food, an' I was awful afeard of her. By Chuesday I was so starved I knowed I'd got to go back to my Missus, I hadn't got no whar else to go, but I knowed what was comin.' So I went back."

"And she gave you an awful flogging, I suppose, Harriet?"

"No, Missus, but he did."

This was all that was said, but probably that flogging left some of those scars which cover her neck and back to this day.

Think of a poor little helpless thing seven years old enduring all this terror and suffering, and yet few people are as charitable to the slave-holders as Harriet. "Dey don' know no better, Missus; it's de way dey was brought up. 'Make de little nigs min' you, or flog 'em,' was what was said to de chillen, and dey was brought up wid de whip in der hand. Now, min' you, Missus, dat wasn't de way on all de plantations; dere was good Marsters an' Missuses, as I've heard tell, but I didn't happen to come across 'em."

There is frequent mention made in the Memoir of Harriet's firm and unwavering trust in God in times of great perplexity or deadly peril, when she often had occasion to say, "Vain is the help of man, but in God is my help." I have never known another instance of such implicit trust and confidence.

Very soon after the Civil War her house was turned into a hospital, and no poor helpless creature of her race was ever turned from her door. Indeed, all through the war, and through the cruel reign of the fugitive slave law, her house was one of the depots of the "Underground Railway," as that secret and unseen mode of conveying the hunted fugitives was called, and when the war was over she established a hospital, which for many years, indeed till she was too ill herself to take charge of it, has been the refuge of the sufferers of her race who had no earthly dependence but Harriet.

Very often this woman, except for her trust in "de Lawd," had had no idea where the next meal was to come from, but she troubled herself no more about it than if she had been a Vanderbilt or an Astor. "De Lawd will provide" was her motto, and He never failed her.

One day, in passing through Auburn, I was impelled to stop over a train, and drive out to see what were the needs of my colored friend, and to take her some supplies.

Her little house was always neat and comfortable, and the small parlor was nicely and rather prettily furnished. The lame, the halt, and the blind, the bruised and crippled little children, and one crazy woman, were all brought in to see me, and "the blind woman" (she seemed to have no other name), a very old woman who had been Harriet's care for eighteen years, was led into the room—an interesting and pathetic group.

On leaving, I said to her: "If you will come out to the carriage, Harriet, there are some provisions there for you."

She turned to one of her poor dependents and said: "What did you say to me dis mornin'? You said, 'We hadn't got nothin' to eat in de house,' and what did I say to you? I said, 'I've got a rich Father!'"

Nothing that comes to this remarkable woman ever surprises her. She says very little in the way of thanks, except to the Giver of all good. How the knowledge comes to her no one can tell, but she seems always to know when help is coming, and she is generally on hand to receive it, though it is never for herself she wants it, but only for those under her care.

I must not forget to mention the Indian girls of the Fort Wrangel School, who, having read a little notice of Harriet in the "Evangelist," went to work, and by their daily labor raised thirty-seven dollars which they sent to me for Harriet—and this school has been disbanded, and these educated girls have been sent back to their wretched homes, because our Government could not afford to support it any longer!

Pundita Ramabai went about this time to see Harriet and they had an interesting talk together. Here was a remarkable trio taking hold of hands—the woman from East India, the Indian girl from the far West, and the black woman from the Southern States only two removes from an African savage!

Once when she came to New York, where she had not been in twenty years, and was starting off alone to find some friends miles away in a part of the city which she had never seen, we remonstrated with her, telling her she would surely be lost.

"Now, Missus," she said, "don't you t'ink dis ole head dat done de navigatin' down in Egypt can do de navigatin' up here in New York?"

And she walked many miles, scorning a "cyar," and found all the people she wished to see.

Harriet was known by various names among her Southern friends. One of these was "Ole Chariot," perhaps as a rhyme to the name by which they called her.

And so, often when she went to bring away a band of refugees, she would sing as she walked the dark country roads by night:

And from some unseen singer would come the response:

And by some wireless telegraphy known only to the initiated it would be made known in one cabin or another where their deliverer was waiting concealed, and when she would be ready to pilot them on their long journey to freedom.

A Woman's Suffrage Meeting was held in Rochester a year or two ago, and Harriet came to attend it. She generally attended every meeting of women, on whatever subject, if possible to do so.

She was led into the church by an adopted daughter, whom she had rescued from death when a baby, and had brought up as her own.

The church was warm and Harriet was tired, and soon after she entered deep sleep fell upon her.

Susan B. Anthony and Mrs. Stanton were on the platform, and after speeches had been made and business accomplished, one of these ladies said:

"Friends, we have in the audience that wonderful woman, Harriet Tubman, from whom we should like to hear, if she will kindly come to the platform."

People looked around at Harriet, but Harriet was fast asleep.

"Mother! mother!" said the young girl; "they are calling for you," but it was some time before Harriet could be made to understand where she was, or what was wanted of her. At length, she was led out into the aisle and was assisted by one of these kind ladies on to the platform.

Harriet looked around, wondering why so many white ladies were gathered there. I think it was Miss Anthony who led her forward, saying:

"Ladies, I am glad to present to you Harriet Tubman, 'the conductor of the Underground Railroad.'"

"Yes, ladies," said Harriet, "I was de conductor ob de Underground Railroad for eight years, an' I can say what mos' conductors can't say—I nebber run my train off de track an' I nebber los' a passenger." The audience laughed and applauded, and Harriet was emboldened to go on and relate portions of her interesting history, which were most kindly received by the assembled ladies.

After the passage of the iniquitous fugitive slave law, Harriet removed all her dependents to Canada, and here John Brown and some of his followers took refuge with her, and she was his helper and adviser in many of his schemes. The papers of that time tell of her helping him with his plans and of his dependence upon her judgment. In one of his letters he says: "Harriet has hitched on, and with all her might; she is a whole team."

For this large party added to her own family of several persons, she worked day and night in her usual self-forgetting manner. Her old father and mother were with her, and the mother, nearly a hundred years old and enfeebled in mind, was querulous and exacting, and most unreasonable in her temper, often reproaching this faithful daughter as the Israelites did Moses of old, for "bringing them up into the wilderness to die there of hunger."

There came a day when everything eatable was exhausted, and the prospect was dark, indeed. The old mother had no tobacco and no tea—and these were more essential to her comfort than food or clothing; then reproaches thick and fast fell upon Harriet. She made no reply, but "went into her closet and shut the door"; when she came out she had a large basket on her arm.

"Catharine," she said, "take off dat small pot an' put on a large one."

"But, Harriet, der ain't not'ing in de house to eat."

"Put on de large pot, Catharine; we're gwine to have soup to-day"—and Harriet started for the market. The day was nearly over, and the market-men were anxious to be rid of their wares, and were offering them very cheap. Harriet walked along with the basket on her arm. "Old woman, don't you want a nice piece of meat?" called out one; and another, "Here's a nice piece; only ten cents. Take this soup-bone, you can have it for five cents." But Harriet had not five cents. At length a kind-hearted butcher, judging of the trouble from her face, said: "Look here, old woman, you look like an honest woman; take this soup-bone, and pay me when you get some money"; then another said, "Take this," and others piled on pieces of meat till the basket was full. Harriet passed on, and when she came to the vegetables she exchanged some of the meat for potatoes, cabbage, and onions, and the big pot was in requisition when she reached home. Harriet had not "gone into her closet and shut the door" for nothing.

I hope I may be excused for sometimes telling my story in the first person, as I cannot conveniently do it in any other way. In getting ready a Thanksgiving box to send to Harriet, a few years ago, I had ordered a turkey to be sent for it, but as the weather grew quite warm, I was advised to send a ham instead. That box was lost for three weeks, and when I saw Harriet again and told her that I had intended to send a turkey in it, she said, "Wal, dere was a clar Providence in dat, wa'n't dere, Missus?"

A friend, hearing that I was preparing a Christmas box in New York for this needy household, sent me a quantity of clothing and ten dollars for them. As my box was not quite full, I expended three dollars of that money in groceries, and sent seven dollars to a lady in Auburn who acted as treasurer for Harriet, giving her money as it was needed; for Harriet's heart is so large, and her feelings are so easily wrought upon, that it was never wise to give her more than enough for present needs.

Not long after, I received a letter from a well-known physician—a woman—in Auburn, in which she said:

"I want to tell you something about Harriet. She came to me last Friday, and said, 'Doctah, I have got my taxes and insurance to pay to-morrow, and I haven't a cent. Would you lend me seven dollars till next Chuesday?' More to try her than anything else, I said, 'Why, Harriet, I'm a poor, hard-working woman myself; how do you know you'll pay me seven dollars next Tuesday?' 'Well, Doctah, I can't jes' tell you how, but I'll pay you next Chuesday.'" On Tuesday my letter with seven dollars enclosed arrived in Auburn, and Harriet took the money to the friend who had lent it to her. Others thought this strange, but there was nothing strange about it to her.

A few years ago, when Harriet called on the writer, she was introduced to the husband of one of her daughters lately married. He told her how glad he was to see her, as he had heard so much about her. She made one of her humble courtesies, and said: "I'm pleased to see you, sir; it's de first time I've hed de pleasure makin' yo' 'quaintance since you was 'dopted into my fam'bly."

When the turns of somnolence come upon Harriet, her "sperrit," as she says, goes away from her body, and visits other scenes and places, and if she ever really sees them afterwards they are perfectly familiar to her and she can find her way about alone. Instances of this kind have lately been mentioned in some of the magazines, but Harriet had never heard of them.

Sitting in her house one day, deep sleep fell upon her, and in a dream or vision she saw a chariot in the air, going south, and empty, but soon it returned, and lying in it, cold and stiff, was the body of a young lady of whom Harriet was very fond, whose home was in Auburn, but who had gone to Washington with her father, a distinguished officer of the Government there.[G]

^G [ William H. Seward.]

The shock roused Harriet from her sleep, and she ran into Auburn, to the house of her minister, crying out: "Oh, Miss Fanny is dead!" and the news had just been received.

She woke from a sleep one day in great agitation, and ran to the houses of her colored neighbors, exclaiming that "a drefful t'ing was happenin' somewha', de ground was openin', an' de houses were fallin' in, and de people bein' killed faster 'n dey was in de wah—faster 'n dey was in de wah."

At that very time, or near it, an earthquake was occurring in the northern part of South America, for the telegram came that day, though why a vision of it should be sent to Harriet no one can divine.

Her expressions are often very peculiar; some ladies of a certain church who had become interested in her wished to see her, and she was invited to come to their city, and attended the sewing circle, where twenty or thirty of them were gathered together. They asked her many questions, and she told stories, sang songs, danced, and imitated the talk of the Southern negroes; and went away loaded with many tokens of the kind interest of these ladies. On the way home she said:

"What nice, kind-lookin' ladies dem was, Missus. I looked in all dere faces, an' I didn't see nothin' venomous in one of 'em!"

As has been said, Harriet can neither read nor write; her letters are all written by an amanuensis, and she seems to have an idea that by laying her hand on this person, her feelings may be transmitted to the one to whom she is writing. These feelings are sometimes very poetically expressed. I have by me some of those letters; in one of them she says: "I lay my hand on the shoulder of the writer of this letter, and I wish for you, and all your offsprings, a through ticket in the Gospel train to Glory."

In another letter she has dictated this sentence:

"I ask of my Heavenly Father, that when the last trump sounds, and my name is called, I may stand close by your side, to answer to the call." Probably many of her friends and correspondents might contribute facts and incidents in Harriet's life quite as interesting as any I have mentioned, but I have no way of getting at them.

Harriet had long cherished the idea of having her hospital incorporated, and placed in charge of the Zion African Methodist Church of Auburn, and she was particularly anxious to come into possession of a lot of twenty-five acres of land, near her own home, to present to it as a little farm. This lot was to be sold at auction, and on the day of the sale Harriet appeared with a very little money, and a determination to have the land, cost what it might.

"Dey was all white folks but me dere, Missus, and dere I was like a blackberry in a pail ob milk, but I hid down in a corner, and no one know'd who was biddin'. De man began down pretty low, and I kept goin' up by fifties; he got up to twelve hundred, thirteen hundred, fourteen hundred, and still dat voice in the corner kept goin' up by fifties. At last it got up to fourteen hundred and fifty, an' den oders stopped biddin', an' de man said, 'All done! who is de buyer?' 'Harriet Tubman,' I shouted. 'What! dat ole nigger?' dey said. 'Old woman, how you ebber gwine to pay fer dat lot ob land?' 'I'm gwine home to tell de Lawd Jesus all about it,' I said."

After telling the Lord Jesus all about it, Harriet went down to a bank, obtained the money by mortgaging the land, and then requested to have a deed made out, making the land over to the Zion African Methodist Church. And her mind is easy about her hospital, though with many persons the trouble would be but just beginning, as there is interest on the mortgage to be paid.

Though the hospital is no longer on her hands, you will never find her without several poor creatures under her care. When I last saw her she was providing for five sick and injured ones. A blind woman came one day to her door, led by four little children—her husband had turned her out of his house, and like all other poor distressed black people, who could get there, she made her way to Harriet. Before the next morning a fifth was added to the group. As soon as it was possible Harriet dressed the whole six in white and took them to a Methodist church and had them baptized.

A little account of this was sent to the "Evangelist," and the almost immediate response was seventy-five dollars, which was of great benefit in providing for the needs of the growing family.

This faithful creature will probably not live much longer, and her like will not be seen again. But through the sale of the last edition of her "Memoir," and some other sources of income, her wants will be abundantly supplied.

Harriet's friends will be glad to learn that she has lately been for some time in Boston, where a surgical operation was performed upon her head, the skull (which was crushed by a weight thrown by her master more than seventy years before) being successfully raised. Harriet's account of this operation is rather amusing.

"Harriet," said Professor Hopkins, "what is the matter with your head? Your hair is all gone!"

"Why, dat's where dey shaved it off befo' dey cut my head open."

"Cut your head open, Harriet? What do you mean?"

"Wal, sir, when I was in Boston I walked out one day, an' I saw a great big buildin', an' I asked a man what it was, an' he said it was a hospital. So I went right in, an' I saw a young man dere, an' I said, 'Sir, are you a doctah?' an' he said he was; den I said, 'Sir, do you t'ink you could cut my head open?'

"'What do you want your head cut open fer?' he said.

"Den I tol' him de whole story, an' how my head was givin' me a powerful sight of trouble lately, with achin' an' buzzin', so I couldn' get no sleep at night.

"An' he said, 'Lay right down on dis yer table,' an' I lay down."

"Didn't he give you anything to deaden the pain, Harriet?"

"No, sir; I jes' lay down like a lamb fo' de slaughter, an' he sawed open my skull, an' raised it up, an' now it feels more comfortable." "Did you suffer very much?"

"Yes, sir, it hurt, ob cose; but I got up an' put on my bonnet an' started to walk home, but my legs kin' o' gin out under me, an' dey sont fer a ambulance an' sont me home."

It has been hoped that this remarkable experience might result in giving Harriet a new lease of life, but I am sorry to say she is very feeble, and I fear will not be with us much longer.

Her "through ticket" has long been ready for her, and when her last journey is accomplished can we doubt that she will be welcomed to one of those many mansions prepared for those who have spent their lives in the Master's service?

APPENDIX.

The following letters to the writer from those well-known and distinguished philanthropists, Hon. Gerrit Smith and Wendell Phillips, and one from Frederick Douglass, addressed to Harriet, will serve as the best introduction that can be given of the subject of this memoir to its readers:

Letter from Hon. Gerrit Smith.

MY DEAR MADAME: I am happy to learn that you are to speak to the public of Mrs. Harriet Tubman. Of the remarkable events of her life I have no personal knowledge, but of the truth of them as she describes them I have no doubt.

I have often listened to her, in her visits to my family, and I am confident that she is not only truthful, but that she has a rare discernment, and a deep and sublime philanthropy.

Letter from Wendell Phillips.

DEAR MADAME: The last time I ever saw John Brown was under my own roof, as he brought Harriet Tubman to me, saying: "Mr. Phillips, I bring you one of the best and bravest persons on this continent— General Tubman, as we call her."

He then went on to recount her labors and sacrifices in behalf of her race. After that, Harriet spent some time in Boston, earning the confidence and admiration of all those who were working for freedom. With their aid she went to the South more than once, returning always with a squad of self-emancipated men, women, and children, for whom her marvelous skill had opened the way of escape. After the war broke out, she was sent with indorsements from Governor Andrew and his friends to South Carolina, where in the service of the Nation she rendered most important and efficient aid to our army.

In my opinion there are few captains, perhaps few colonels, who have done more for the loyal cause since the war began, and few men who did before that time more for the colored race, than our fearless and most sagacious friend, Harriet.

Letter from Frederick Douglass.

DEAR HARRIET: I am glad to know that the story of your eventful life has been written by a kind lady, and that the same is soon to be published. You ask for what you do not need when you call upon me for a word of commendation. I need such words from you far more than you can need them from me, especially where your superior labors and devotion to the cause of the lately enslaved of our land are known as I know them. The difference between us is very marked. Most that I have done and suffered in the service of our cause has been in public, and I have received much encouragement at every step of the way. You, on the other hand, have labored in a private way. I have wrought in the day—you in the night. I have had the applause of the crowd and the satisfaction that comes of being approved by the multitude, while the most that you have done has been witnessed by a few trembling, scarred, and foot-sore bondmen and women, whom you have led out of the house of bondage, and whose heartfelt "God bless you" has been your only reward. The midnight sky and the silent stars have been the witnesses of your devotion to freedom and of your heroism. Excepting John Brown—of sacred memory—I know of no one who has willingly encountered more perils and hardships to serve our enslaved people than you have. Much that you have done would seem improbable to those who do not know you as I know you. It is to me a great pleasure and a great privilege to bear testimony to your character and your works, and to say to those to whom you may come, that I regard you in every way truthful and trustworthy.

Extracts from a Letter written by Mr. Sanborn, Secretary of the Massachusetts Board of State Charities.

MY DEAR MADAME: Mr. Phillips has sent me your note, asking for reminiscences of Harriet Tubman, and testimonials to her extraordinary story, which all her New England friends will, I am sure, be glad to furnish.

I never had reason to doubt the truth of what Harriet said in regard to her own career, for I found her singularly truthful. Her imagination is warm and rich, and there is a whole region of the marvelous in her nature, which has manifested itself at times remarkably. Her dreams and visions, misgivings and forewarnings, ought not to be omitted in any life of her, particularly those relating to John Brown.

She was in his confidence in 1858-9, and he had a great regard for her, which he often expressed to me. She aided him in his plans, and expected to do so still further, when his career was closed by that wonderful campaign in Virginia. The first time she came to my house, in Concord, after that tragedy, she was shown into a room in the evening, where Brackett's bust of John Brown was standing. The sight of it, which was new to her, threw her into a sort of ecstacy of sorrow and admiration, and she went on in her rhapsodical way to pronounce his apotheosis.

She has often been in Concord, where she resided at the houses of Emerson, Alcott, the Whitneys, the Brooks family, Mrs. Horace Mann, and other well-known persons. They all admired and respected her, and nobody doubted the reality of her adventures. She was too real a person to be suspected. In 1862, I think it was, she went from Boston to Port Royal, under the advice and encouragement of Mr. Garrison, Governor Andrew, Dr. Howe, and other leading people. Her career in South Carolina is well known to some of our officers, and I think to Colonel Higginson, now of Newport, R.I., and Colonel James Montgomery, of Kansas, to both of whom she was useful as a spy and guide, if I mistake not. I regard her as, on the whole, the most extraordinary person of her race I have ever met. She is a negro of pure, or almost pure blood, can neither read nor write, and has the characteristics of her race and condition. But she has done what can scarcely be credited on the best authority, and she has accomplished her purposes with a coolness, foresight, patience and wisdom, which in a white man would have raised him to the highest pitch of reputation.

I am, dear Madame, very truly your servant,

Letter from Hon. Wm.H. Seward.

MY DEAR SIR: Harriet Tubman, a colored woman, has been nursing our soldiers during nearly all the war. She believes she has a claim for faithful services to the command in South Carolina with which you are connected, and she thinks that you would be disposed to see her claim justly settled.

I have known her long, and a nobler, higher spirit, or a truer, seldom dwells in the human form. I commend her, therefore, to your kind and best attentions.

Letter from Col. James Montgomery.

BRIG.-GEN. GILMORE, Commanding Department of the South—

GENERAL: I wish to commend to your attention, Mrs. Harriet Tubman, a most remarkable woman, and invaluable as a scout. I have been acquainted with her character and actions for several years.

I am, General, your most ob't servant,

Letter from Mrs. Gen. A. Baird.

The bearer of this, Harriet Tubman, a most excellent woman, who has rendered faithful and good services to our Union army, not only in the hospital, but in various capacities, having been employed under Government at Hilton Head, and in Florida; and I commend her to the protection of all officers in whose department she may happen to be.

She has been known and esteemed for years by the family of my uncle, Hon. Gerrit Smith, as a person of great rectitude and capabilities.

Letter from Hon. Gerrit Smith.

I have known Mrs. Harriet Tubman for many years. Seldom, if ever, have I met with a person more philanthropic, more self-denying, and of more bravery. Nor must I omit to say that she combines with her sublime spirit, remarkable discernment and judgment.

During the late war, Mrs. Tubman was eminently faithful and useful to the cause of our country. She is poor and has poor parents. Such a servant of the country should be well paid by the country. I hope that the Government will look into her case.

Testimonial from Gerrit Smith.

The bearer, Harriet Tubman, needs not any recommendation. Nearly all the nation over, she has been heard of for her wisdom, integrity, patriotism, and bravery. The cause of freedom owes her much. The country owes her much.

I have known Harriet for many years, and I hold her in my high esteem.

Certificate from Henry K. Durrant, Acting Asst. Surgeon, U.S.A.

I certify that I have been acquainted with Harriet Tubman for nearly two years; and my position as Medical Officer in charge of "contrabands" in this town and in hospital, has given me frequent and ample opportunities to observe her general deportment; particularly her kindness and attention to the sick and suffering of her own race. I take much pleasure in testifying to the esteem in which she is generally held.

Dated at Beaufort, S.C., the 3d day of May, 1864.

I concur fully in the above.

The following are a few of the passes used by Harriet throughout the war. Many others are so defaced that it is impossible to decipher them.

HILTON HEAD, PORT ROYAL, S.C., Feb. 19, 1863.

Pass the bearer, Harriet Tubman, to Beaufort and back to this place, and wherever she wishes to go; and give her free passage at all times, on all Government transports. Harriet was sent to me from Boston by Governor Andrew, of Massachusetts, and is a valuable woman. She has permission, as a servant of the Government, to purchase such provisions from the Commissary as she may need.

General Gilmore, who succeeded General Hunter in command of the Department of the South, appends his signature to the same pass.