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The Autobiography of a Negro by Sam Morphis circa 1896 (as transcribed by Horace Williams, and collected by Paul Green) with additional notes on Sam Morphis |
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Seventy years ago I was born in the home of my master. We called the place the "white" house, or "great" house. My mother was the "house-girl." She was ready, quick and handsome. She was favored above all the slaves on the place. I shared in the partiality of my master for my mother. I was set apart from the rest of the Negro boys. My playmates were the two sons of my master. We were boys together. I was the strongest of the three and the leader in our pranks and sports. Only at meal time and at night were we separated. Oftentimes when we had enjoyed the day, it seemed hard to be separated at night. I once or twice thought about it, but could not understand it.
For several years we grew thus together, having the same set of ideas. The tide of my life ran thus not with that of my race. My lot was not theirs. Now and then a sort of under-tow of race feeling asserted itself; but I was ashamed of it, and it grew weaker while my sympathy with the white people grew stronger. I came to share in the hopes and dreams of the boys. I understood their ambitions. But these hopes and dreams and ambitions belonged to the white boys. There was no idea of a future for me. Just as the current of my fun and frolic was suddenly checked at meal time and at night by a gulf, so my rising life always found itself suddenly walled in. There was no idea of a future that my ambition could embrace. There was no idea about which my rising feeling could freely play and unfold itself. The career of the boys seemed natural. One was to be a preacher; the other, a lawyer. We talked of them as such already, strong, noted, happy. But they had no such idea for me. All my ambition was a deep, undefined feeling. I was twelve years old when I saw this difference between us, but I could understand not a word of it. Another difference forced itself upon me. The white boys had a father and a mother; I had a mother only. This seemed to me a very strange fact�and observing it made stronger the feeling that I was not like others. My life seemed limited in whatever direction I looked. When I was sixteen years old my master died. I shall never forget the day. The state of things at the "quarters" was sad enough. The Negroes were in a panic. The death of the master was the thing most dreaded by our slaves. It meant separation and new masters. And we knew that few masters were like ours. But above the lamentation at the "quarters houses" was the grief of my mother. She was in a state of despair. I did not understand this grief at that time. In due time it was announced that on Thursday all the slaves would be sold a public auction. The Overseer told me that I was among the number to be sold. This news made a strange impression upon me. In a day I seemed to pass from a boy to a man. For the first time in my life I understood what it was to be a slave. I felt the chains and my spirit bowed and groaned, but there was also that in me that seemed to scorn the fact. I understood now the limitations around my ideas. I saw the reason that there was no idea of a future for me. My life was so shut in that no line of action could move out freely. My ideas and feelings were as firmly fastened as was my body. I was a slave through and through, save some of my feelings. There were feelings that struggled for release, but the ideas were lacking. On Wednesday night, the night before the sale, I stole away from the plantation and made my way through the woods to Chapel Hill. This was the seat of the University. From here my master had graduated. Many was the story he told us of his life here. I seemed to drift hither by an inherited impulse. Timidly I made my way into the village and at length engaged as waiter in a boarding house. Here began my real servant life. I saw that I was a Negro and a slave, but I rebelled and determined to spend my life with the white people. As a servant I was quick and strong and almost at once I was the favorite with the students. I grew rapidly into their ideas and feelings, and further still from those of my race. There was now one relation that was the power in my life, that of the slave-master. My ideas and feelings were the product of this one situation. Religion was not a force in my life, nor were moral ideals. I knew no law other than the will of my master; now I knew no law other than he wishes of the students. The slave-consciousness has no self-development, hence it produces no laws. Hence it was that the hand of the Negro was raised against his race. There was no recognized law between Negro and Negro. The students used me as they needed, and I helped them use my race. Notwithstanding the fact that I was not present at the sale, I was sold. My new master however allowed me to buy my time. And this privilege of moving as I chose gave me the idea of physical freedom. By the aid of my friends among the rich students I got together five hundred and fifty dollars and with this sum purchased myself from my second master. This privilege of regulating my physical movements gave me much joy, but it did not satisfy my feelings. Nothing seemed to give me real satisfaction. There was that in my blood that rebelled against my situation. In this frame of mind, restless and chafing, I was called in by some students to make a fourth-hand in a game of Whist. I played in great luck that night and as we won and laughed and talked, my friend on the left, a fine young fellow from Mississippi, said to me, "Sam, why don't you ask the Legislature to make you free?" The idea frightened me. It was new and gave an outlet to my feelings. This was in 1858. The Legislature was to meet in one month. I began promptly with my petition and when the time came I was ready. Armed with a receipt from my master and with a petition numerously signed to the Legislature to grant me to myself, I went to Raleigh to plead my own cause. My feelings had never run so high. The higher emotions of my youth seemed to be seeking entrance again. I sought the legislators one by one and plead my cause. A few listened to me, old students of the University, and promised to help me; but as a rule I was abruptly dismissed. The war was almost here; I saw there was no hope for a Negro. This failure seemed to take the heart out of me. I have been less of a man since that visit to Raleigh. It seemed as if my passions renewed their youth. Even the unrest and chafing were gone, my higher feelings were dead. The restraining impulse had withered away. Just see the condition I was in! My intercourse with the students had fostered my passions, but it had given me a restraining force too, the idea of a future. The Legislature had crushed this. I could not hold property, hence there was no incentive to save. I was not the property of any man, hence I lost the restraining hand of the master. There was no future for me, therefore, there was no incentive to growth. I was not an integral part of my society, hence there was no moral law ordering the purity of my conduct. Religion was an affair of the white folks. Thus was I walled in. The ideas that uplift, develop, and restrain were beyond me. I was simply a play of caprice and passion. My life was a purely physical one. There was no outlet save to the passions; there was no steadiness save that of caprice. Perhaps marriage offers an exception to the above. About this time I was married by the Rev. Professor [William Mercer Green, in 1848 or 1849], afterwards Bishop of Mississippi. My wife was a "house-girl" in the home of the Professor of Law, Judge B[attle]. We were married on the porch of Judge B[attle]'s house. A large number of students came to witness the ceremony. Fifteen cents and an old trunk were all that I possessed. It was of course not necessary for me to support my wife. I needed my daily bread and clothes only. These came from the white folks. I depended upon them like a child. My physical welfare was my only real concern�and this I got from the white folks easily. Hence my only real station in life was this dependence upon the white folks. The war did not mean anything to me. I could not understand it. Why white folks should fight each other in this way I did not understand. Now and then the report came that we were to have our freedom, but I did not believe that anybody could beat our masters. They knew too well how to handle a gun. And I knew they would shoot. I joined the "band box-brigade" and learned to give this toast in response to my drinks: "Here's hoping the winds of France may never blow; The cocks of England may never crow; The Negroes in Africa be scared to pray, Till the Southern Confederacy gains the day!" The results of the war made no deep impression upon me. The news of the end made a surface excitement only. The war was nothing that the Negro had done; it could not make any deep impression upon him. There was a sudden flaring up of hope, but this died out as it rose. The war had this effect upon me. It took from me my student-friends. The University was ruined. The source of my physical welfare was dry. The winter of '65 and '66 stands out clearly in my memory to-day. For the first time in my life I knew what hunger is. Yes, it was the winter of my life. Dec. 22nd, there came a heavy snow. No work could be had in the village. The night of the 23rd we ate our last corn bread. It was a small cake. My wife baked it before our eyes and on the hoe in the ashes. We and the two children devoured it. The next day, the 24th, we had nothing to eat. The snow was still heavy and the weather was cold. We huddled together around the little fire in the mud chimney. It was a long, heavy day for me. Strange feelings filled me. As night came on I left the house and walked over the quiet village. It was not the Christmas Eve of the old days. All the gladness and revelry had gone. I walked around the old place, the home of my wife. The paths were familiar. The quiet of night had fallen. The blaze from the log-fire in the sitting-room shone through the window. Around it the family was gathered. It was safe to proceed. I returned home. My wife understood and simply looked at me. In the early morning we sat around the little table and ate our Christmas chicken. My own hunger had driven me to this deed. Another hunger brought with it a new idea�the idea that I must work and have the results of my work. In other words, I saw that my physical welfare must come out of my own hands. January 1st, I started afresh. This idea gave some steadiness to my life. It seemed to put a new heart into me. I still relied upon the white folks, but between them and my physical welfare I saw my labor. Twenty years went by. I owned a two-story house in the village�and I had a good business. The papers for my house, receipts, mortgages, deed, were held by an old friend�a white man who had done me many a favor. Four years ago he died. His estate went to his sister. Six months later the sister died. She was without family and left her estate to the village church. A few days after her death the executor of the estate informed me that he had the papers for my house and that there were several hundred dollars due. There was a mistake somewhere. I had paid every cent. I was unable to pay again. My house was sold; the money went to the church; my wife and I went to the country and rented a little place. In our old age and poverty and need we sat down and occupied ourselves as best we could. The course of events had been hard. The strongest tie of my life, my faith in the white folks, was broken. This tie was deep in my nature, deeper than it should have been. It was the one thing of which I was proud. I loved and trusted the white folks. I expected my salvation from them. And to this cruel state I am brought. But my eyes are open now. I see what I could not see thirty years ago. I see that it is idle to expect the salvation of a Negro at the hands of a white man. I see that the Negro must be a Negro first, last, and always. I see that the Negro must stand for himself and for his race. I see that, until the Negro develops the race-consciousness and lets this be the central and guiding fact of his life, he can never be more than a slave. Our hope is not in the white man. The white man of the North will no more save us than will the white man of the South. What we need is a strong, intelligent, clear race-consciousness. We need this supreme fact of a people's life to guide our action, to stimulate and enlarge our ideas, and to be a center about which our feelings may play and from which freely move. I sit by my fire in the miserable hut and brood over a misdirected life. Mine was not the power to change it. I was born under the limitations that crushed all my ideas; and there was a darkness in my blood that has weakened every purpose of my life. These facts were not mine to change. While I sit in my helplessness, the light of a new thought steals in and I see in the very waywardness and recklessness of the Negro boy to-day the promise of better things. He does not depend upon the white man. There is not a Negro boy in this village that plays with a white boy. There is not a cook in the village, nor a young girl, that will live in the house of the white folks. She rather hastens through her work, often leaving it but half-done, and walks a mile, in darkness and storm and cold, never failing one night in the year, to be with her own for an hour and then to sleep under the roof of her race. Slowly and surely the Negro race is growing together. I see now the fact and the salvation it will bring. My efforts and aims have all been against the lines of salvation. My life proves the folly of the course. In my distress and my weakness I preach to the Negro to be a Negro and to be for a Negro. And there is some gladness that comes to me when I see that my type of Negro will be soon gone from the face of the earth. Horace Williams' notes: (Titled "The Inner Life of a Negro") There is no doubt that Schleiermacher threw a strong light into the darkness when he determined to consider the problem of Religion from the standpoint of Psychology. Thanks to this student and preacher, we are now advancing towards an accepted solution of parts, or aspects at least, of this human problem. This is high service to humanity from Psychology. The problem of social life is hard and dark to-day. And I believe that Psychology must come to our aid before any substantial progress is made. Especially does it seem that Psychology has a needed word to offer while the Negro problem in under consideration. It is in this belief that I submit the following study. The study, as to every fact, has been read to the Negro and accepted by him. Paul Green's notes: This is the story of the life of an old Negro, Sam Morphis, who died recently near Chapel Hill, North Carolina, the seat of the State University. Separated from others of his race by his superior intellect and cultivation, he was for over fifty years a unique figure in life of the University village. Students and faculty used to make pilgrimages to his hut to taste of his rough wisdom and quaint philosophy. Relic of a former day, he became more and more out of touch with the "New South." His story, told by himself, was secured by H.H. Williams, Professor of Psychology in the University of North Carolina. (Green used Morphis's story in his 1927 Pulitzer Prize winning play In Abraham�s Bosom. John Chapman wrote in his 2006 dissertation Black Freedom and the University of North Carolina, 1793-1960, that "In 1967, when Green deposited the manuscript and a ten-page typescript copy in his personal papers, he wrote, 'Many a time I have thought about the closing lines of Sam�s tragedy�"And there is some gladness that comes to me when I see that my type of Negro will be soon gone from the face of the earth." And like the lonesome bulrush I hang my head in shame, shame not only for myself but for my university which for long generations denied entrance to the very people who like Sam Morphis built its towers and its walls with their muscle power and sweat, their tendons and their bones. We have amends to make and finally are making them�but of course without benefit to Sam.'") Kemp Battle wrote the following about Sam Morphis: Sam Morphis was a picturesque mulatto, a slave, but allowed to "hire his own time," i. e., to regulate his own actions on paying his master, James M. Morphis, who removed from this state to Texas, author of a history of that state, a stipulated sum per annum. This was against the law, but that was evaded by his having a white man, John H. Watson, to be his nominal hirer. Sam was very handsome, full of humor, an expert manager of horses. His occupation was to drive hacks (as the passenger carriages in use were called), a lucrative business before the advent of railroads. His defect was inclination to alcoholic stimulants. In his prime Sam was a great favorite with all classes. As a specimen of his humor I give the following: As he was conveying Professor, now President Winston, from Hillsboro to Chapel Hill, he began to drive recklessly in order to pass all vehicles ahead of him. The Professor saw that he was dangerously near intoxication and prudently insisted on taking the reins. This sobered Sam, and for a full mile he was silent. Suddenly he burst into a laugh and exclaimed, "TO THINK of a gentleman of your cloth driving a gentleman of my cloth!" He married one of Judge Battle's slaves and then considered himself "one of the family." After officiating as a driver of a lady's carriage through the mountains where the Judge was very popular, he was asked how he "got along with the mountaineers." "Splendid," he said. "Never had no trouble. All I had to do was to tell them that I was Judge Battle's son-in-law, and they opened their doors and gave me everything they had." After the war he essayed politics, but his mind was weakening and he did not take as high a position as his natural talent seemed to claim. One of his speeches, in a Republican Convention, caused much mirth. He was advocating the nomination of a candidate, who had been a Democrat. "Mr. President, we ought to nominate Mr. ----. He ought to have the office. He has yearnt (earned) it. He came over to our party on purpose to git it, and we would be ongrateful not to give it to him." Like hosts of "drinking men" his mind became more and more feeble, his little property disappeared, and he would have been sent to the County Home to die the death of a pauper, if one of his daughters had not taken him into her humble home. A mind of decided natural strength ended in idiocy. From a letter from Lucy Martin Battle, April 24, 1851: "Sam Morphis has had the house that Harry [an enslaved carpenter who belonged to William H. Battle] lived in plastered and they will move in I suppose as soon as it is dry enough as Lizzy, I understand is very anxious to go in there." Other notes on Sam Morphis: According to the 1870 U.S. federal census, Morphis was born in 1826, and was living in Chapel Hill. Also living in his household was his wife Lizzie, daughter Alice, and his son (who was two-months old and listed as "Baby Morphis"). Also living in the household was Catie Lewis, a seventy-five-year-old black woman �confined to bed.� In the 1880 census, Sam is 52 years old, Lizzie is 53; their eight year-old son Emerson Charles, nine year-old daughter Adda, six year-old son Emerson, and three year-old daughter Aclor (sp?) lived with them. It is unknown when Morphis died, but it was likely circa 1900. It is currently unknown where he is buried. Sources: Battle, Kemp P. History of the University of North Carolina, Volume I: From its Beginning to the Death of President Swain, 1789-1868. Edwards & Broughton Printing Company, Raleigh, N. C., 1907. 602-603. Chapman, John. Black Freedom and the University of North Carolina, 1793-1960. Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of North Carolina. 2006. Paul Green Papers, Folder 3040, #3693; University of North Carolina's Southern Historical Collection. U.S. Federal Census. Chapel Hill Township. 1870, 1880, 1900, 1910. (Thanks to Ernie Dollar of the Preservation Society of Chapel Hill for providing me with the transcription of this document.) |
| [Created: 15 September 2011] |
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