“I knew an old black man, whose piety and childlike trust in God were beautiful to witness.  At fifty-three years old he joined the Baptist church.  He had a most earnest desire to learn to read.  He thought he should know how to serve God better if he could only read the Bible.  He came to me, and begged me to teach him.  He said he could not pay me, for he had no money; but he would bring me nice fruit when the season for it came.  I asked him if he didn’t know it was contrary to law; and that slaves were whipped and imprisoned for teaching each other to read.  This brought tears into his eyes.  ‘Don’t be troubled, uncle Fred,’ said I.  ‘I only told you of the law, that you might know the danger, and be on your guard.’  He thought he could plan to come three times a week without its being suspected.  I selected a quiet nook, where no intruder was likely to penetrate, and there I taught him his A, B, C.  Considering his age, his progress was astonishing.  As soon as he could spell in two syllables he wanted to spell out words in the Bible.  The happy smile that illuminated his face put joy into my heart.  After spelling out a few words, he paused, and said, ‘Honey, it ‘pears when I can read dis good book I shall be nearer to God.  White man is got all de sense.  He can larn easy.  It ain’t easy for ole black man like me.  I only wants to read dis book, dat I may know how to live; den I hab no fear ’bout dying.’
     I tried to encourage him by speaking of the rapid progress he had made.
     ‘Hab patience, child,’ he replied.  ‘I larns slow.’
     I had no need of patience.  His gratitude, and the happiness imparted, were more than a recompense for all my trouble.
     At the end of six months he had read through the New Testament, and could find any text in it.  One day, when he had recited unusually well, I said, ‘Uncle Fred, how do you manage to get your lessons so well?’
     ‘Lord bless you, chile,’ he replied.  ‘You nebber gibs me a lesson dat I don’t pray to God to help me to understan’ what I spells and what I reads.  And he does help me, chile.  Bless His holy name!'”

From Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl Written by Herself, Harriet Ann Jacobs (1813-1897)