Songs of Sorrow: Lucy McKim Garrison and Slave Songs of the United States

1

With Voices to Sing!

Roll, Jordan Roll

March, angels, march! March, angels march!

My soul am rise to heav’n Lord,

where de heav’n’e Jording roll.

March, angels march! March, angels march!

My soul am rise to heav’n Lord,

where de heav’n’ Jording roll.

Little chilen sittin’ on de Tree ob Life,

Where de heav’n’ Jording roll, Oh!

Roll Jording, roll Jording, Roll, Jording, roll!

Little chilen sittin’ on de Tree ob Life,

Where de heav’n’ Jording roll.

Oh! Roll, Jording, roll Jording, Roll, Jording, Roll!

—Collected on St. Helena Island, South Carolina, July 1862, by Lucy McKim

In his groundbreaking work The Souls of Black Folk W. E. B. Du Bois introduced in his chapter titled Of the Sorrow Songs the circumstances of the discovery of black song in the South in the early years of the Civil War.

. . . in war-time came the singular Port Royal experiment after the capture of Hilton Head, and perhaps for the first time North met the southern slave face to face and heart to heart with no third witness. The Sea Islands of the Carolinas, where they met, were filled with a black folk of primitive type, touched and moulded less by the world about them than any others outside the Black Belt. Their appearance was uncouth, their language funny, but their hearts were human and their singing stirred men with a mighty power. Thomas Wentworth Higginson hastened to tell of these songs, and Miss McKim and others urged upon the world their rare beauty.¹

Thomas Wentworth Higginson told his own story of his meeting with black song as the commanding officer of a black regiment in the South Carolina Sea Islands in 1863–64, but the story of Miss McKim, Lucy McKim, is less well known. It is a story that began at the moment when Port Royal became a door suddenly thrown open to challenging worlds of experience for these newly freed men and women, a world which they in their turn would enrich with their unique treasure of song.

On May 21, 1862, a young woman named Ellen Wright wrote to her brother Frank to tell him the news of her friend Lucy McKim.

We have all been thrown into comparative consternation, by Lucy’s projected trip to Port Royal. She and her father expect to leave these peaceful parts tonight, or tomorrow to sail from New York immediately to the Port. Lucy is going as Asst., and Secretary to her father, who expects to be very busy. She is delighted . . . with the anticipation, & can hardly sleep o’ nights for thinking of it—I dare say she will dash into some transcendental scheme of a school or something of missionary aspect, and never be heard of again in civilized circles. They say she will be back in a month.²

Within a month Lucy McKim had returned to her mother and to her brother and sister in Philadelphia from Port Royal and from the plantations and slave quarters where she had been living on nearby St. Helena Island, on the coast of South Carolina. She was only nineteen years old, but her short journey would leave its imprint on the rest of her life. What grew from her emotional encounters with the cruelties of slavery in the small, threatened enclave freed by the Union forces only a few months before, and by her discovery of the enduring strength of the slaves’ songs she heard there, was the book Slave Songs of the United States. On its publication in 1867 it was the first book to acknowledge the achievement of the songs that had emerged from slavery’s shadows.

Lucy McKim made the journey on a small coastal steamer sailing from New York with her father, James Miller McKim, who was directing the activities of the Port Royal Relief Committee in Philadelphia. He was the leading figure in the group that had hastily organized the committee five months before. Their purpose was to aid the efforts to feed, educate, and care for the nearly one thousand slaves who had been abandoned on St. Helena Island when the plantation owners had fled the attack of the Union steam frigates the autumn before. The island was a flat table of dark earth that had been deposited by the drifting currents of rivers emptying into the sea at the end of their passage through South Carolina’s inland countryside. It was the low bluffs of St. Helena that lined the northern shore of the broad bay that opened onto Port Royal Sound.

A few weeks earlier other hurriedly organized relief committees in Boston and New York had begun sending teachers and supervisors to the island, but Lucy and her father landed in the midst of the hapless confusions of an uncertain war. They found themselves spending their nights in abandoned mansions on isolated plantations, their days swept by uneasy rumor, with people around them nervously conscious of the threat of Confederate forces encircling them only miles away. No one knew what the situation demanded, since no one had experienced a situation like it before. Lucy was traveling with her father as his assistant and secretary, but he found himself forced to attend one hurriedly organized meeting after another, swaying over rutted dirt roads from one plantation to the next in the makeshift carriages that were all that had been left behind in their owners’ desperate flight. His days were spent trying to sort through the demands and complaints that met him on every side. Lucy was left the time to walk into the slaves’ quarters, to listen to their stories, and in the darkness at night to sit on rude benches in their wretched cabins and listen to their outpouring of song.

What Lucy McKim experienced in those weeks in the South Carolina plantation slave quarters was the same shattering discovery of slavery’s realities as that of many others like her who ventured into the South at this moment. In a letter to her mother, she cried, How lukewarm we have been! How little we knew! Her father’s mission was to create some kind of order out of the chaotic efforts to provide relief for the people on the islands, to secure supplies of food and clothing, and to organize medical treatment. Through the schools that were opening as rapidly as teachers could be found, groups like her father’s relief committee accepted a commitment to help the slaves take the first steps toward a real freedom through education. What she and her father learned, as did so many others making the journey, was that the slaves may have been the South’s most valued property, but in many circumstances they were the most harshly treated of all its possessions. These early encounters with the cruel realities of slavery helped strengthen the resolve of these newly arrived volunteers to continue with their work, whatever the difficulties.

Among the thousands of relief workers, missionaries, opportunists, and idealists who were frantically attempting to fill the void left in the South by the collapse of an entire social system, there were many who also heard the slaves’ songs and were moved by the songs’ power. In their early months other volunteers on St. Helena began to jot down verses of songs in letters they sent home, or in their journals. It was Lucy McKim who would be the first to dream of gathering this treasure of song into a book, though it would not be until the war’s end that she would find others who shared her belief in the music’s value, and who could bring their own knowledge to aid her in the work. At its publication in 1867 what appeared for the first time in their book were the great sorrow songs, the spirituals created in slavery.

What Lucy McKim and many others of the visitors to the coastal enclave realized was that the changes they were bringing themselves to the islands would have lingering consequences. Within only a few years the songs and the unique styles of singing them would inevitably change, reflecting the influence of freedom, of the first rudimentary education, and of the Christian fervor of northern missionaries. The life of slavery itself that had produced their songs was seemingly swept away by the changes brought by Reconstruction at the war’s end, even though its effects would linger for generations as change came slowly to the South.

Lucy McKim was raised in the large Quaker community of Philadelphia, but her father, James Miller McKim, with his studies nearly completed to become a Presbyterian minister, was deflected from his course by a meeting with the eloquent Quaker speaker and social agitator Lucretia Mott. Though he never fully became a Quaker himself, he left the Presbyterian Church. His daughter Lucy, he wrote in an account of his own travels to South Carolina, was a young lady who was of no religious denomination, but who had been tenderly raised outside of sectarian pales on the outskirts of liberal Quakerism.³

Much of Lucy’s story followed the familiar American pattern of that time of a sheltered young woman’s upbringing in her home, an education that taught domestic skills, and finally marriage as the goal. With her family’s more liberal attitudes, music was also allowed to assume a larger role, and she became a skilled and ambitious pianist. For Lucy, and for most of those who were to be her friends, there was also another commitment that left an imprint on their daily lives. Her story is also the story of the men and women in America joined by their passionate conviction that slavery was an evil that must be overcome, whatever the cost. Her father was a committed, tireless abolitionist who dedicated his life to the struggle for emancipation. As the director of the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery Office he spent long hours every day in his downtown Philadelphia office writing articles and pleas, patiently answering inquiries and soliciting funds to further the work. He openly acknowledged his support of the work of the Underground Railroad, though this was an unlawful act which could lead to imprisonment and heavy fines. Sometimes he brought fugitives from his office where they’d sought help to his home and his family. There the slaves were hidden and provided with food and clothing and a moment of anxious rest until safe transfer to the next station could be arranged.

It is not often understood today how seriously the lives of the abolitionists’ children were affected by their parents’ commitment to their cause. The country was riven by the passionate convictions of both sides. Their homes could be attacked by mobs at any time. In Philadelphia, not long before Lucy was born, a jeering crowd set fire to a newly built meeting house where the abolitionists had begun to hold meetings, and they were diverted from burning the home of Lucretia Mott and attacking her family only by the impulsive action of a friend who hurried ahead of the mob and misdirected them to give the Motts enough time to escape.

The children of abolitionist families often were subject to harassment in the schoolrooms, and many, like Lucy, were sent away to schools with teaching methods that were considered by most of their neighbors as dangerously radical. Often the abolitionists’ children spent much of their adolescence separated from their families. As they entered their teens, Lucy, her sister, and her younger brother were sent to a New Jersey progressive school where boys and girls sat in the same classrooms and the girls were encouraged to speak. It was a point of moral principle for the school’s staff that the school’s sympathies were abolitionist. There were gymnasium classes so both boys and girls could exercise, and the students of all ages were encouraged to take part in school dramatics, with girls performing on the stage with the boys. None of these activities would have been acceptable to most Americans. The young students who were sent to such schools usually left them with a lifelong devotion to the friendships they had made there. When Lucy’s friend Ellen Wright was eighty-one she began writing letters to old school comrades to see if someone could be encouraged to write a history of their school.

Lucretia Mott, her husband, her sisters, and the children in their family shared the idealism of Lucy McKim’s family. Her own daughters were Lucy’s age and she grew up almost as a sister, the Mott household as much a home as her own. Lucy’s lifelong friend Ellen Wright was the daughter of Lucretia Mott’s sister Martha, who was married to a lawyer in Auburn, New York. Martha and her family were close friends and allies of the legendary Harriet Tubman who lived nearby. An ex-slave herself, Tubman risked her life again and again to return to the South to lead escapees to freedom.

Close to all of them who were committed to the abolitionist cause was the family of the nation’s most radical and influential abolitionist leader, William Lloyd Garrison. It was Garrison who, on January 1, 1831, proclaimed on the front page of his newly launched newspaper, The Liberator:

I am in earnest—I will not equivocate—I will not excuse—I will not retreat a single inch—AND I WILL BE HEARD!

The closely woven lives of these idealistic families, their dreams and their hopes at this moment of turbulence and crisis in the American journey, were the backdrop for the personal story of Lucy McKim and of those associated with her who helped to preserve the spirituals of slavery. The idealistic editors of Slave Songs of the United States were determined, much as William Lloyd Garrison, that these songs should be heard. Thanks to the assistance of William Francis Allen and Charles Pickard Ware, who joined her in the work, there remains from the dark shadows of the Civil War and Reconstruction this imperishable legacy of African American song.

The publication of Slave Songs of the United States is the one moment at which Lucy McKim emerges from the anonymity of most ordinary lives, but there is another dimension that lends a greater depth to her story. Thanks to her lifelong friendship with Ellen Wright—the young woman who wrote the letter to her brother announcing that Lucy was intending to sail to South Carolina—we have an enduring document of the lives of two American women at this period of the nation’s division and struggle. Hundreds of letters were saved of a correspondence that is often disturbingly frank in its descriptions of their first pangs of adolescence, the tumult of their emotions as young women, and the physical pain and risk in their lives as young wives and mothers. Over weeks and months they wrote each other daily, on some days a second letter quickly following the first. In the spring of 1861 the letters reflected the fervor of their immediate response to the outbreak of the Civil War. In a show of emotion they proclaimed their indignation at the young men of their acquaintance who declined to enlist and take part in the fighting—fighting that as women they knew they could never experience themselves. In the letters also abruptly come the wrenching moments when the first deaths of the young men they had sent away with such excitement forced upon them a deeper understanding of the war’s bitter realities. The letters in the years that followed fill with the excitements of marriage and motherhood. At the last, the letters reflect a trailing wistfulness as the demands of these new roles threatened to consume anything else they might once have dreamed of becoming. The letters themselves tell much of Lucy’s story.

Also in the letters is her impassioned protest against the limitations that were placed on her life as a woman in her society. She understood that it would be marriage, with its tight legal and social bonds, that at some moment lay in her future, but she asked for more freedom, more opportunity now. She felt the constraints most keenly in the war, when she was forced to accept the reality that as a woman she could never participate in the decisions or the drama of these decisive years. On January 21, 1863, she stormed in a letter to Ellen:

Sometimes it seems as if God could not really know how willing we should be for any work, or he would give us some.⁴

And again in the winter of 1863 with her life thrown into despair by the death in battle of a man she had come to love she complained bitterly:

I have as much influence in the fate of Greece whose history I read, as I have in the fate of America, that I love with a love borne of sorrow, whose good happiness is nearer to my heart than is father or mother or brother or every being under the sun. The whole cry of my soul is that all battles may not be fought without my having fired one shot, that all the pain may not have passed without my having saved one sufferer.⁵

Although Lucy shared the enthusiasms and confusions of any young girl growing up at that time, she was supported by her family in one of her own ambitions. She could spend her mornings in piano practice, and she became a gifted pianist, at a period in American life when few women had the opportunity to reach a professional level, or nearly professional, in the world of classical music. To help with the family’s always uncertain finances she and her sister advertised in a local newspaper that they were available to give instruction, and they had been qualified for their work by accepted older musicians. Lucy’s pupils were at the beginning confined to young cousins. She was only fifteen, and she would continue teaching and performing in local recitals for the next dozen years. What she brought with her when she journeyed to South Carolina were her musical skills. It was her musical training, her musicality that enabled her to hear the richness of the slaves’ songs, and it was her musical intuition that lay behind her profound emotional response to their music. Her training had been in the classic European concert tradition, but her musical sensitivities—and her heart—were as open to the singing of the slaves.

Four months after Lucy’s return from Port Royal she published what was only the second appearance in the United States of a serious musical setting of a slave song, the plaintive Poor Rosy, Poor Gal, composing her own piano accompaniment. At the same time, announcing the publication of the song, she wrote the first article to appear in a national music journal, Dwight’s Journal of Music, published in Boston, describing what she considered to be some of the unique characteristics of African American song. Her spirited article, which she sent to the journal as a letter, was different from other travelers’ accounts that had begun to appear at the same moment. Those who also were hearing the slave songs for the first time generally told the story of their dramatic experience and their stirred responses to the wretched condition of the newly freed slaves. In her article Lucy strove to describe the character of the singing she had heard and the musical elements that made it distinctive. What was obvious in her writing was that it was her hard-earned skills as a pianist and musician that had helped her understand what she heard in her weeks on the islands in South Carolina.

In her article she tried to put into words what the songs had taught her. She wrote:

The wild, sad strains tell, as the sufferers themselves never could, of crushed hopes, keen sorrow, and a dull, daily misery which covered them as hopelessly as the fog from the rice-swamps.⁶

The book that finally reached the public in the turmoil of the postwar years, Slave Songs of the United States, failed to interest the editors of some of the nation’s leading journals, but it was widely reviewed and its first edition was a popular success, selling out its copies within a few weeks after its publication. At the same moment, however, its publisher merged with two other publishing interests, and the promised second edition of the book did not appear. It was not until four years later that it made its appearance with another publisher. Half a century would pass before it was discovered again in the excited awakening of interest in African American culture in the Harlem Renaissance. It was republished in 1929 in a facsimile printing of their original edition, and it has been steadily in print in the years since then, often in multiple editions.

There was no thought in 1867 of the three editors who had been associated with the book continuing with the work. Each had moved on with their lives. Lucy was the mother of a six-month-old baby, without the financial resources to turn her child over to nannies or servants. One of the men, William Allen, had taken on a new and challenging academic post. The other, Charles Ware, returned to St. Helena Island, resuming his work as a supervisor on one of the island’s plantations. Though he continued to collect songs, he found that there were now fewer songs to be heard. The three editors during their stays on St. Helena Island had themselves heard and annotated almost two-thirds of the songs that were included in the book.

In an unsigned review of the book with Lucy as one of its writers they wrote in conclusion, We shall be disappointed if many of the airs do not become popular.⁷ Already within their lifetimes the airs in its pages, the great sorrow songs of slavery, all but a handful appearing here for the first time, had taken their place in the world’s musical culture. Lucy McKim had dreamed that in these songs, the greatest of them in these pages—Roll, Jordan, Roll, Blow Your Trumpet, Gabriel, The Lonesome Valley, Lord, Remember Me, Michael, Row the Boat Ashore, Many Thousand Go, Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Had, Rock a’ My Soul in de Bosom of Abraham, and Climbing Jacob’s Ladder—the bitter story of slavery had been told. The role of these songs in preserving and glorifying the spirit of the people who created and sang them was the fulfillment of her dream.

2

Come Liberty!

Alas! and am I born for this,

To wear this slavish chain?

Deprived of all created bliss,

Through hardship, toil, and pain!

How long have I in bondage lain,

And languished to be free!

Alas! and must I still complain—

Deprived of liberty.

Oh, Heaven! and is there no relief

This side the silent grave—

To sooth the pain—to quell the grief

And anguish of a slave?

Come Liberty, thou cheerful sound,

Roll through my ravished ears!

Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,

And drive away my fears.

—George Moses Horton

On Liberty and Slavery, 1829

(Born into slavery c. 1795, escaped to freedom with Sherman’s army, 1865)

For children like Lucy McKim who grow up in a closely knit family, it is their mother and father who are the background against which the adventure of their lives will be played. The years before her parents’ marriage and her own childhood—the 1830s and the 1840s—were a period of rapid change and expansion, ferment, disputation, and uncertainty in the United States. For her father it was a period of challenging demands on his skills and his commitment to his abolitionist principles, but he also felt it as a period of optimism, however strained, and he never questioned his determined faith in the nation’s future. Like so many of his countrymen he still lived in the innocence of the nation’s recent birth. It was an innocence that voiced itself in an optimistic belief that the future could be guided by a uniquely American idealism.

For idealists like James McKim their lives were a continuous expression of their mood of confidence and hope. They would find some way for their nation to live in peace and harmony, while at the same time growing to fulfill what they saw as its clearly defined manifest destiny. Wherever Lucy’s father turned to look around him there was encouragement for these hopes. It was these years that saw the founding of the distinct American social ethos, the beginnings of an American literature, the celebration of the landscape by a new generation of American artists. Slavery was the oppressive shadow that darkened this flush of optimism, but it had hung over the consciousness of the nation since its founding: debated, defended, and attacked. Now McKim was living in a period defined by the conviction shared by many American idealists that the moment had come to end slavery. At the same time there were the first stirrings of the struggle for the rights of women, a cause almost as intensely debated as the question of slavery. It was also a cause that had his support. Lucy’s father was a man who exemplified the emergence of this new American idealism, and without need for questioning he understood that his children would share these dreams.

James Miller McKim’s family had their roots in Scotland. The clan was named either Mac Kim or Mac Kimmie. Many Scots could not continue to live in their country after the defeat of the Scottish armies at Culloden in 1746 and the long years that followed of oppressive English rule. Scotland was left impoverished, and with this fueling their despair a flood of emigration emptied many areas of the land. The middle stop for many Scots on their journey to the British colonies in North America was Northern Ireland, which had a swelling Scottish population, encouraged by the English after the Irish were defeated at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. The Scots were Protestant, and the tensions between them and their Catholic Irish neighbors in Northern Ireland, where they were brought by British entrepeneurs to take up jobs, have yet to be entirely resolved more than three hundred years later.

A James McKim, who was Lucy’s great-grandfather, arrived from Northern Ireland at the small settlement of Carlisle in eastern Pennyslvania in 1774. Lucy’s father, James Miller McKim, was born in Carlisle on November 4, 1810. Carlisle’s grammar school, established in 1773, had been given new status as Dickinson College in 1783. McKim attended the college and graduated in 1828, when he was eighteen. Like most Scots, his family were firm Presbyterians, and he chose the ministry as his profession. He continued his studies at the Theological Seminary at Princeton, in nearby New Jersey, and at Andover College in South Portland, Maine. Unlike other students around him, however, McKim was unsure of his calling to the ministry, and even of his religious faith.

In the next few years there would be two people whose influence and example changed the direction of his life. The first was William Lloyd Garrison, an unyielding abolitionist and defender of women’s rights from Massachusetts. He was only five years older than McKim, but his life had forced him to mature quickly. Garrison’s father had abandoned his family when he was still a boy, and unlike McKim, who was educated in college, Garrison began working early and chose a life as a writer and newspaper editor, openly advocating abolitionist views when he was barely out of his teens. By 1830 he had already been jailed for an article revealing that a Massachusetts businessman was importing and selling slaves, despite the prohibition in the Constitution. The article had appeared in a newspaper he owned jointly with another man, and when his fine was paid by an abolitionist sympathizer, freeing him after seven weeks of confinement, he determined to begin his own publication. The first issue of his newspaper, which he named The Liberator, appeared on January 1, 1831, and on its front page it proclaimed his intentions, which immediately became widely quoted as a rallying cry for abolitionist sympathizers.

I am aware that many object to the severity of my language, but is there not cause for my severity? I will be as harsh as truth, and as uncompromising as justice. On this subject, I do not wish to think, or to speak, or write with moderation! No! No! Tell a man whose house is on fire to give a moderate alarm, tell him moderately rescue his wife from the hands of a ravisher; tell the mother to gradually extricate her babe from the fire into which it has fallen—but urge me not to use moderation in a cause like the present. I am in earnest—I will not equivocate—I will not excuse—I will not retreat a single inch—AND I WILL BE HEARD. . . .

Garrison’s writings had a galvanizing effect on McKim, who was quickly drawn to the abolitionist cause. In 1833, at the age of twenty-three, he became the youngest delegate to attend a major antislavery convention held in Philadelphia, where he became aware of the dedicated Quaker abolitionist and feminist agitator Lucretia Mott. It was Mott who became the second person who would change the direction of his life. A handful of women were permitted to attend the convention, but only as listeners and spectators, and Mott was among them. Anna Davis Hollowell, Mott’s daughter, described Mott’s first awareness of McKim’s presence in her collection James and Lucretia Mott: Life and Letters¹:

. . . when she arose to suggest a change in the final document and used the word transpose she writes I remember one of the younger members turning to see what woman that was there who knew what the word ‘transpose’ meant. . . .

McKim was the young man who turned in his seat to see who the woman might be, and they met at the convention shortly afterwards. Both Lucretia and her husband, James Mott, were drawn to McKim’s enthusiasm and commitment, and they soon also became aware of the crisis of faith he was undergoing.

Lucretia Mott, who would play a large role in both her father’s and Lucy’s lives, was for much of her life one of the best-known figures in Philadelphia’s activist community, where she was a dominant member of the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery Society. When Mott addressed the convention of the Female Anti-Slavery Society in Philadelphia, in the audience were African American women and two of Mott’s daughters. Although for much of her life she was associated with her activities in Philadelphia, she was born on January 3, 1793, on Nantucket Island in Massachusetts. There were two Quaker meeting houses on the island and her father and mother were part of the small Quaker community. She became a schoolteacher while still a teenager, and when her father moved the family to Philadelphia in 1810, James Mott, another young teacher from the school, followed her, and they were married the next year.

Lucy’s father and the Motts would be closely associated in the years that followed, drawn together by the struggle for emancipation. It was in letters she sent to friends that their circle of acquaintances first heard the news of James McKim’s engagement to a popular young Quaker woman. In a letter to friends on October 12, 1840, she wrote that she had only recently held a wedding party for McKim and his bride, Sarah Speakman. The woman McKim was to marry was, like Mott, a Quaker, and in her letter Mott told her friends of her early meetings with McKim, whom she familiarly called Miller, and the effect of herself and her husband on McKim’s decision to leave his own church. With the term right sort she is referring to a rancorous schism within the Quaker community. She and her husband had become what were termed Hicksites, followers of the Quaker leader Elias Hicks, who proposed a more liberal and engaged social role for members of the Quaker assemblies. Mott wrote:

[A friend] is now in the city and is coming here this evening to meet a bridal party, in honor of J. Miller McKim, agent of our Anti-Slavery Society. He has lately married one of the finest Quaker girls of Chester Co., and is well-nigh a Quaker himself—of the right sort, I mean. He came to the city in 1833 to attend the memorable A. S. [Anti-Slavery] Convention, and was one of the youngest signers of the notable document. He was then preparing himself for the pulpit in the Presbyterian Society—the religion of his education. [We] frequently conversed together touching on the doctrines or dogmas of that Society; and on his return home, he read some of Dr. Channing’s works, and some goodly Friends’ books we furnished him, and the result was an entire change of views. . . . He now rejoices in his spiritual liberty, and I doubt not even you would admit that he is every bit as good, as when groping in the midnight dark of sectarian theology.²

Mott herself never swerved from her Quaker beliefs, but she was also committed to liberal understanding in her religious views, and her Quaker faith was never a barrier to friendship with others also committed to the causes of feminism and abolition. As she pointed out in her description of McKim’s religious views, he was well-nigh a Quaker, although he never joined a Quaker assembly. Despite this difference in their beliefs they continued to work together all of their lives. As one of the members of the antislavery society she was witness to many of the trying events and decisions that McKim faced in his everyday work as the society’s agent.

At the time that his engagement to Sarah Speakman had been announced in the Philadelphia newspapers in June 1838, Mott sent the news in a letter to a friend and described the woman who would become Lucy’s mother, a Quaker woman from a prosperous farming family who had been given an unusually thorough and liberal education.

She is ‘tasty’ in her dress, without much ornament, wears straw and beaver bonnets, is not quite as tall as [another friend] lighter complexion and handsomer, altogether very easy in her manners. Her advantages of education have been good and she has profited by them. Her intellect is well cultivated, her moral perceptions clear and quick, and her heart unsullied by vice, or even by the superfluity of naughtiness. In accomplishments she exceeds most young ladies of our Order, plays on the flute, sings sweetly and without waiting to be over-persuaded. When she was here last winter I told James [James Mott] I didn’t know how Miller could have such command over his heart when in company with such a girl, little suspecting that at the very time they had made the exchange and each had the other’s secretly enfolded, enjoying our jokes and remarks in silent exultation. I was much surprised when he told us, and feel a Mother’s affection for them both. She was remarkably open and free with me, coming here, after Miller left Philadelphia, to talk about him and read parts of his letters.³

As was expected, Sarah’s marriage to McKim meant that his bride would be expelled from her Quaker assembly, but she ignored the edict, and continued to consider herself a Quaker, without insisting that her husband and her children join her in her faith.

After their marriage October 3, 1840, McKim continued to act as the society’s publishing agent, despite the poor salary and the difficulties of the work. He was wholly dedicated to the abolitionist cause, and the society continued to be the place where his services could be most useful. Their first child, their daughter Lucy, was born two years later on October 30, 1842. Some years later they took in the daughter of a family relation whose parents had died, and she lived with them as Lucy’s foster sister, Annie, who was a year and a half older. The McKims’ second child, a son, Charles Follen McKim, was born on August 24, 1847.

What was the Philadelphia world that Lucy was born into? When she was still a child the city was described by one of the most quick-eyed and intently curious of all the foreign visitors who came to pass judgment on