broken dolls. Their flesh was yellow. Already two of them had gone ripe. The other three were more recently dead, their limbs stiff as boards. In that pile of putrefying flesh I sawâor thought I sawâthe trustee from St. George's, the one who'd expelled Absalom and myself. I believe it was him, but the decomposition of his face made a definite identification difficult.
He had not wanted me in his church, or touching him. As things turned out, once we had dug a hole six feet deep and wrapped the fetid corpses in sackcloth, my black hands were the last ones in this world to touch him. We shoveled dirt onto the bodies, and when I could no longer see the trustee's faceâwhich, God forgive me, I hatedâI said a brief prayer that all their souls might wing heavenward, though should that doubtful event happen, I'm sure the trustee would be standing at the gate when I arrived, telling Jesus that my black brethren and I should not be admitted.
But I prayed for him, yes. And for myself (11 Timothy 2:1-3), for the removal of my anger. For does not the Light of the World tell us that we must forgive seven times seventy, if need be?
AUGUST 12,1793
MONDAY, 8:45 P.M.
Just returned from making my rounds to the sick. Walked this morning at approximately 7 A.M. into the palatial home of a woman well known in Philadelphia for the lavish parties she holds in her ballroom. Everywhere my gaze fell I saw wealth. A chandelier, for example, that would pay for the building of ten Bethels. Furniture imported from France. I am certain this woman does not dwell often on Matthew 6:27, where it is written, "Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?" Her servant, a colored girl in my congregation, led me up the quarter-turn stairs to the woman's bedroom, where she lay semiconscious, emaciated as a skeleton. I could tell the disease was far along with her. Most likely, she was bleeding internally. Most of her golden hairânow stiff as strawâhad fallen out onto her pillow. I began unpacking the apothecary case Dr. Rush had given me, laying out glass vials of various medicines, the little weighing scale, and instruments necessary for cupping. The old woman began to rouse. Seeing me, that I was a Negroâand one in her bedroom no less-she began to scream, shouting, "
Get out! Get out!
"
I repacked my case and promptly left. I did not plead with her or beg for the opportunity to save her life so that she could begin plans for her next party. Later in the day, through her servant girl, I was informed of her passing at 4 P.M. Perhaps God has sent this plague for the same reason His wrath destroyed Sodom. To cleanse our city of human corruption...
SEPTEMBER 1, 1793
SUNDAY, 7:00 P.M.
I have been ill, feverish for the last few weeks. Unable to write in addition to my other duties. It is not true that the plague bypasses people of color. For our numbers in Philadelphia, as many Negroes have perished as whites. What, then, heavenly Father, do you want us to learn from this unending devastation?
SEPTEMBER 12, 1793
THURSDAY, 4:18 P.M.
As I promised him, I again visited earlier this afternoon with Dr. Benjamin Rush, and as always our time together was uplifting. I cannot condemn white people precisely because I know someone like the good doctor. From the beginning he supported our black agents of mercy during this epidemic, and he could have fled Philadelphia along with the reportedly twenty thousand others who have abandoned the city, but being a true physician, and man of God, he remained during these months when his services were most needed.
I was discouraged to see, however, that the yellow pallor was upon his face this afternoon. He looked feverish, weakened by his own bout with the disease, and so I begged him not to stand, as he was struggling to do, when I entered his parlor. Slowly, he settled back against the cushions, perspiration beading along his brow, and tried to smile. He gave me the
He had not wanted me in his church, or touching him. As things turned out, once we had dug a hole six feet deep and wrapped the fetid corpses in sackcloth, my black hands were the last ones in this world to touch him. We shoveled dirt onto the bodies, and when I could no longer see the trustee's faceâwhich, God forgive me, I hatedâI said a brief prayer that all their souls might wing heavenward, though should that doubtful event happen, I'm sure the trustee would be standing at the gate when I arrived, telling Jesus that my black brethren and I should not be admitted.
But I prayed for him, yes. And for myself (11 Timothy 2:1-3), for the removal of my anger. For does not the Light of the World tell us that we must forgive seven times seventy, if need be?
AUGUST 12,1793
MONDAY, 8:45 P.M.
Just returned from making my rounds to the sick. Walked this morning at approximately 7 A.M. into the palatial home of a woman well known in Philadelphia for the lavish parties she holds in her ballroom. Everywhere my gaze fell I saw wealth. A chandelier, for example, that would pay for the building of ten Bethels. Furniture imported from France. I am certain this woman does not dwell often on Matthew 6:27, where it is written, "Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?" Her servant, a colored girl in my congregation, led me up the quarter-turn stairs to the woman's bedroom, where she lay semiconscious, emaciated as a skeleton. I could tell the disease was far along with her. Most likely, she was bleeding internally. Most of her golden hairânow stiff as strawâhad fallen out onto her pillow. I began unpacking the apothecary case Dr. Rush had given me, laying out glass vials of various medicines, the little weighing scale, and instruments necessary for cupping. The old woman began to rouse. Seeing me, that I was a Negroâand one in her bedroom no less-she began to scream, shouting, "
Get out! Get out!
"
I repacked my case and promptly left. I did not plead with her or beg for the opportunity to save her life so that she could begin plans for her next party. Later in the day, through her servant girl, I was informed of her passing at 4 P.M. Perhaps God has sent this plague for the same reason His wrath destroyed Sodom. To cleanse our city of human corruption...
SEPTEMBER 1, 1793
SUNDAY, 7:00 P.M.
I have been ill, feverish for the last few weeks. Unable to write in addition to my other duties. It is not true that the plague bypasses people of color. For our numbers in Philadelphia, as many Negroes have perished as whites. What, then, heavenly Father, do you want us to learn from this unending devastation?
SEPTEMBER 12, 1793
THURSDAY, 4:18 P.M.
As I promised him, I again visited earlier this afternoon with Dr. Benjamin Rush, and as always our time together was uplifting. I cannot condemn white people precisely because I know someone like the good doctor. From the beginning he supported our black agents of mercy during this epidemic, and he could have fled Philadelphia along with the reportedly twenty thousand others who have abandoned the city, but being a true physician, and man of God, he remained during these months when his services were most needed.
I was discouraged to see, however, that the yellow pallor was upon his face this afternoon. He looked feverish, weakened by his own bout with the disease, and so I begged him not to stand, as he was struggling to do, when I entered his parlor. Slowly, he settled back against the cushions, perspiration beading along his brow, and tried to smile. He gave me the
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