lood, had reduced my
strength. I, however, darted back into the woods, before the ferocious
hound could get hold of me, and buried myself in a thicket, where he
lost sight of me. The corn-field afforded me cover, in getting to the
woods. But for the tall corn, Covey would have overtaken me, and made me
his captive. He seemed very much chagrined that he did not catch me,
and gave up the chase, very reluctantly; for I could see his angry
movements, toward the house from which he had sallied, on his foray.

Well, now I am clear of Covey, and of his wrathful lash, for present.
I am in the wood, buried in its somber gloom, and hushed in its solemn
silence; hid from all human eyes; shut in with nature and nature's God,
and absent from all human contrivances. Here was a good place to pray;
to pray for help for deliverance--a prayer I had often made before. But
how could I pray? Covey could pray--Capt. Auld could pray--I would fain
pray; but doubts (arising partly from my own neglect of the means of
grace, and partly from the sham religion which everywhere prevailed,
cast in my mind a doubt upon all religion, and led me to the conviction
that prayers were unavailing and delusive) prevented my embracing the
opportunity, as a religious one. Life, in itself, had almost become
burdensome to me. All my outward relations were against me; I must stay
here and starve (I was already hungry) or go home to Covey's, and have
my flesh torn to pieces, and my spirit humbled under the cruel lash of
Covey. This was the painful alternative presented to me. The day was
long and irksome. My physical condition was deplorable. I was weak, from
the toils of the previous day, and from the want of{182} food and rest;
and had been so little concerned about my appearance, that I had not yet
washed the blood from my garments. I was an object of horror, even to
myself. Life, in Baltimore, when most oppressive, was a paradise to
this. What had I done, what had my parents done, that such a life as
this should be mine? That day, in the woods, I would have exchanged my
manhood for the brutehood of an ox.

Night came. I was still in the woods, unresolved what to do. Hunger had
not yet pinched me to the point of going home, and I laid myself down in
the leaves to rest; for I had been watching for hunters all day, but
not being molested during the day, I expected no disturbance during the
night. I had come to the conclusion that Covey relied upon hunger to
drive