Famous folk from Boston and New York and Philadelphia began appearing on Alexander Street. Somebody said he’d recognized Horace Greeley, editor of a newspaper in New York; and somebody else was sure he saw the great preacher, Wendell Phillips. The neighbors grew accustomed to seeing Mr. Daniel Anthony’s huge carryall drive up of a Sunday afternoon and stop in front of the house, while all the Douglass family piled in. Mr. Anthony’s big place with its rows of fruit trees was several miles out in the country. Evidently that was where they went. Then they talked about Mr. Anthony’s daughter, Susan B. Anthony. She was pretty famous herself—what with going around the country and getting her name in all the papers. Some of the men shook their heads over this. But the women bit off the threads of their sewing cotton with a snap and eyed each other significantly. They reminded their men folks that the Woman’s State Temperance Convention had been a pretty important affair.
“Temperance conventions is one thing,” said the men, “but this talk about women voting is something else!”
Then one lady spoke up and said she’d heard their neighbor Frederick Douglass make a speech about women voting. “And it was wonderful!” she added.
“Seems like he’d have enough on his hands trying to free slaves!” grumbled one man, snapping his suspenders.
Douglass did have a lot on his hands. The North Star was a large sheet, published weekly, and it cost eighty dollars a week to issue. Everybody rejoiced when the circulation hit three thousand. There were many times when Douglass was hard pressed for money, and the mechanical work of getting out the paper was arduous. The entire family was drafted. Lewis and Frederick learned typesetting, and both boys delivered papers. The two little fellows soon became a familiar sight on Rochester streets, papers under their arms and school books strapped to their backs.
But the paper was only part of Douglass’ work. One whole winter he lectured evenings at Corinthian Hall. Other seasons he would take an evening train to Victor, Farmington, Canandaigua, Geneva, Waterloo, Buffalo, Syracuse or elsewhere. He would speak in some hall or church, returning home the same night. In the morning Martin Delaney would find him at his desk, writing or mailing papers.
Sleep in his house was an irregular business. At any hour of the day or night Underground “passengers” arrived. They came sometimes in carriages, with Quaker capes thrown about their shoulders; or they came under loads of wheat or lumber or sacks of flour. Some of them rode in boldly on the train, and more than once a packing-box arrived, marked Open with Care.
Every agent of the Underground Railroad risked fine and imprisonment. They realized they were bailing out the ocean with a teaspoon, yet the joy of freeing one more slave was recompense enough. One time Douglass had eleven fugitives under his roof. And there they had to remain until Douglass could collect enough money to send them on to Canada. His wife cooked numerous pots of food which quickly vanished. “Passengers” slept in the attic and barn loft.
Many people in Rochester became involved. One evening after dark a well-dressed, middle-aged man knocked at Douglass’ door and introduced himself as the law partner of the United States commissioner of that city. He would not sit down.
“I have come to tell you,” he said, “that an hour ago the owner of three slaves who have escaped from Maryland was in our office. He says he has traced them to Rochester. He has papers for their arrest, and he is coming to your house!”