one and two hundred miles from Cleaveland, on Lake Erie, a place I was desirous of reaching on my way to Canada. This I know will sound strangely to the ears of people in foreign lands, but it is nevertheless true. An American citizen was fleeing from a democratic, republican, Christian government, to receive protection under the monarchy of Great Britain. While the people of the United States boast of their freedom, they at the same time keep three millions of their own citizens in chains: and while I am seated here in sight of Bunker Hill Monument, writing this narrative. I am a slave, and no law. not even in Massachusetts, can protect me from the hands of the slave-holder!
Before leaving this good Quaker friend, he inquired what my name was besides William. I told him that I had no other name. "Well," said he, "thee must have another name. Since thee has got out of slavery, thee has become a man, and men always have two names."
I told him that he was the first man to extend the hand of friendship to me, and I would give him the privilege of naming me.
"If I name thee," said he, "I shall call thee Wells Brown, after myself."
