The Duty of Disobedience to the Fugitive Slave Act An Appeal To The Legislators Of Massachusetts, Anti-Slavery Tracts No. 9 — Edition Insights

Biblical Authority vs. Statutory Law

Child anchors her opening appeal in Deuteronomy 23:15, which commands that an escaped servant not be returned to a master. She treats this as a direct contradiction to the Fugitive Slave Act, which requires precisely that return. The epigraph is not decorative; it functions as the tract's central legal premise. Child repeatedly contrasts human enactments with what she calls "God's laws," arguing that no statute violating divine commands deserves obedience. She cites Gregory, a fourth-century bishop, who asked: "Who can be the possessor of human beings save God?" This historical testimony is used to show that Christian opposition to slavery is not novel but ancient. Child does not argue for a separation of church and state; she insists that the state must conform to religious truth. The biblical reference is not merely rhetorical—it is presented as a higher law that nullifies the federal statute.

The Corrosive Effect on Massachusetts

Child warns that enforcing the Fugitive Slave Act damages the moral character of the Commonwealth itself. She describes the "frequent scuffles between despotism and freedom" as demoralizing the people, hardening hearts, and eroding reverence for liberty. The act, she argues, forces citizens into an impossible choice: obey conscience or obey the law. This dilemma "destroys the sanctity of law" and teaches the populace that "might makes right." Child predicts that such lessons will return "in unexpected forms to disturb our own peace and safety." She personalizes the cost by recounting her own tears when Anthony Burns was sent back into slavery, writing that she "wept for my native State, as a daughter weeps for the crimes of a beloved mother." This emotional testimony is not sentimental indulgence; it is evidence of the act's psychological and civic toll.

A Woman's Voice in the Legislature

Child explicitly addresses the gender dynamics of her appeal. She states she feels "no need of apologizing to the Legislature of Massachusetts because a woman addresses them," and she lists women's intellectual and moral contributions to the age. Yet she also acknowledges her lack of a vote, calling herself "a secluded woman" whose tears "may appear to you of little consequence." This self-deprecation is strategic: it underscores the injustice of excluding women from political power while they bear the emotional burden of the state's moral failures. Child's closing plea—"let me die on Free Soil!"—borrows from a poem by William Cowper, imagining a Massachusetts where slaves become free upon breathing its air. The appeal is both personal and political, asking legislators to act for the sake of "outraged justice and humanity" but also for "the honor of the State."

Child's tract is best read as a legal brief written in the language of moral prophecy. She does not merely condemn the Fugitive Slave Act; she attempts to demonstrate its unconstitutionality, its impiety, and its practical dangers to the Commonwealth. Readers should attend to how she weaves together scriptural citation, historical example, and emotional testimony—each serving a distinct argumentative purpose. The tract's brevity (under 17,000 words) and its structure as a numbered series of appeals make it a concentrated example of antebellum abolitionist rhetoric aimed at legislators rather than the general public.

Reading Child’s argument about moral duty, I found myself thinking of quiet afternoons with Liberty and the news — Reading Companion. Her insistence that truth must outlast comfort reminded me of how that book treats information as a living trust. Both feel like old letters from another century, asking not for applause but for honest reflection.