The name of Free Joe strikes humorouslyupon the ear of memory. It is impossible tosay why, for he was the humblest, the simplest,and the most serious of all God's living creatures,sadly lacking in all those elements thatsuggest the humorous. It is certain, moreover,that in 1850 the sober-minded citizens of thelittle Georgian village of Hillsborough were notinclined to take a humorous view of Free Joe,and neither his name nor his presence provokeda smile. He was a black atom, drifting hitherand thither without an owner, blown about byall the winds of circumstance, and given over toshiftlessness.
The problems of one generation are the paradoxesof a succeeding one, particularly if war,or some such incident, intervenes to clarify the[4]atmosphere and strengthen the understanding.Thus, in 1850, Free Joe represented not only aproblem of large concern, but, in the watchfuleyes of Hillsborough, he was the embodimentof that vague and mysterious danger that seemedto be forever lurking on the outskirts of slavery,ready to sound a shrill and ghostly signal in theimpenetrable swamps, and steal forth under themidnight stars to murder, rapine, and pillage—adanger always threatening, and yet never assumingshape; intangible,