‘That's a lie,’ called out Mr Hazzard from Connecticut.

As was the custom on the last evening of the eleven-day voyage, the meal-hour was extended, wine was served at table and spirits ran high, prompting several extra courses of congratulatory speeches. Holyhead Mountain appeared faintly on the hori zon, and diners went outdoors to cool their heads, heated with champagne and verbosity. One of the stewards rang a hand-bell, summoning them to the promenade deck. At the invitation of Captain Judkins, a passenger who had till then kept largely to himself prepared to address them. Copies of his newly published autobiography had been passed around the ship during the past ten days. No doubt many of those who had perused the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave, Written by Himself were looking forward to hearing eloquent and moving testimony from the author in person.

Douglass barely had time to speak before the man stepped forward. ‘That's a lie.’ And each time Douglass tried to resume, Hazzard repeated his objection. It was impossible for Douglass to proceed. But, encouraged by his supporters, the lecturer came out from under the awning to stand by the main mast.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Since what I have said has been pronounced lies, I will read, not what I have written, but what the southern legislators themselves have written – I mean the law.’ He took up the book he was holding and began: