 CHAPTER XXIX. CHAPTER XXIX. I hardly expect that the reader will credit me, when I affirm that I lived in that little dismal whole, almost deprived of light and air, and with no space to move my limbs, for nearly seven years. But it is a fact, and to me a sad one even now, for my body still suffers from the effects of that long imprisonment, to say nothing of my soul. Members of my family, now living in New York and Boston, can testify to the truth of what I say. Countless were the nights that I sat late at the little loopholes, scarcely large enough to give me a glimpse of one twinkling star. There heard the patrols and slave-hunters conferring together about the capture of runaways, well knowing how rejoiced they would be to catch me. Season after season, year after year, I peeped at my children's faces, and heard their sweet voices, with a heart yearning all the while to say, Your mother is here. Sometimes it appeared to me as if ages had ruled away since I entered upon that gloomy monotonous existence. At times I was stupefied and listless. At other times I became very impatient to know when these dark years would end, and I should again be allowed to feel the sunshine, and breathe the pure air. After Ellen left us, this feeling increased. Mr. Sands had agreed that Benny might go to the north whenever his Uncle Philip could go with him, and I was anxious to be there also, to watch over my children and protect them so far as I was able. Moreover, I was likely to be drowned out of my den, if I remained much longer, for the slight roof was getting badly out of repair, and Uncle Philip was afraid to remove the shingles, lest some one should catch a glimpse of me. When storms occurred in the night, they spread mats and bits of carpet, which in the morning appeared to have been laid out to dry, but to cover the roof in the daytime might have attracted attention. Consequently my clothes and bedding were often drenched, a process by which the pains and aches in my cramped and stiffened limbs were greatly increased. I revolved various plans of escape in my mind, which I sometimes imparted to my grandmother when she came to whisper with me at the trapped door. The kind-hearted old woman had an intense sympathy for runaways. She had known too much of the cruelties inflicted on those who were captured. Her memory always flew back at once to the sufferings of her bright and handsome son, Benjamin, the youngest and dearest of her flock. So whenever I alluded to the subject, she would groan out, Oh, don't think of it, child, you'll break my heart. I had no good old Aunt Nancy now to encourage me, but my brother William and my children were continually beckoning me to the north. And now I must go back a few months in my story. I have stated that the first of January was a time for selling slaves, or leasing them out to new masters. If time were counted by heart-throbs, the poor slaves might reckon years of suffering during that festival so joyous to the free. On the New Year's Day, preceding my aunt's death, one of my friends, named Fanny, was to be sold at auction to pay her master's debts. My thoughts were with her during all the day, and at night I anxiously inquired what had been her fate. I was told that she had been sold to one master, and her four little girls to another master far distant, that she had escaped from her purchaser, and was not to be found. Her mother was the old Aggie I have spoken of. She lived in a small tenement belonging to my grandmother, and built on the same lot with her own house. Her dwelling was searched and watched, and that brought the patrols so near me that I was obliged to keep very close in my den. The hunters were somehow eluded, and not long afterwards, Benny accidentally caught sight of Fanny in her mother's hut. He told his grandmother, who charged him never to speak of it, explaining to him the frightful consequences, and he never betrayed the trust. Aggie little dreamed that my grandmother knew where her daughter was concealed, and that the stooping form of her old neighbour was bending under a similar burden of anxiety and fear. But these dangerous secrets deepened the sympathy between the two old persecuted mothers. My friend Fanny and I remained many weeks hidden within call of each other, but she was unconscious of the fact. I longed to have her share my den, which seemed a more secure retreat than her own, but I had brought so much trouble on my grandmother, that it seemed wrong to ask her to incur greater risks. My restlessness increased. I had lived too long in bodily pain and anguish of spirit. Always I was in dread that by some accident or some contrivance, slavery would succeed in snatching my children from me. This thought drove me nearly frantic, and I determined to steer for the North Star at all hazards. At this crisis, Providence opened an unexpected way for me to escape. My friend Peter came one evening and asked to speak with me. "'Your day has come, Linda,' said he, "'I have found a chance for you to go to the Free States. You have a fortnight to decide.' The news seemed too good to be true. But Peter explained his arrangements, and told me all that was necessary was for me to say I would go. I was going to answer him with a joyful yes, when the thought of Benny came to my mind. I told him the temptation was exceedingly strong, but I was terribly afraid of Dr. Flynn's alleged power over my child, and that I could not go and leave him behind. Peter amonstrated earnestly. He said such a good chance might never occur again, that Benny was free, and should be sent to me, and that for the sake of my children's welfare I ought not to hesitate a moment. I told him I would consult with Uncle Philip. My uncle rejoiced in the plan, and bade me go, by all means. He promised, if his life was spared, that he would either bring or send my son to me as soon as I reached a place of safety. I resolved to go, but thought nothing had better be said to my grandmother till very near the time of departure. But my uncle thought she would feel it more keenly if I left here so suddenly. I will reason with her," said he, and convince her how necessary it is, not only for your sake, but for hers also. You cannot be blind to the fact that she is sinking under her burdens. I was not blind to it. I knew that my concealment was an ever-present source of anxiety, and that the older she grew the more nervously fearful she was of discovery. My uncle talked with her, and finally succeeded in persuading her, that it was absolutely necessary for me to seize the chance so unexpectedly offered. The anticipation of being a free woman proved almost too much for my weak frame. The excitement stimulated me, and at the same time bewildered me. I made busy preparations for my journey, and for my son to follow me. I resolved to have an interview with him before I went, that I might give him cautions and advice, and tell him how anxiously I should be waiting for him at the north. Another stole up to me as often as possible to whisper words of counsel. She insisted upon writing to Dr. Flint as soon as I arrived in the Free States, and asking him to sell me to her. She said she would sacrifice her house and all she had in the world for the sake of having me safe with my children in any part of the world. If she could only live to know that, she could die in peace. I promised the dear old faithful friend that I would write to her as soon as I arrived, and put the letter in a safe way to reach her. But in my own mind I resolved that not another cent of her hard earnings should be spent to pay rapacious slaveholders for what they called their property. And even if I had not been unwilling to buy what I had already a right to possess, common humanity would have prevented me from accepting the generous offer at the expense of turning my aged relative out of house and home when she was trembling on the brink of the grave. I was to escape in a vessel, but I forbear to mention any further particulars. I was in readiness, but the vessel was unexpectedly detained several days. Meantime news came to town of a most horrible murder committed on a fugitive slave named James. Charity, the mother of this unfortunate young man, had been an old acquaintance of ours. I have told the shocking particulars of his death in my description of some of the neighbouring slaveholders. My grandmother always nervously sensitive about runaways was terribly frightened. She felt sure that a similar fate awaited me if I did not desist from my enterprise. She sobbed and groaned and entreated me not to go. Her excessive fear was somewhat contagious, and my heart was not proof against her extreme agony. I was grievously disappointed, but I promised to relinquish my project. When my friend Peter was apprised of this, he was both disappointed and vexed. He said that judging from our past experience it would be a long time before I had another such chance to throw away. I told him it need not be thrown away, that I had a friend concealed nearby who would be glad enough to take the place that had been provided for me. I told him about poor Fanny, and the kind-hearted noble fellow, who never turned his back upon anybody in distress, white or black, expressed his readiness to help her. Aggie was much surprised when she found that we knew her secret. She was rejoiced to hear of such a chance for Fanny, and arrangements were made for her to go on board the vessel the next night. They both supposed that I had long been at the north, therefore my name was not mentioned in the transaction. Fanny was carried on board at the appointed time, and stowed away in a very small cabin. This accommodation had been purchased at a price that would pay for a voyage to England. But when one proposes to go to find Old England, they stop to calculate whether they can afford the cost of the pleasure. While in making a bargain to escape from slavery, the trembling victim is ready to say, Take all I have, only don't betray me. The next morning I peeped through my loophole, and saw that it was dark and cloudy. At night I received news that the wind was ahead, and the vessel had not sailed. I was exceedingly anxious about Fanny, and Peter, too, who was running a tremendous risk at my instigation. Next day the wind and weather remained the same. Poor Fanny had been half-dead with fright when they carried her on board, and I could readily imagine how she must be suffering now. Grandmother came often to my den to say how thankful she was that I did not go. On the third morning she wrapped me to come down to the storeroom. The poor old sufferer was breaking down under her weight of trouble. She was easily flurried now. I found her in a nervous, excited state, but I was not aware that she had forgotten to lock the door behind her, as usual. She was exceedingly worried about the detention of the vessel. She was afraid all would be discovered, and then Fanny and Peter and I would all be tortured to death, and Philip would be utterly ruined and her house would be torn down. Poor Peter! If he should die such a horrible death as the poor slave James had lately done, and all for his kindness in trying to help me, how dreadful it would be for us all! Alas! The thought was familiar to me, and had sent many a sharp pang through my heart. I tried to suppress my own anxiety, and speak soothingly to her. She brought in some allusion to Aunt Nancy, the dear daughter she had recently buried, and then she lost all control of herself. As she stood there, trembling and sobbing, a voice from the piazza called out, "'Where is you Aunt Marthy?' Grandmother was startled, and in her agitation opened the door without thinking of me. In stepped Jenny, the mischievous housemaid, who had tried to enter my room when I was concealed in the house of my white benefactress. "'I has been hunting everywhere for you Aunt Marthy,' said she. My missus wants you to send her some crackers.' I had slunk down behind a barrel which entirely screened me, but I imagined that Jenny was looking directly at the spot, and my heart beat violently. My grandmother immediately thought what she had done went out quickly with Jenny to count the crackers, locking the door after her. She returned to me in a few minutes the perfect picture of despair. "'Poor child,' she exclaimed, "'my carelessness has ruined you. The boat ain't gone yet. Get ready immediately, and go with Fanny. I ain't got another word to say against it now, for there's no telling what may happen this day.' Uncle Philip was sent for, and he agreed with his mother in thinking that Jenny would inform Dr. Flint in less than twenty-four hours. He advised me getting on board the boat, if possible. If not, I had better keep very still in my den when they could not find me without tearing the house down. He said it would not do for him to move in the matter, because suspicion would be immediately excited, but he promised to communicate with Peter. I felt reluctant to apply to him again, having implicated him too much already, but there seemed to be no alternative. Vexed as Peter had been by my indecision, he was true to his generous nature, and said at once that he would do his best to help me, trusting I should show myself a stronger woman this time. He immediately proceeded to the wharf, and found that the wind had shifted, and the vessel was slowly beating downstream. On some pretext of urgent necessity, he offered two boatmen a dollar apiece to catch up with her. He was of lighter complexion than the boatman he hired, and when the captain saw them coming so rapidly, he thought officers were pursuing his vessel in search of the runaway slave he had on board. They hoisted sails, but the boat gained upon them, and the indefatigable Peter sprang on board. The captain at once recognized him. Peter asked him to go below to speak about a bad bill he had given him. When he told his errand, the captain replied, Why, the woman's here already, and I've put her where you or the devil would have a tough job to find her. But it is another woman I want to bring, said Peter. She is in great distress too, and you shall be paid anything within reason if you'll stop and take her. What's her name? inquired the captain. Linda, he replied. That's the name of the woman already here, rejoined the captain. By George, I believe you mean to betray me. Oh! exclaimed Peter, God knows I wouldn't harm a hair of your head, I'm too grateful to you. But there really is another woman in great danger. Do have the humanity to stop and take her. After a while they came to an understanding. Fanny, not dreaming I was anywhere about in that region, had assumed my name, though she called herself Johnson. Linda is a common name, said Peter, and the woman I want to bring is Linda Brent. The captain agreed to wait at a certain place till evening, being handsomely paid for his detention. Of course the day was an anxious one for us all, but we concluded that if Jenny had seen me, she would be too wise to let her mistress know of it, and that she probably would not get a chance to see Dr. Flynn's family till evening, for I knew very well what were the rules in that household. I afterwards believed that she did not see me, for nothing ever came of it, and she was one of those base characters that would have jumped to betray a suffering fellow being for the sake of thirty pieces of silver. I made all my arrangements to go on board as soon as it was dusk. The intervening time I resolved to spend with my son. I had not spoken to him for seven years, though I had been under the same roof, and seen him every day when I was well enough to sit at the loophole. I did not dare to venture beyond the storeroom, so they brought him there, and locked us up together, in a place concealed from the piazza door. It was an agitating interview for both of us. After we had talked and wept together for a little while, he said, Mother, I am glad you are going away. I wish I could go with you. I knew you was here, and I had been so afraid they would come and catch you. I was greatly surprised, and asked him how he had found it out. He replied, I was standing under the eaves one day before Ellen went away, and I heard somebody cough up over the woodshed. I don't know what made me think it was you, but I did think so. I missed Ellen the night before she went away, and grandmother brought her back into the room in the night, and I thought maybe she had been to see you before she went, for I heard grandmother whisper to her, now go to sleep, and remember never to tell. I asked him if he ever mentioned his suspicions to his sister. He said he never did. But after he heard the cough, if he saw her playing with other children on that side of the house, he always tried to coax her round to the other side, for fear that they would hear me cough, too. He said he had kept a close look out for Dr. Flint, and if he saw him speak to a constable or a patrol, he always told grandmother. I now recollected that I had seen him manifest uneasiness when people were on that side of the house, and I had at the time been puzzled to conjecture a motive for his actions. Such prudence may seem extraordinary and a boy of twelve years, but slaves being surrounded by mysteries, deceptions, and dangers, early learned to be suspicious and watchful, and prematurely cautious and cunning. He had never asked a question of grandmother, or Uncle Philip, and I had often heard him chime in with other children when they spoke of my being at the North. I told him I was now really going to the Free States, and if he was a good, honest boy and a loving child to his dear old grandmother, the Lord would bless him and bring him to me, and we and Ellen would live together. He began to tell me that grandmother had not eaten anything all day. While he was speaking, the door was unlocked, and she came in with a small bag of money which she wanted me to take. I begged her to keep a part of it, at least to pay for Benny's being sent to the North, but she insisted, while her tears were falling fast, that I should take the whole. You may be sick among strangers, she said, and they would send you to the poor-house to die. Ah, that good grandmother! For the last time I went up to my nook, its desolate appearance no longer chilled me, for the light of hope had risen in my soul. Yet even with the blessed prospect of freedom before me, I felt very sad at leaving forever that old homestead, where I had been sheltered so long by the dear old grandmother, where I had dreamed my first young dream of love, and where after that had faded away, my children came to twine themselves so closely round my desolate heart. As the hour approached for me to leave, I again descended to the storeroom. My grandmother and Benny were there. She took me by the hand and said, Linda, let us pray. We knelt down together with my child pressed to my heart, and my other arm round the faithful, loving old friend I was about to leave forever. On no other occasion has it ever been my lot to listen to so fervent a supplication for mercy and protection. It thrilled through my heart, and inspired me with trust and God. Peter was waiting for me in the street. I was soon by his side, faint in body, but strong of purpose. I did not look back upon the old place, though I felt that I should never see it again. CHAPTER XXXVIII. I never could tell how we reached the wharf. My brain was all of a whirl, and my limbs tottered under me. At an appointed place we met my uncle Philip, who had started before us on a different route, that he might reach the wharf first and give us timely warning if there was any danger. A rowboat was in readiness. As I was about to step in I felt something pull me gently, and turning round I saw Benny, looking pale and anxious. He whispered in my ear, I have been peeping into the doctor's window, and he said home, good-bye mother, don't cry, I'll come. He hastened away. I clasped the hand of my good uncle, to whom I owed so much, and of Peter, the brave, generous friend who had volunteered to run such terrible risks to secure my safety. To this day I remember how his bright face beamed with joy, when he told me he had discovered a safe method for me to escape. Yet that intelligent, enterprising, noble-hearted man was a chattel, liable by the laws of a country that calls itself civilized, to be sold with horses and pigs. We parted in silence. Our hearts were all too full for words. Swiftly the boat glided over the water. After a while one of the sailors said, Don't be downhearted, madam, we'll take you safely to your husband, and I could not imagine what he meant. But I had presence of mind to think that it probably referred to something the captain had told him. So I thanked him, and said I hoped we should have pleasant weather. When I entered the vessel the captain came forward to meet me. He was an elderly man with a pleasant countenance. He showed me to a little box of a cabin, where sat my friend Fanny. She started as if she had seen a spectre. She gazed on me in utter astonishment and exclaimed, Linda, can this be you? Or is it your ghost? When we were locked in each other's arms my overwrought feelings could no longer be restrained. My sobs reached the ears of the captain, who came very kindly reminded us that for his safety as well as our own it would be prudent for us not to attract any attention. He said that when there was a sail in sight he wished us to keep below, but at other times he had no objection to our being on deck. He assured us that he would keep a good look out, and if we acted prudently he thought we should be in no danger. He had represented us as women going to meet our husbands in. We thanked him and promised to observe carefully all the directions he gave us. Fanny and I now talked by ourselves, low and quietly, in our little cabin. She told me of the suffering she had gone through in making her escape, and of her terrors while she was concealed in her mother's house. Above all she dwelt on the agony of separation from all her children on that dreadful auction day. She could scarcely credit me when I told her of the place where I had passed nearly seven years. "'We have the same sorrows,' said I. "'No,' replied she. "'You are going to see your children soon, and there is no hope that I shall ever even hear from mine.' The vessel was soon under way, but we made slow progress. The wind was against us. I should not have cared for this if we had been out of sight of the town. But until there were miles of water between us and our enemies, we were filled with constant apprehensions that the constables would come on board. Neither could I feel quite at ease with the captain and his men. I was an entire stranger to that class of people, and I had heard that sailors were rough and sometimes cruel. But we were so completely in their power, that if they were bad men our situation would be dreadful. Now that the captain was paid for our passage, might he not be tempted to make more money by giving us up to those who claimed us as property? I was naturally of a confiding disposition, but slavery had made me suspicious of everybody. Fanny did not share my distrust of the captain or his men. She said she was afraid at first, but she had been on board three days while the vessel lay in the dock, and nobody had betrayed her or treated her otherwise than kindly. The captain soon came to advise us to go on deck for fresh air. His friendly and respectful manner, combined with Fanny's testimony, reassured me and bewent with him. He placed us in a comfortable seat and occasionally entered into conversation. He told us he was a Southerner by birth and had spent the greater part of his life in the slave-states, and that he had recently lost a brother who traded in slaves. Sout said he, it is a pitiable and degrading business, and I always felt ashamed to acknowledge my brother in connection with it. As we passed Snakey Swamp, he pointed to it and said, There is a slave territory that defies all the laws. I thought of the terrible days I had spent there, and though it was not called Dismal Swamp, it made me feel very dismal as I looked at it. I shall never forget that night. The balmy air of spring was so refreshing. And how shall I describe my sensations when we were fairly sailing on Chesapeake Bay? Of the beautiful sunshine, the exhilarating breeze, and I could enjoy them without fear or restraint. I had never realized what grand things air and sunlight are till I had been deprived of them. Ten days after we left land we were approaching Philadelphia. The captain said we should arrive there in the night, but he thought we had better wait till morning, and go on shore in broad daylight, as the best way to avoid suspicion. I replied, You know best, but will you stay on board and protect us? He saw that I was suspicious, and he said he was sorry, now that he had brought us to the end of our voyage, to find I had so little confidence in him. Ah, if he had ever been a slave, he would have known how difficult it was to trust a white man. He assured us that we might sleep through the night without fear, that he would take care we were not left unprotected. He had said to the honour of this captain, Southerner as he was, that if Fanny and I had been white ladies, and our passage lawfully engaged, he could not have treated us more respectfully. My intelligent friend Peter had rightly estimated the character of the man to whose honour he had entrusted us. The next morning I was on deck as soon as the day dawned. I called Fanny to see the sunrise, for the first time in our lives, on free soil. For such I then believed it to be. We watched the reddening sky and saw the great orb come up slowly out of the water as it seemed. Soon the waves began to sparkle, and everything caught the beautiful glow. Before us lay the city of strangers. We looked at each other, and the eyes of both were moistened with tears. We had escaped from slavery, and we supposed ourselves to be safe from the hunters. But we were alone in the world, and we had left dear ties behind us, ties cruelly sundered by the demon-slavery. CHAPTER XXXVIII INCIDENCE IN THE LIFE OF A SLAVE GIRL written by herself, by Harriet Jacobs, written under the pseudonym Linda Brent. CHAPTER XXXI INCIDENCE IN PHILIDELPHIA I had heard that the poor slave had many friends at the north. I trusted we should find some of them. Meantime we would take it for granted that all were friends till they proved to the contrary. I sought out the kind captain, thanked him for his attentions, and told him I should never cease to be grateful for the service he had rendered us. I gave him a message to the friends I had left at home, and he promised to deliver it. We were placed in a rowboat, and in about fifteen minutes were landed on a wood wharf in Philadelphia. As I stood looking round, the friendly captain touched me on the shoulder and said, There is a respectable-looking colored man behind you. I will speak to him about the New York trains, and tell him you wished to go directly on. I thanked him, and asked him to direct me to some shops where I could buy gloves and veils. He did so, and said he would talk with the colored man till I returned. I made what haste I could. Constant exercise on board the vessel, and frequent rubbing with salt water, had nearly restored the use of my limbs. The noise of the great city confused me, but I found the shops, and bought some double veils and gloves for Fanny and myself. The shopman told me they were so many levies. I had never heard the word before, but I did not tell him so. I thought if he knew I was a stranger he might ask me where I came from. I gave him a gold-piece, and when he returned the change I counted it, and found out how much a levy was. I made my way back to the wharf, where the captain introduced me to the colored man as the Reverend Jeremiah Durham, minister of Bethel Church. He took me by the hand as if I had been an old friend. He told us we were too late for the morning car to New York, and must wait until the evening or the next morning. He invited me to go home with him, assuring me that his wife would give me a cordial welcome, and for my friend he would provide a home with one of his neighbors. I thanked him for so much kindness to strangers, and told him if I must be detained I should like to hunt up some people who formerly went from our part of the country. Mr. Durham insisted that I should dine with him, and then he would assist me in finding my friends. The sailors came to bid us good-bye. I shook their hearty hands with tears in my eyes. They had all been kind to us, and they had rendered us a greater service than they could possibly conceive of. I had never seen so large a city, or been in contact with so many people in the streets. It seemed as if those who passed looked at us with an expression of curiosity. My face was so blistered and peeled by sitting on deck in wind and sunshine, that I thought they could not easily decide to what nation I belonged. Mrs. Durham met me with a kindly welcome without asking any questions. I was tired, and her friendly manner was a sweet refreshment. God bless her. I was sure that she had comforted other weary hearts before I received her sympathy. She was surrounded by her husband and children, in a home made sacred by protecting laws. I thought of my own children, and sighed. After dinner Mr. Durham went with me in quest of the friends I had spoken of. They went from my native town, and I anticipated much pleasure in looking on familiar faces. They were not at home, and we retraced our steps, through streets delightfully clean. On the way Mr. Durham observed that I had spoken to him of a daughter I expected to meet. That he was surprised, for I looked so young he had taken me for a single woman. He was approaching a subject on which I was extremely sensitive. He would ask me about my husband next, I thought, and if I answered him truly, what would he think of me? I told him I had two children, one New York, and the other at the South. He asked some further questions, and I frankly told him some of the most important events of my life. It was painful for me to do it, but I would not deceive him. If he was desirous of being my friend, I thought he ought to know how far I was worthy of it. "'Excuse me, if I have tried your feelings,' said he. "'I did not question you from idle curiosity. I wanted to understand your situation, in order to know whether I could be of any service to you, or your little girl. Your straightforward answers do you credit, but don't answer everybody so openly. It might give some heartless people a pretext for treating you with contempt.' That word, contempt, burned me like coals of fire. I replied, "'God alone knows how I have suffered, and he, I trust, will forgive me. If I am permitted to have my children, I intend to be a good mother, and to live in such a manner that people cannot treat me with contempt. I respect your sentiments,' said he. "'Place your trust in God, and be governed by good principles, and you will not fail to find friends.' When we reached home I went to my room, glad to shut out the world for a while. The words he had spoken made an indelible impression upon me. They brought up great shadows from the mournful past. In the midst of my meditations I was startled by a knock at the door. Mrs. Durham entered, her face all beaming with kindness, to say that there was an anti-slavery friend downstairs who would like to see me. I overcame my dread of encountering strangers, and went with her. Many questions were asked concerning my experiences and my escape from slavery, but I observed how careful they all were not to say anything that might wound my feelings. How gratifying this was, can be fully understood only by those who have been accustomed to be treated as if they were not included within the pale of human beings. The anti-slavery friend had come to inquire into my plans, and to offer assistance if needed. Fanny was comfortably established, for the present were the friend of Mr. Durham. The anti-slavery society agreed to pay her expenses to New York. The same was offered to me, but I declined to accept it, telling them that my grandmother had given me sufficient to pay my expenses to the end of my journey. We were urged to remain in Philadelphia a few days, until some suitable escort could be found for us. I gladly accepted the proposition, for I had a dread of meeting slaveholders, and some dread also of railroads. I had never entered a railroad car in my life, and it seemed to me quite an important event. That night I sought my pillow with feelings I had never carried to it before. I verily believed myself to be a free woman. I was wakeful for a long time, and I had no sooner fallen asleep than I was roused by fire-bills. I jumped up and hurried on my clothes. Where I came from everybody hastened to dress themselves on such occasions. The white people thought a great fire might be used as a good opportunity for insurrection, and that it was best to be in readiness, and the colored people were ordered out to labor in extinguishing the flames. There was but one engine in our town, and colored women and children were often required to drag it to the river's edge and fill it. Mrs. Durham's daughter slept in the same room with me, and seeing that she slept through all the din, I thought it was my duty to wake her. "'What's the matter?' said she, rubbing her eyes. "'They're screaming fire in the streets, and the bells are ringing,' I replied. "'What of that?' said she, drowsily. We are used to it. We never get up, without the fire is very near. What could would it do?' I was quite surprised that it was not necessary for us to go and help fill the engine. I was an ignorant child, just beginning to learn how things went on in great cities. At daylight I heard women crying fresh fish, berries, radishes, and various other things. All this was new to me. I dressed myself at an early hour and sat at the window to watch that unknown tide of life. Philadelphia seemed to me a wonderfully great place. At the breakfast-table my idea of going out to drag the engine was laughed over, and I joined in the mirth. I went to see Fanny, and found her so well contented among her new friends that she was in no haste to leave. I was also very happy with my kind hostess. She had had advantages for education, and was vastly my superior. Every day, almost every hour, I was adding to my little stalk of knowledge. She took me out to see the city as much as she deemed prudent. One day she took me to an artist's room, and showed me the portraits of some of her children. I had never seen any paintings of colored people before, and they seemed to be beautiful. At the end of five days, one of Mrs. Durham's friends offered to accompany us to New York the following morning. As I held the hand of my good hostess in a parting clasp, I longed to know whether her husband had repeated to her what I had told him. I supposed he had, but she never made any allusion to it. I presume it was the delicate silence of womanly sympathy. When Mr. Durham handed us our tickets, he said, I am afraid you will have a disagreeable ride, but I could not procure tickets for the first-class cars. Supposing I had not given him money enough, I offered more. Oh, no! said he. They could not be had for any money. They don't allow colored people to go in the first-class cars. This was the first chill to my enthusiasm about the Free States. Other people were allowed to ride in a filthy box behind white people at the South, but there they were not required to pay for the privilege. It made me sad to find how the North ate the customs of slavery. We were stowed away in a large, rough car with windows on each side, too high for us to look out without standing up. It was crowded with people, apparently of all nations. There were plenty of beds and cradles containing screaming and kicking babies. Every other man had a cigar or pipe in his mouth, and jugs of whisky were handed round freely. The fumes of the whisky and the dense tobacco smoke were sickening to my senses, and my mind was equally nauseated by the coarse jokes and ribbled songs around me. It was a very disagreeable ride. Since that time there has been some improvement in these matters. CHAPTER XXXII. THE MEETING OF MOTHER AND DAUGHTER When we arrived in New York, I was half-crazed by the crowd of coachmen calling out, Carriage, ma'am! We bargained with one to take us to Sullivan Street for twelve shillings. A burly Irishman stepped up and said, I'll take you for sex-shillings. The reduction of half the price was an object to us, and we asked if he could take us right away. Troth and I will, ladies, he replied. I noticed that the hack men smiled at each other, and I inquired whether his conveyance was decent. Yes, it's decent it is, ma'am! Devil a bit would I be after taking ladies in a cab that was not decent. We gave him our checks. He went for the baggage, and soon reappeared, saying, This way, if you please, ladies. We followed, and found our trunks on a truck, and were invited to take our seats on them. We told him that that was not what we bargained for, and he must take the trunks off. He swore they should not be touched till we had paid him six shillings. In our situation it was not prudent to attract attention, and I was about to pay him what he required, when a man nearby shook his head for me not to do it. After a great adieu we got rid of the Irishman, and had our trunks fastened on a hack. We had been recommended to a boarding-house in Sullivan Street, and thither we drove. There Fanny and I separated. The anti-slavery society provided a home for her, and I afterwards heard of her in prosperous circumstances. I sent for an old friend from my part of the country, who had for some time been doing business in New York. He came immediately. I told him I wanted to go to my daughter, and asked him to aid me in procuring an interview. I cautioned him not to let it be known to the family that I had just arrived from the south, because they supposed I had been at the north seven years. He told me there was a colored woman in Brooklyn who came from the same town I did, and I had better go to her house, and have my daughter meet me there. I accepted the proposition thankfully, and he agreed to escort me to Brooklyn. We crossed Fulton Ferry, went up Myrtle Avenue, and stopped at the house he designated. I was just about to enter when two girls passed. My friend called my attention to them. I turned and recognized in the eldest, Sarah, the daughter of a woman who used to live with my grandmother, but who had left the south years ago. Surprised and rejoiced at this unexpected meeting, I threw my arms round her, and inquired concerning her mother. You take no notice of the other girl, said my friend. I turned, and there stood my Ellen. I pressed her to my heart, then held her away from me to take a look at her. She had changed a good deal in the two years since I had parted from her. Signs of neglect could be discerned by eyes less observing than a mother's. My friend invited us all to go into the house, but Ellen said she had been sent on an errand, which she would do as quickly as possible, and go home and ask Mrs. Hobbs to let her come and see me. It was agreed that I should send for her the next day. Her companion, Sarah, hastened to tell her mother of my arrival. When I entered the house I found the mistress of it absent, and I waited for her return. Before I saw her I heard her saying, Where is Linda Brent? I used to know her father and mother. Soon Sarah came with her mother. So there was quite a company of us, all from my grandmother's neighborhood. These friends gathered round me and questioned me eagerly. They laughed, they cried, and they shouted. They thanked God that I had got away from my persecutors and was safe on Long Island. It was the day of great excitement. How different from the silent days I had passed in my dreary den. The next morning was Sunday. My first waking thoughts were occupied with the note I was to send to Mrs. Hobbs, the lady with whom Ellen lived. That I had recently come into that vicinity was evident, otherwise I should have sooner inquired for my daughter. It would not do to let them know I had just arrived from the south, for that would involve the suspicion of my having been harbored there, and might bring trouble, if not ruin, on several people. I like a straightforward course, and am always reluctant to resort to subterfuge. As far as my ways have been crooked, I charged them all upon slavery. It was that system of violence and wrong which now left me no alternative but to enact a falsehood. I began my note by stating that I had recently arrived from Canada, and was very desirous to have my daughter come to see me. She came and brought a message from Mrs. Hobbs, inviting me to her house, and assuring me that I need not have any fears. The conversation I had with my child did not leave my mind at ease. When I asked if she was well treated, she answered yes. But there was no hardiness in the tone, and it seemed to me that she said it from an unwillingness to have me troubled on her account. Before she left me, she asked very earnestly, Mother, will you take me to live with you? It made me very sad to think I could not give her a home till I went to work and earned the means, and that might take me a long time. When she was placed with Mrs. Hobbs, the agreement was that she should be sent to school. She had been there two years, and was now nine years old, and she scarcely knew her letters. There was no excuse for this, for there were good public schools in Brooklyn to which she could have been sent without expense. She stayed with me till dark, and I went home with her. I was received in a friendly manner by the family, and all agreed in saying that Ellen was a useful, good girl. Mrs. Hobbs looked me coolly in the face and said, I suppose you know that my cousin, Mr. Sands, has given her to my eldest daughter. She will make a nice waiting-mate for her when she grows up. I did not answer a word. How could she, who knew by experience the strength of a mother's love, and who was perfectly aware of the relation Mr. Sands bore to my children? How could she look me in the face while she thrust such a dagger into my heart? I was no longer surprised that they had kept her in such a state of ignorance. Mr. Hobbs had formerly been wealthy, but he had failed, and afterwards obtained a subordinate situation in the Custom House. Perhaps they expected to return to the south some day, and Ellen's knowledge was quite sufficient for a slave's condition. I was impatient to go to work and earn money, that I might change the uncertain position of my children. Mr. Sands had not kept his promise to emancipate them. I had also been deceived about Ellen. What security had I with regard to Benjamin? I felt that I had none. I returned to my friend's house in an uneasy state of mind. In order to protect my children it was necessary that I should own myself. I called myself free, and sometimes felt so, but I knew I was insecure. I sat down that night and wrote a civil letter to Dr. Flint, asking him to state the lowest terms on which he would sell me, and as I belonged by law to his daughter, I wrote to her also, making a similar request. Since my arrival at the north I had not been unmindful of my dear brother William. I had made diligent inquiries for him, and having heard of him in Boston I went thither. When I arrived there I found he had gone to New Bedford. I wrote to that place, and was informed that he had gone on a wailing voyage and would not return for some months. I went back to New York to get employment near Ellen. I received an answer from Dr. Flint, which gave me no encouragement. He advised me to return and submit myself to my rightful owners, and then any request I might make would be granted. I lent this letter to a friend, who lost it, otherwise I would present a copy to my readers. CHAPTER XXXIII. A home found. My greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly improved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I walked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was that those who employed strangers required a recommendation, and in my peculiar position I could, of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully served. One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe, and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions, but to my great relief did not require a recommendation for my former employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was engaged for a month. The Heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of passing up and down stairs frequently caused my limbs to swell so painfully that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would have thoughtlessly discharged me, but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and from relatives who were dear to me, but I did not mention the constant feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for someone to confide it, but I had been so deceived by white people that I had lost all confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful feelings I had brought with me out of slavery. But air six months had passed. I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to expand under the influence of her intelligent conversation, and the opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more cheerful. The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for Ellen, but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for fear of offending the Hobbes family. Their knowledge of my precarious situation placed me in their power, and I felt that it was important for me to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labour and economy, I could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with Ellen's situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New York to visit me, but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbes that I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was accompanied by a promise of payment, when Mr. Hobbes' salary at the Custom House became due, but somehow or other the payday never came. Thus many dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed. That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put Ellen in jail at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her, and kind Mrs. Bruce proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care of Dr. Elliot, a well-known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was anything improper in a mother's making such a request, but Mrs. Hobbes was very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely free to act a mother's part towards my children. The next time I went over to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbes, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had employed her own physician to attend to Ellen's eyes, and that she had refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New York. I accepted the explanation in silence, but she had told me that my child belonged to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her an injustice. But my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel otherwise. Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce's babe. When it laughed and crowed in my face and twined its little tender arms confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning as I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted by a young man in sailor's dress, who was closely observing every house as he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It must be he. And yet how changed? I placed the baby safely, flew down the stairs, and opened the front door, back into the sailor, and in less than a minute I was clasped in my brother's arms. How much we had to tell each other! How we laughed and how we cried over each other's adventures! I took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he had loved and tended so carefully while I was shut up in my miserable den. He stayed in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are formed by suffering together. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE OLD ENEMY AGAIN My young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter requesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while I received a reply which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order rightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind that the Flint family supposed I had been at the North many years. They had no idea that I knew of the doctor's three excursions to New York in search of me, that I had heard his voice when he came to borrow five hundred dollars for that purpose, and that I had seen him pass on his way to the steamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of Aunt Nancy's death and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept this letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy. Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the contents of your letter. And let me assure you that if any members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother, it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect. From your letter I think your situation must be hard and uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you. Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my sister was always attached to you, and that you were never treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed to field labour. On the contrary, you were taken into the house and treated as one of us, and almost as free. And we, at least, felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away. Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see you, and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age she needs the consolation of having her children round her. Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal Church. In her Christian life she taught us how to live, and, oh, too high the price of knowledge she taught us how to die. Should you have seen us round her death-bed, with her mother, all mingling our tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends much love to you. In the meantime, believe me, your sincere friend, and well-wisher." This letter was signed by Emily's brother, who was, as yet, a mere lad. I knew by the style that it was not written by a person of his age, and though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it in former years not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. Oh, the hypocrisy of slave-holders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go into such a trap? Verily he relied too much on the stupidity of the African race. I did not return the family of Flint's any thanks for their cordial invitation, a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with base in gratitude. Not long afterwards, I received a letter from one of my friends at the south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me to Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a friend to supply my place as nurse for a fortnight. I started on my journey immediately, and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother that if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting for a good chance to send him north, and fortunately she had the legal power to do so without asking leave of anybody. She was a free woman, and when my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of sale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money, but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of coloured children without any disgrace, but if he is known to purchase them, with the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to their peculiar institution, and he becomes unpopular. There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested to see him off to Boston. Only one morning there was a loud rap at my door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. "'Oh, mother!' he exclaimed, "'Here I am! I run all the way, and I come all alone. How do you do?' "'Oh, reader, can you imagine my joy?' "'No, you cannot, unless you have been a slave-mother.' Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go. "'Mother, why don't you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good-bye. She said, "'Oh, Ben, I wish I was going, too. I thought she'd know ever so much, but she don't know so much as I do, for I can read, and she can't. And, mother, I lost all my clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I suppose free boys can get along here at the North as well as white boys.' I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions. But the wish constantly repeated that the good-old grandmother was with us, and frequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to tell her everything about his voyage and his journey to Boston. Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon me, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where I was. His hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate family, who were waiting for me with open arms, were doomed to disappointment. As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through the winter and spring, endeavouring to perform my duties faithfully, and finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews with my darling daughter. But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air, and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognise me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slave-holders, and I like one glass of the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is, to be free to say so. CHAPTER XXXV. Prejudice Against Colour. It was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We went to Albany in the steamboat Nickerbocker. When the gong sounded for tea, Mrs. Bruce said, Linda, it is late, and you and baby had better come to the table with me. I replied, I know it is time baby had her supper, but I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am afraid of being insulted. Oh no, not if you are with me, she said. I saw several white nurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do the same. We were at the extreme end of the table. I was no sooner seated than a gruff voice said, Get up! You know you are not allowed to sit here. I looked up, and, to my astonishment and indignation, saw that the speaker was a coloured man. If his office required him to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might at least have done it politely. I replied, I shall not get up, unless the captain comes and takes me up. No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs. Bruce handed me hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the other nurses were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly waited on. Next morning when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, everybody was making a rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, Take my arm, Linda, and we'll go in together. The landlord heard her, and said, Madam, will you allow your nursing baby to take breakfast with my family? I knew this was to be attributed to my complexion, but he spoke courteously, and therefore I did not mind it. At Saratoga we found the United States hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce took one of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought with gladness of going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few people. Not here I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners. I looked round me with fear and trembling, dreading to see someone who would recognize me. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a short time. We soon returned to New York to make arrangements for spending their remainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting the clothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to see Ellen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she said were, Oh mother, don't go to Mrs. Hobbs. Her brother, Mr. Thorn, has come from the south, and may be he'll tell where you are. I accepted the warning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the next day, and would try to see her when I came back. Being in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a Jim Crow car on our way to Rockaway. Neither was I invited to ride through the streets on the top of trunks in a truck. But everywhere I found the same manifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so discourages the feelings and represses the energies of the colored people. We reached Rockaway before dark and put up at the pavilion, a large hotel, beautifully situated by the seaside, a great resort of the fashionable world. Thirty or forty nurses were there, of a great variety of nations. Some of the ladies had colored waiting-maids and coachmen, but I was the only nurse tinged with the blood of Africa. When the tea-bill rang, I took little Mary and followed the other nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young man, who had the ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or three times, and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As there was but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap, whereupon the young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, will you please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it and feed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen, where you will have a good supper. This was the climax. I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when I looked round and saw women who were nurses as I was, and only one shade lighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look as if my presence were a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly took the child in my arms, went to our room, and refused to go to the table again. Mr. Bruce ordered meals to be sent to the room for little Mary and I. This answered for a few days, but the waiters of the establishment were white, and they soon began to complain, saying they were not hired to wait on negroes. The landlord requested Mr. Bruce to send me down to my meals, because his servants rebelled against bringing them up, and the colored servants of other borders were dissatisfied because all were not treated alike. My answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied with themselves, for not having too much self-respect to submit to such treatment, that there was no difference in the price of board for colored and white servants, and there was no justification for difference of treatment. I stayed a month after this, and finding I was resolved to stand up for my rights, they concluded to treat me well. Let every colored man and woman do this, and eventually we shall cease to be trampled underfoot by our oppressors. CHAPTER XXXVI. After we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go and see Ellen. I asked to have her called downstairs, for I supposed Mrs. Hobbs's southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous to avoid seeing him if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen and insisted on my going upstairs. "'My brother wants to see you,' said she, and he is sorry you seem to shun him. He knows you are living in New York. He told me to say to you that he owes thanks to good old Aunt Martha for too many little acts of kindness for him to be base enough to betray her grandchild. This Mr. Thorn had become poor and reckless long before he left the south, and such persons had much rather go to one of the faithful old slaves to borrow a dollar, or get a good dinner, than to go to one whom they consider an equal. It was such acts of kindness as these for which he professed to feel grateful to my grandmother. I wished he had kept at a distance, but as he was here and knew where I was, I concluded there was nothing to be gained by trying to avoid him. On the contrary, it might be the means of exciting his ill will. I followed his sister upstairs. He met me in a very friendly manner, congratulated me on my escape from slavery, and hoped I had a good place where I felt happy. I continued to visit Ellen as often as I could. She, good, thoughtful child, never forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant look out for my safety. She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and troubles. But a mother's observing eye easily perceived that she was not happy. On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious. When I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter. But I insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave. Finally I ascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was continually going on in the house. She was sent to the store very often for rum and brandy, and she felt a shame to ask for it so often. And Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Thorn drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they had to call her to pour out the liquor for them. But for all that, said she, Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can't help liking him. I feel sorry for him. I tried to comfort her by telling her that I had laid up a hundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and Benjamin a home and send them to school. It was always desirous not to add to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till years afterwards that Mr. Thorn's intemperance was not the only annoyance she suffered from him. Though he professed too much gratitude to my grandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language into the ears of her innocent great-grandchild. I usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon. One Sunday I found Ellen anxiously waiting for me near the house. "'Oh, mother,' said she, "'I've been waiting for you this long time. I'm afraid Mr. Thorn has written to tell Dr. Flint where you are. Make haste and come in. Mrs. Hobbs will tell you all about it.'" The story was soon told. While the children were playing in the grapevine arbor the day before, Mr. Thorn came out with a letter in his hand which he tore up and scattered about. Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time, and having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and carried them to the children, saying, "'I wonder who Mr. Thorn has been writing to?' "'I'm sure I don't know, and don't care,' replied the oldest of the children, "'and I don't see how it concerns you.' "'But it does concern me,' replied Ellen, for I'm afraid he's been writing to the south about my mother.' They laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put the fragments of writing together in order to read them to her. They were no sooner arranged than the little girl exclaimed, "'I declare, Ellen, I believe you are right.'" The contents of Mr. Thorn's letter, as nearly as I can remember, were as follows. "'I have seen your slave, Linda, and conversed with her. She can be taken very easily if you manage prudently. There are enough of us here to swear to her identity as your property. I am a patriot, a lover of my country, and I do this as an act of justice to the laws.' He concluded by informing the doctor of the street and number where I lived. The children carried the pieces to Mrs. Hobbs, who immediately went to her brother's room for an explanation. He was not to be found. The servants said they saw him go out with a letter in his hand, and they supposed he had gone to the post-office. The natural inference was that he had sent to Dr. Flint a copy of those fragments. When he returned his sister accused him of it, and he did not deny the charge. He went immediately to his room, and the next morning he was missing. He had gone over to New York before any of the family were astir. It was evident that I had no time to lose, and I hastened back to the city with a heavy heart. Again I was to be torn from a comfortable home, and all my plans for the welfare of my children were to be frustrated by that demon's slavery. I now regretted that I never told Mrs. Bruce my story. I had not concealed it merely on account of being a fugitive—that would have made her anxious—but it would have excited sympathy in her kind heart. I valued her good opinion, and I was afraid of losing it, if I told her all the particulars of my sad story. But now I felt that it was necessary for her to know how I was situated. I had once left her abruptly without explaining the reason, and it would not be proper to do it again. I went home resolved to tell her in the morning. But the sadness of my face attracted her attention, and in answer to her kind inquiries I poured out my full heart to her before bedtime. She listened with true womanly sympathy, and told me she would do all she could to protect me. How my heart blest her! Early the next morning Judge Vanderpool and Lawyer Hopper were consulted. They said I had better leave the city at once, as the risk would be great if the case came to trial. Mrs. Bruce took me in a carriage to the house of one of her friends, where she assured me I should be safe until my brother should arrive, which would be in a few days. In the interval my thoughts were much occupied with Ellen. She was mine by birth, and she was also mine by southern law, since my grandmother held the bill of sale that made her so. I did not feel that she was safe unless I had her with me. Mrs. Hobbs, who felt badly about her brother's treachery, yielded to my entreaties, on condition that she should return in ten days. I avoided making any promise. She came to me clad in very thin garments, all outgrown, and with a school satchel on her arm containing a few articles. It was late in October, and I knew the child must suffer, and not daring to go out on the streets to purchase anything, I took off my own flannel skirt and converted it into one for her. Kind Mrs. Bruce came to bid me good-bye, and when she saw that I had taken off my clothing for my child, the tears came to her eyes. She said, "'Wait for me, Linda,' and went out. She soon returned with a nice warm shawl and hood for Ellen. Truly, of such souls as hers are the kingdom of heaven.' My brother reached New York on Wednesday. Lawyer Hopper advised us to go to Boston by the Stonington route, as there was less southern travel in that direction. Mrs. Bruce directed her servants to tell all inquirers that I formerly lived there, but had gone from the city. We reached the steamboat, Rhode Island, in safety. The boat employed colored hands, but I knew that colored passengers were not admitted to the cabin. I was very desirous for the seclusion of the cabin, not only on account of exposure to the night air, but also to avoid observation. Lawyer Hopper was waiting on board for us. He spoke to the stewardess, and asked, as a particular favour, that she would treat us well. He said to me, "'Go and speak to the captain yourself, by and by. Take your little girl with you, and I am sure he will not let her sleep on deck.' With these kind words and shake of the hand, he departed. The boat was soon on her way, bearing me rapidly from the friendly home where I had hoped to find security and rest. My brother had left me to purchase the tickets, thinking that I might have better success than he would. When the stewardess came to me, I paid what she asked, and she gave me three tickets with clipped corners. In the most unsophisticated manner, I said, "'You have made a mistake. I asked you for cabin tickets. I cannot possibly consent to sleep on deck with my little daughter.' She assured me that there was no mistake. She said on some of the routes colored people were allowed to sleep in the cabin, but not on this route, which was much travelled by the wealthy. I asked her to show me to the captain's office, and she said she would after tea. When the time came, I took Ellen by the hand and went to the captain, politely requesting him to change our tickets, as we should be very uncomfortable on deck. He said it was contrary to the custom, but he would see that we had births below. He would also try to obtain comfortable seats for us in the cars. Of that he was not certain, but he would speak to the conductor about it, when the boat arrived. I thanked him, and returned to the lady's cabin. He came afterwards and told me that the conductor of the cars was on board, that he had spoken to him, and he had promised to take care of us. I was very much surprised at receiving so much kindness. I don't know whether the pleasing face of my little girl had won his heart, or whether the stewardess inferred from Lawyer Hopper's manner that I was a fugitive, and had pleaded with him on my behalf. When the boat arrived at Stonington, the conductor kept his promise, and showed us to seats in the first car nearest the engine. He asked us to take seats next to the door, but as he passed through, we ventured to move on toward the other end of the car. No incivility was offered us, and we reached Boston in safety. The day after my arrival was one of the happiest of my life. I felt as if I was beyond the reach of the bloodhounds, and for the first time during many years I had both my children together with me. They greatly enjoyed their reunion, and laughed and chatted merrily. I watched them with a swelling heart. After every motion delighted me. I could not feel safe in New York, and I accepted the offer of a friend that we should share expenses and keep house together. I represented to Mrs. Hobbs that Ellen must have some schooling, and must remain with me for that purpose. She felt ashamed of being unable to read or spell at her age, so instead of sending her to school with Benny, I instructed her myself till she was fitted to enter an intermediate school. The winter passed pleasantly, while I was busy with my needle, and my children with their books. End of CHAPTER XXXVIII. CHAPTER XXXVII of Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Elizabeth Klett, Houston, Texas, June 2008. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. Written by herself. By Harriet Jacobs. Written under the pseudonym Linda Brent. CHAPTER XXXVII. A Visit to England. In the spring, sad news came to me. Mrs. Bruce was dead. Never again in this world should I see her gentle face, or hear her sympathizing voice. I had lost an excellent friend, and little Mary had lost a tender mother. Mr. Bruce wished the child to visit some of her mother's relatives in England, and he was desirous that I should take charge of her. The little motherless one was accustomed to me, and attached to me, and I thought she would be happier in my care than in that of a stranger. I could also earn more in this way than I could by my needle. So I put Benny to a trade, and left Ellen to remain in the house with my friend, and go to school. We sailed from New York, and arrived in Liverpool after a pleasant voyage of twelve days. We proceeded directly to London, and took lodgings at the Adelaide Hotel. The supper seemed to me less luxurious than those I had seen in American hotels, but my situation was indescribably more pleasant. For the first time in my life I was in a place where I was treated according to my deportment, without reference to my complexion. I felt as if a great millstone had been lifted from my breast. In sconce in a pleasant room, with my dear little charge, I laid my head on my pillow for the first time with the delightful consciousness of pure, unadulterated freedom. As I had constant care of the child, I had little opportunity to see the wonders of that great city, but I watched the tide of life that flowed through the streets, and found it a strange contrast to the stagnation in our southern towns. Mr. Bruce took his little daughter to spend some days with friends in Oxford Crescent, and of course it was necessary for me to accompany her. I had heard much of the systematic method of English education, and I was very desirous that my dear Mary should steer straight in the midst of so much propriety. I closely observed her little playmates and their nurses, being ready to take any lessons in the science of good management. The children were more rosy than American children, but I did not see that they differed materially in other respects. They were like all children, sometimes docile, and sometimes wayward. We next went to Steventon, in Barkshire. It was a small town, said to be the poorest in the county. I saw men working in the fields for six shillings and seven shillings a week, and women for six pints and seven pints a day, out of which they bordered themselves. Of course they lived in the most primitive manner. It could not be otherwise where a woman's wages for an attire day were not sufficient to buy a pound of meat. They paid very low rents, and their clothes were made of the cheapest fabrics, though much better than could have been procured in the United States for the same money. I had heard much about the oppression of the poor in Europe. The people I saw around me were, many of them, among the poorest poor. But when I visited them, their little fat cottages, I felt that the condition of even the meanest and most ignorant among them was vastly superior to the condition of the most favored slaves in America. They labored hard, but they were not ordered out to toil while the stars were in the sky, and driven and slashed by an overseer through heat and cold, till the stars shone out again. Their homes were very humble, but they were protected by law. No insolent patrols could come in the dead of night and flog them at their pleasure. The father, when he closed his cottage door, felt safe with his family around him. No master or overseer could come and take from him his wife or his daughter. They must separate to earn their living, but the parents knew where their children were going, and could communicate with them by letters. The relations of husband and wife, parent and child, were too sacred for the richest noble in the land to violate with impunity. Much was being done to enlighten these poor people. Insolent patrols were established among them, and benevolent societies were active in efforts to ameliorate their condition. There was no law forbidding them to learn to read and write, and if they helped each other in spelling out the Bible, they were in no danger of thirty-nine lashes, as was the case with myself, and poor pious old Uncle Fred. I repeat that the most ignorant and the most destitute of these peasants was a thousandfold better off than the most pampered American slave. I do not deny that the poor are oppressed in Europe. I am not disposed to paint their condition so rose-coloured as the honourable Miss Murray paints the condition of the slaves in the United States. A small portion of my experience would enable her to read her own pages with anointed eyes. If she were to lay aside her title, and instead of visiting among the fashionable, become domesticated as a poor governess, on some plantation in Louisiana or Alabama, she would see and hear things that would make her tell quite a different story. My visit to England is a memorable event in my life, from the fact of my having there received strong religious impressions, the contemptuous manner in which the Communion had been administered to coloured people in my native place, the church membership of Dr. Flint and others like him, and the buying and selling of slaves by professed ministers of the Gospel had given me a prejudice against the Episcopal Church. The whole service seemed to me a mockery and a sham. But my home in Steventon was in the family of a clergyman, who was a true disciple of Jesus. The beauty of his daily life inspired me with faith in the genuineness of Christian professions. Grace entered my heart, and I knelt at the Communion table, I trust, in true humility of soul. I remained abroad ten months, which was much longer than I had anticipated. During all that time I never saw the slightest symptom of prejudice against colour. Indeed, I entirely forgot it, till the time came for us to return to America. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Good Invitations To Go South We had a tedious winter passage, and from the distance specters seemed to rise up on the shores of the United States. It is a sad feeling to be afraid of one's native country. We arrived in New York safely, and I hastened to Boston to look after my children. I found Ellen well, and improving at her school. But Benny was not there to welcome me. He had been left in a good place to learn a trade, and for several months everything worked well. He was liked by the master, and was a favourite with his fellow apprentices. But one day they accidentally discovered a fact they had never before suspected—that he was coloured. This at once transformed him into a different being. Some of the apprentices were Americans—others American-born Irish—and it was offensive to their dignity to have a nigger among them, after they had been told that he was a nigger. They began by treating him with silent scorn, and finding that he returned the same. They resorted to insults and abuse. He was too spirited a boy to stand that, and he went off. Being desirous to do something to support himself, and having no one to advise him, he shipped for a wailing voyage. When I received these tidings, I shed many tears, and bitterly reproached myself for having left him so long. But I had done it for the best, and now all I could do was to pray to the Heavenly Father to guide and protect him. Not long after my return I received the following letter from Miss Emily Flint—now, Mrs. Dodge. In this you will recognise the hand of your friend and mistress. Having heard that you had gone with the family to Europe, I have waited to hear of your return to write to you. I should have answered the letter you wrote to me long since, but as I could not then act independently of my father, I knew there could be nothing done satisfactory to you. There were persons here who were willing to buy you and run the risk of getting you. To this I would not consent. I have always been attached to you, and would not like to see you the slave of another, or have unkind treatment. I am married now, and can protect you. My husband expects to move to Virginia this spring, where we think of settling. I am very anxious that you should come and live with me. If you are not willing to come, you may purchase yourself. But I should prefer having you live with me. If you come, you may, if you like, spend a month with your grandmother and friends, then come to me in Norfolk, Virginia. Take this over, and write as soon as possible, and let me know the conclusion. Hoping that your children are well, I remain your friend and mistress. Of course I did not write to return thanks for this cordial invitation. I felt insulted to be thought stupid enough to be caught by such professions. Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly, to the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. It was plain that Dr. Flint's family were apprised of my movements, since they knew of my voyage to Europe. I expected to have further trouble from them, but having eluded them thus far, I hoped to be as successful in future. The money I had earned I was desirous to devote to the education of my children, and to secure a home for them. It seemed not only hard, but unjust, to pay for myself. I could not possibly regard myself as a piece of property. Moreover, I had worked many years without wages, and during that time had been obliged to depend on my grandmother for many comforts and food and clothing. My children certainly belonged to me. But though Dr. Flint had incurred no expense for their support, he had received a large sum of money for them. I knew the law would decide that I was his property, and would probably still give his daughter a claim to my children. But I regarded such laws as the regulations of robbers, who had no rights that I was bound to respect. The fugitive slave law had not then passed. The judges of Massachusetts had not then stooped under chain to enter her courts of justice, so called. I knew my old master was rather skittish of Massachusetts. I relied on her love of freedom, and felt safe on her soil. I am now aware that I honoured the old Commonwealth beyond her deserts. CHAPTER XXXIX. For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves comfortably in Boston. At the end of that time my brother William offered to send Ellen to a boarding school. It required a great effort for me to consent to part with her, for I had few near ties, and it was her presence that made my two little rooms seem home-like. But my judgment prevailed over my selfish feelings. I made preparations for her departure. During the two years we had lived together I had often resolved to tell her something about her father, but I had never been able to muster sufficient courage. I had a shrinking dread of diminishing my child's love. I knew she must have curiosity on the subject, but she had never asked a question. She was always very careful not to say anything to remind me of my troubles. Now that she was going from me, I thought if I should die before she returned she might hear my story from someone who did not understand the palliating circumstances, and that if she were entirely ignorant on the subject her sensitive nature might receive a rude shock. When we retired for the night she said, Mother, it is very hard to leave you alone. I am almost sorry I am going, though I do want to improve myself. But you will write to me often, won't you, Mother? I did not throw my arms round her. I did not answer her. But in a calm, solemn way, for it cost me great effort, I said, listen to me, Ellen, I have something to tell you. I recounted my early sufferings in slavery and told her how nearly they had crushed me. I began to tell her how they had driven me to a great sin when she clasped me in her arms and exclaimed, Oh, don't, Mother, please don't tell me any more. I said, But my child, I want you to know about your father. I know all about it, Mother, she replied. I am nothing to my father, and he is nothing to me. All my love is for you. I was with him five months in Washington, and he never cared for me. He never spoke to me as he did to his little Fanny. I knew all the time he was my father, for Fanny's nurse told me so. But she said I must never tell anybody, and I never did. I used to wish she would take me in his arms and kiss me as he did Fanny, or that he would sometimes smile at me as he did at her. I thought if he was my own father, he ought to love me. I was a little girl, then, and didn't know any better. But now I never think anything about my father. All my love is for you. She hugged me closer as she spoke, and I thanked God that the knowledge I had so much dreaded to impart had not diminished the affection of my child. I had not the slightest idea she knew that portion of my history. If I had, I should have spoken to her long before, for my pent-up feelings had often longed to pour themselves out to someone I could trust. But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy she had manifested towards her unfortunate mother. The next morning she and her uncle started on their journey to the village in New York where she was to be placed at school. It seemed as if all the sunshine had gone away. My little room was dreadfully lonely. I was thankful when a message came from a lady, accustomed to employ me, requesting me to come and sow in her family for several weeks. On my return I found a letter from Brother William. He thought of opening an anti-slavery reading-room in Rochester, and combining with it the sale of some books and stationery, and he wanted me to unite with him. We tried it, but it was not successful. We found warm anti-slavery friends there, but the feeling was not general enough to support such an establishment. I passed nearly a year in the family of Isaac and Amy Post, practical believers in the Christian doctrine of human brotherhood. They measure a man's worth by his character, not by his complexion. The memory of those beloved and honored friends will remain with me to my latest hour. My brother, being disappointed in his project, concluded to go to California, and it was agreed that Benjamin should go with him. Ellen liked her school and was a great favorite there. They did not know her history, and she did not tell it, because she had no desire to make capital out of their sympathy. But when it was accidentally discovered that her mother was a fugitive slave, every method was used to increase her advantages and diminish her expenses. I was alone again. It was necessary for me to be earning money, and I preferred that it should be among those who knew me. On my return from Rochester I called at the house of Mr. Bruce to see Mary, the darling little babe that had thawed my heart when it was freezing into a cheerless distrust of all my fellow-beings. She was growing a tall girl now, but I loved her always. Mr. Bruce had married again, and it was proposed that I should become nurse to a new infant. I had but one hesitation, and that was feeling of insecurity in New York, now greatly increased by the passage of the fugitive slave-law. However, I resolved to try the experiment. I was again fortunate in my employer. The new Mrs. Bruce was an American, brought up under aristocratic influences, and still living in the midst of them, but if she had any prejudice against color I was never made aware of it. And as for the system of slavery, she had a most hearty dislike of it. No sophistry of Southerners could blind her to its enormity. She was a person of excellent principles and a noble heart. To me, from that hour to the present, she has been a true and sympathizing friend. Blessings be with her and hers. About the time that I re-entered the Bruce family, an event occurred of disastrous import to the colored people. The slave Hamlin, the first fugitive that came under the new law, was given up by the bloodhounds of the north to the bloodhounds of the south. It was the beginning of a reign of terror to the colored population. The great city rushed on in its whirl of excitement, taking no note of the short and simple annals of the poor. But while fashionables were listening to the thrilling voice of Jenny Lind in Metropolitan Hall, the thrilling voices of poor, hunted colored people went up in an agony of supplication to the lord from Zion's church. Many families who had lived in the city for twenty years fled from it now. Many a poor washerwoman, who, by hard labour, had made herself a comfortable home, was obliged to sacrifice her furniture, bid a hurried farewell to friends, and seek her fortune among strangers in Canada. Many a wife discovered a secret she had never known before, that her husband was a fugitive, and must leave her to ensure his own safety. Worse still, many a husband discovered that his wife had fled from slavery years ago, and as the child follows the condition of its mother, the children of his love were liable to be seized and carried into slavery. Everywhere, in those humble homes, there was consternation and anguish. But what cared the legislators of the dominant race for the blood they were crushing out of trampled hearts? When my brother William spent his last evening with me, before he went to California, we talked nearly all the time of the distress brought on our oppressed people by the passage of this iniquitous law, and never had I seen him manifest such bitterness of spirit, such stern hostility to our oppressors. He was himself free from the operation of the law, for he did not run from any slaveholding state, being brought into the free states by his master. But I was subject to it, and so were hundreds of intelligent and industrious people all around us. I seldom mentored into the streets, and when it was necessary to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce or any of the family, I went as much as possible through back streets and by-ways. What a disgrace to a city calling itself free, that inhabitants guiltless of offense and seeking to perform their duties conscientiously, should be condemned to live in such incessant fear, and have nowhere to turn for protection. This state of things, of course, gave rise to many impromptu vigilance committees. Every colored person, and every friend of their persecuted race, kept their eyes wide open. Every evening I examined the newspapers carefully, to see what Southerners had put up at the hotels. I did this for my own sake, thinking my young mistress and her husband might be among the list. I wished also to give information to others if necessary, for if many were running to and fro, I resolved that knowledge should be increased. This brings up one of my southern reminiscences which I will hear briefly relate. I was somewhat acquainted with a slave named Luke, who belonged to a wealthy man in our vicinity. His master died, leaving a son and daughter heirs to his large fortune. In the division of the slaves, Luke was included in the son's portion. This young man became a prey to the vices, and when he went to the north to complete his education, he carried his vices with him. He was brought home, deprived of the use of his limbs by excessive dissipation. Luke was appointed to wait upon his bed-ridden master, whose despotic habits were greatly increased by exasperation at his own helplessness. He kept a cow-hide beside him, and for the most trivial occurrence he would order his attendant to bear his back and kneel beside the couch, while he whipped him till his strength was exhausted. Some days he was not allowed to wear anything but his shirt, in order to be in readiness to be flogged. A day seldom passed without his receiving more or less blows. If the slightest resistance was offered, the town Constable was sent for to execute the punishment, and Luke learned from experience how much more the Constable's strong arm was to be dreaded than the comparatively feeble one of his master. The arm of his tyrant grew weaker, and was finally pulsed. And then the Constable's services were in constant requisition. The fact that he was entirely dependent on Luke's care, and was obliged to be tended like an infant, instead of inspiring any gratitude or compassion towards his poor slave, seemed only to increase his irritability and cruelty. As he lay there on his bed, a mere degraded wreck of manhood, he took into his head the strangest freaks of despotism, and if Luke hesitated to submit to his orders, the Constable was immediately sent for. Some of these freaks were of a nature too filthy to be repeated. When I fled from the house of bondage, I left poor Luke still chained to the bedside of this cruel and disgusting wretch. One day, when I had been requested to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, I was hurrying through back streets, as usual, when I saw a young man approaching, whose face was familiar to me. As he came nearer, I recognized Luke. I always rejoiced to see her here of any one who had escaped from the black pit. I was peculiarly glad to see him on northern soil, though I no longer called it free soil. I well remembered what a desolate feeling it was to be alone among strangers, and I went up to him and greeted him cordially. At first he did not know me, but when I mentioned my name he remembered all about me. I told him of the Fugitive Slave Law, and asked him if he did not know that New York was a city of kidnappers. He replied, The risk ain't so bad for me as tis for you, because I run away from the speculator and you run away from the Massa. Dem speculators won't spend their money to come here for a runaway, if they ain't certain sure to put their hands right on him. And I tell you, I took good care about that. I had two hard times down D'Arre to let him catch disnigger. He then told me of the advice he had received and the plans he had laid. I asked if he had enough money to take him to Canada. Pen'd upon it I have, he replied. I took care for that. I've been working all my days for them cussed whites and got no pay but kicks and cuffs. So I thought this nigger had a right to money enough to bring him to the free states. Massa Henry, he lived till everybody'd wish him dead, and when he did die I knowed a devil would have him, and wouldn't want him to bring his money along, too. So I took some of his bills and put him in the pocket of his old trousers, and when he was barred disnigger asked for them old trousers, and they was give to me. With a low, chuckling laugh he added, You see, I didn't steal it, they gubb it to me. I tell you, I had mighty hard time to keep the speculator from finding it, but he didn't get it. This is a fair specimen of how the moral sense is educated by slavery. When a man has his wages stolen from him year after year, and the laws sanctioned and enforced the theft, how can he be expected to have more regard to honesty than has the man who robs him? I have become somewhat enlightened, but I confess that I agree with poor, ignorant, much abused Luke in thinking that he had a right to that money, as a portion of his unpaid wages. He went to Canada forthwith, and I have not since heard from him. All that winter I lived in a state of anxiety. When I took the children out to breathe the air, I closely observed the countenances of all I met. I dreaded the approach of summer, when snakes and slaveholders make their appearance. I was, in fact, a slave in New York, as subject to slave laws as I had been in a slave state. Strange incongruity in a state called free. Spring returned, and I received warning from the South that Dr. Flint knew of my return to my old place, and was making preparations to have me caught. I learned afterwards that my dress, and that of Mrs. Bruce's children, had been described to him by some of the northern tools, which slaveholders employ for their base purposes, and then indulge in sneers at their cupidity and mean servility. I immediately informed Mrs. Bruce of my danger, and she took prompt measures for my safety. My place as nurse could not be supplied immediately, and this generous, sympathizing lady proposed that I should carry her baby away. It was a comfort to me to have the child with me, for the heart is reluctant to be torn away from every object it loves. But how few mothers would have consented to have one of their own babes become a fugitive, for the sake of a poor, hunted nurse, on whom the legislators of the country had let loose the bloodhounds? When I spoke of the sacrifice she was making in depriving herself of her dear baby, she replied, It is better for you to have baby with you, Linda, for if they get on your track they will be obliged to bring the child to me, and then, if there is a possibility of saving you, you shall be saved. This lady had a very wealthy relative, a benevolent gentleman in many respects, but aristocratic and pro-slavery. He remonstrated with her for harboring a fugitive slave, told her she was violating the laws of her country, and asked her if she was aware of the penalty. She replied, I am very well aware of it. It is imprisonment, and one thousand dollars fine. Shame on my country that it is so. I am ready to incur the penalty. I will go to the state's prison rather than have any poor victim torn from my house to be carried back to slavery. The noble heart, the brave heart, the tears are in my eyes while I write of her. May the God of the helpless reward her for her sympathy with my persecuted people. I was sent into New England, where I was sheltered by the wife of a senator, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance. This honorable gentleman would not have voted for the fugitive slave law, as did the senator and Uncle Tom's cabin. On the contrary, he was strongly opposed to it, but he was enough under its influence to be afraid of having me remain in his house many hours. So I was sent into the country, where I remained a month with the baby. When it was supposed that Dr. Flynn's emissaries had lost track of me, and given up the pursuit for the present, I returned to New York.