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[Transcriber’s note: The spelling irregularities of the original have been retained in this etext.]

  INCIDENTS<br />
  IN THE<br />
  LIFE OF A SLAVE GIRL.
  “Northerners know nothing at all about Slavery. They think it is perpetual
  bondage only. They have no conception of the depth of 
  involved in that word, SLAVERY; if they had, they would never cease their
  efforts until so horrible a system was overthrown.”
<br />
  A Woman Of North Carolina.
<br />
  “Rise up, ye women that are at ease! Hear my voice, ye careless daughters!
  Give ear unto my speech.”
<br />
  Isaiah xxxii. 9.
<br />
  Edited By L. Maria Child.
<br />
  Boston: Published For The Author.

CONTENTS

  [ PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR ](#link2H_PREF)
<br />
  [ INTRODUCTION BY THE EDITOR ](#link2H_INTR)
<br />
  [ INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A SLAVE GIRL ](#link2H_4_0004)
<br />
  [ I. Childhood ](#link2H_4_0005)
<br />
  [ II. The New Master And Mistress. ](#link2H_4_0006)
<br />
  [ III. The Slaves’ New Year’s Day. ](#link2H_4_0007)
<br />
  [ IV. The Slave Who Dared To Feel Like A Man. ](#link2H_4_0008)
<br />
  [ V. The Trials Of Girlhood. ](#link2H_4_0009)
<br />
  [ VI. The Jealous Mistress. ](#link2H_4_0010)
<br />
  [ VII. The Lover. ](#link2H_4_0011)
<br />
  [ VIII. What Slaves Are Taught To Think Of The
  North. ](#link2H_4_0012)
<br />
  [ IX. Sketches Of Neighboring Slaveholders. ](#link2H_4_0013)
<br />
  [ X. A Perilous Passage In The Slave Girl’s Life.
  ](#link2H_4_0014)
<br />
  [ XI. The New Tie To Life. ](#link2H_4_0015)
<br />
  [ XII. Fear Of Insurrection. ](#link2H_4_0016)
<br />
  [ XIII. The Church And Slavery. ](#link2H_4_0017)
<br />
  [ XIV. Another Link To Life. ](#link2H_4_0018)
<br />
  [ XV. Continued Persecutions. ](#link2H_4_0019)
<br />
  [ XVI. Scenes At The Plantation. ](#link2H_4_0020)
<br />
  [ XVII. The Flight. ](#link2H_4_0021)
<br />
  [ XVIII. Months Of Peril. ](#link2H_4_0022)
<br />
  [ XIX. The Children Sold. ](#link2H_4_0023)
<br />
  [ XX. New Perils. ](#link2H_4_0024)
<br />
  [ XXI. The Loophole Of Retreat. ](#link2H_4_0025)
<br />
  [ XXII. Christmas Festivities. ](#link2H_4_0026)
<br />
  [ XXIII. Still In Prison. ](#link2H_4_0027)
<br />
  [ XXIV. The Candidate For Congress. ](#link2H_4_0028)
<br />
  [ XXV. Competition In Cunning. ](#link2H_4_0029)
<br />
  [ XXVI. Important Era In My Brother’s Life. ](#link2H_4_0030)
<br />
  [ XXVII. New Destination For The Children. ](#link2H_4_0031)
<br />
  [ XXVIII. Aunt Nancy. ](#link2H_4_0032)
<br />
  [ XXIX. Preparations For Escape. ](#link2H_4_0033)
<br />
  [ XXX. Northward Bound. ](#link2H_4_0034)
<br />
  [ XXXI. Incidents In Philadelphia. ](#link2H_4_0035)
<br />
  [ XXXII. The Meeting Of Mother And Daughter. ](#link2H_4_0036)
<br />
  [ XXXIII. A Home Found. ](#link2H_4_0037)
<br />
  [ XXXIV. The Old Enemy Again. ](#link2H_4_0038)
<br />
  [ XXXV. Prejudice Against Color. ](#link2H_4_0039)
<br />
  [ XXXVI. The Hairbreadth Escape. ](#link2H_4_0040)
<br />
  [ XXXVII. A Visit To England ](#link2H_4_0041)
<br />
  [ XXXVIII. Renewed Invitations To Go South. ](#link2H_4_0042)
<br />
  [ XXXIX. The Confession. ](#link2H_4_0043)
<br />
  [ XL. The Fugitive Slave Law. ](#link2H_4_0044)
<br />
  [ XLI. Free At Last. ](#link2H_4_0045)
<br />
  [ APPENDIX. ](#link2H_APPE)
<br />

  [ ]()

  PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR
  Reader be assured this narrative is no fiction. I am aware that some of my
  adventures may seem incredible; but they are, nevertheless, strictly true.
  I have not exaggerated the wrongs inflicted by Slavery; on the contrary,
  my descriptions fall far short of the facts. I have concealed the names of
  places, and given persons fictitious names. I had no motive for secrecy on
  my own account, but I deemed it kind and considerate towards others to
  pursue this course.
<br />
  I wish I were more competent to the task I have undertaken. But I trust my
  readers will excuse deficiencies in consideration of circumstances. I was
  born and reared in Slavery; and I remained in a Slave State twenty-seven
  years. Since I have been at the North, it has been necessary for me to
  work diligently for my own support, and the education of my children. This
  has not left me much leisure to make up for the loss of early
  opportunities to improve myself; and it has compelled me to write these
  pages at irregular intervals, whenever I could snatch an hour from
  household duties.
<br />
  When I first arrived in Philadelphia, Bishop Paine advised me to publish a
  sketch of my life, but I told him I was altogether incompetent to such an
  undertaking. Though I have improved my mind somewhat since that time, I
  still remain of the same opinion; but I trust my motives will excuse what
  might otherwise seem presumptuous. I have not written my experiences in
  order to attract attention to myself; on the contrary, it would have been
  more pleasant to me to have been silent about my own history. Neither do I
  care to excite sympathy for my own sufferings. But I do earnestly desire
  to arouse the women of the North to a realizing sense of the condition of
  two millions of women at the South, still in bondage, suffering what I
  suffered, and most of them far worse. I want to add my testimony to that
  of abler pens to convince the people of the Free States what Slavery
  really is. Only by experience can any one realize how deep, and dark, and
  foul is that pit of abominations. May the blessing of God rest on this
  imperfect effort in behalf of my persecuted people!
<br />
  —
<br />

  [ ]()

  INTRODUCTION BY THE EDITOR
  The author of the following autobiography is personally known to me, and
  her conversation and manners inspire me with confidence. During the last
  seventeen years, she has lived the greater part of the time with a
  distinguished family in New York, and has so deported herself as to be
  highly esteemed by them. This fact is sufficient, without further
  credentials of her character. I believe those who know her will not be
  disposed to doubt her veracity, though some incidents in her story are
  more romantic than fiction.
<br />
  At her request, I have revised her manuscript; but such changes as I have
  made have been mainly for purposes of condensation and orderly
  arrangement. I have not added any thing to the incidents, or changed the
  import of her very pertinent remarks. With trifling exceptions, both the
  ideas and the language are her own. I pruned excrescences a little, but
  otherwise I had no reason for changing her lively and dramatic way of
  telling her own story. The names of both persons and places are known to
  me; but for good reasons I suppress them.
<br />
  It will naturally excite surprise that a woman reared in Slavery should be
  able to write so well. But circumstances will explain this. In the first
  place, nature endowed her with quick perceptions. Secondly, the mistress,
  with whom she lived till she was twelve years old, was a kind, considerate
  friend, who taught her to read and spell. Thirdly, she was placed in
  favorable circumstances after she came to the North; having frequent
  intercourse with intelligent persons, who felt a friendly interest in her
  welfare, and were disposed to give her opportunities for self-improvement.
<br />
  I am well aware that many will accuse me of indecorum for presenting these
  pages to the public; for the experiences of this intelligent and
  much-injured woman belong to a class which some call delicate subjects,
  and others indelicate. This peculiar phase of Slavery has generally been
  kept veiled; but the public ought to be made acquainted with its monstrous
  features, and I willingly take the responsibility of presenting them with
  the veil withdrawn. I do this for the sake of my sisters in bondage, who
  are suffering wrongs so foul, that our ears are too delicate to listen to
  them. I do it with the hope of arousing conscientious and reflecting women
  at the North to a sense of their duty in the exertion of moral influence
  on the question of Slavery, on all possible occasions. I do it with the
  hope that every man who reads this narrative will swear solemnly before
  God that, so far as he has power to prevent it, no fugitive from Slavery
  shall ever be sent back to suffer in that loathsome den of corruption and
  cruelty.
<br />
  —
<br />

  [ ]()

IN THE

  [ ]()

  I. Childhood
  I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood
  had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent
  and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were
  to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On
  condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and
  supporting himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his
  own affairs. His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though
  he several times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never
  succeeded. In complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow,
  and were termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and,
  though we were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I
  was a piece of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable
  to be demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who was
  two years younger than myself—a bright, affectionate child. I had
  also a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable
  woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South
  Carolina, who, at his death, left her mother and his three children free,
  with money to go to St. Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during
  the Revolutionary War; and they were captured on their passage, carried
  back, and sold to different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother
  used to tell me; but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a
  little girl when she was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel.
  I have often heard her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as
  she grew older she evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that
  her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to
  take care of such a valuable piece of property. She became an
  indispensable personage in the household, officiating in all capacities,
  from cook and wet nurse to seamstress. She was much praised for her
  cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous in the neighborhood that
  many people were desirous of obtaining them. In consequence of numerous
  requests of this kind, she asked permission of her mistress to bake
  crackers at night, after all the household work was done; and she obtained
  leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and her children from
  the profits. Upon these terms, after working hard all day for her
  mistress, she began her midnight bakings, assisted by her two oldest
  children. The business proved profitable; and each year she laid by a
  little, which was saved for a fund to purchase her children. Her master
  died, and the property was divided among his heirs. The widow had her
  dower in the hotel which she continued to keep open. My grandmother
  remained in her service as a slave; but her children were divided among
  her master’s children. As she had five, Benjamin, the youngest one, was
  sold, in order that each heir might have an equal portion of dollars and
  cents. There was so little difference in our ages that he seemed more like
  my brother than my uncle. He was a bright, handsome lad, nearly white; for
  he inherited the complexion my grandmother had derived from Anglo-Saxon
  ancestors. Though only ten years old, seven hundred and twenty dollars
  were paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow to my grandmother, but she
  was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with renewed energy, trusting
  in time to be able to purchase some of her children. She had laid up three
  hundred dollars, which her mistress one day begged as a loan, promising to
  pay her soon. The reader probably knows that no promise or writing given
  to a slave is legally binding; for, according to Southern laws, a slave,
   property, can  no property. When my grandmother
  lent her hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely to her honor.
  The honor of a slaveholder to a slave!
<br />
  To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My brother
  Willie and I often received portions of the crackers, cakes, and
  preserves, she made to sell; and after we ceased to be children we were
  indebted to her for many more important services.
<br />
  Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood.
  When I was six years old, my mother died; and then, for the first time, I
  learned, by the talk around me, that I was a slave. My mother’s mistress
  was the daughter of my grandmother’s mistress. She was the foster-sister
  of my mother; they were both nourished at my grandmother’s breast. In
  fact, my mother had been weaned at three months old, that the babe of the
  mistress might obtain sufficient food. They played together as children;
  and, when they became women, my mother was a most faithful servant to her
  whiter foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised that her
  children should never suffer for any thing; and during her lifetime she
  kept her word. They all spoke kindly of my dead mother, who had been a
  slave merely in name, but in nature was noble and womanly. I grieved for
  her, and my young mind was troubled with the thought who would now take
  care of me and my little brother. I was told that my home was now to be
  with her mistress; and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable
  duties were imposed on me. My mistress was so kind to me that I was always
  glad to do her bidding, and proud to labor for her as much as my young
  years would permit. I would sit by her side for hours, sewing diligently,
  with a heart as free from care as that of any free-born white child. When
  she thought I was tired, she would send me out to run and jump; and away I
  bounded, to gather berries or flowers to decorate her room. Those were
  happy days—too happy to last. The slave child had no thought for the
  morrow; but there came that blight, which too surely waits on every human
  being born to be a chattel.
<br />
  When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died. As
  I saw the cheek grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how earnestly I
  prayed in my heart that she might live! I loved her; for she had been
  almost like a mother to me. My prayers were not answered. She died, and
  they buried her in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears
  fell upon her grave.
<br />
  I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old enough to
  begin to think of the future; and again and again I asked myself what they
  would do with me. I felt sure I should never find another mistress so kind
  as the one who was gone. She had promised my dying mother that her
  children should never suffer for any thing; and when I remembered that,
  and recalled her many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having
  some hopes that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it
  would be so. They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my
  mother’s love and faithful service. But, alas! we all know that the memory
  of a faithful slave does not avail much to save her children from the
  auction block.
<br />
  After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was read, and we
  learned that she had bequeathed me to her sister’s daughter, a child of
  five years old. So vanished our hopes. My mistress had taught me the
  precepts of God’s Word: “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”
  “Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto
  them.” But I was her slave, and I suppose she did not recognize me as her
  neighbor. I would give much to blot out from my memory that one great
  wrong. As a child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the happy
  days I spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of
  injustice. While I was with her, she taught me to read and spell; and for
  this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of a slave, I bless her
  memory.
<br />
  She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all distributed
  among her relatives. Five of them were my grandmother’s children, and had
  shared the same milk that nourished her mother’s children. Notwithstanding
  my grandmother’s long and faithful service to her owners, not one of her
  children escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no
  more, in the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant, or the
  horses they tend.
<br />

  [ ]()

  II. The New Master And Mistress.
  Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my
  mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It was not
  without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what added to my
  unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased by the
  same family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of
  transacting business as a skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a
  freeman than is common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and
  being brought up under such influences, he daily detested the name of
  master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress both
  happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated between the two; being
  perplexed to know which had the strongest claim upon his obedience. He
  finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my father reproved him for
  it, he said, “You both called me, and I didn’t know which I ought to go to
  first.”
<br />
  “You are  child,” replied our father, “and when I call you, you
  should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water.”
<br />
  Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a
  master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found
  an echo in the credulous hearts of youth.
<br />
  When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and
  cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I
  moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and alone.
<br />
  I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was
  buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her
  only child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that I
  still had something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, “Come
  with me, Linda;” and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened.
  She led me apart from the people, and then said, “My child, your father is
  dead.” Dead! How could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not
  even heard that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart
  rebelled against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and
  friend. The good grandmother tried to comfort me. “Who knows the ways of
  God?” said she. “Perhaps they have been kindly taken from the evil days to
  come.” Years afterwards I often thought of this. She promised to be a
  mother to her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so;
  and strengthened by her love, I returned to my master’s. I thought I
  should be allowed to go to my father’s house the next morning; but I was
  ordered to go for flowers, that my mistress’s house might be decorated for
  an evening party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into
  festoons, while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me.
  What cared my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property.
  Moreover, they thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to
  feel that they were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a
  slave to teach; presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters.
<br />
  The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my
  dear mother. There were those who knew my father’s worth, and respected
  his memory.
<br />
  My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little
  slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about
  the joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I tried
  to comfort him, by saying, “Take courage, Willie; brighter days will come
  by and by.”
<br />
  “You don’t know any thing about it, Linda,” he replied. “We shall have to
  stay here all our days; we shall never be free.”
<br />
  I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we
  might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could
  earn money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to
  say than to do; moreover, he did not intend to  his freedom. We
  held daily controversies upon this subject.
<br />
  Little attention was paid to the slaves’ meals in Dr. Flint’s house. If
  they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. I gave
  myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I passed my
  grandmother’s house, where there was always something to spare for me. I
  was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my
  grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something
  for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to  for all my
  comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was  labor that supplied my
  scanty wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress
  given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the
  badges of slavery.
<br />
  While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard
  earnings, the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were never
  repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was appointed
  executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate
  was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however,
  prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been
  purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in the
  family, from generation to generation.
<br />
  My grandmother’s mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she
  should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the
  promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old
  servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be
  sold.
<br />
  On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up,
  proclaiming that there would be a “public sale of negroes, horses, &c.”
  Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to wound her
  feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose
  of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she
  understood very well that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very
  spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress
  intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know it.
  She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and
  preserves; consequently, “Aunt Marthy,” as she was called, was generally
  known, and every body who knew her respected her intelligence and good
  character. Her long and faithful service in the family was also well
  known, and the intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day
  of sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first call
  she sprang upon the auction block. Many voices called out, “Shame! Shame!
  Who is going to sell , aunt Marthy? Don’t stand there! That is
  no place for .” Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her
  fate. No one bid for her. At last, a feeble voice said, “Fifty dollars.”
  It came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my
  grandmother’s deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same
  roof with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her
  owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights; and she
  resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid; but her
  wishes were respected; no one bid above her. She could neither read nor
  write; and when the bill of sale was made out, she signed it with a cross.
  But what consequence was that, when she had a big heart overflowing with
  human kindness? She gave the old servant her freedom.
<br />
  At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had
  passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had
  defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One
  of my mother’s sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family.
  She was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both
  housekeeper and waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the
  beginning and end of every thing.
<br />
  Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She
  had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were
  so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped,
  till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of
  the church; but partaking of the Lord’s supper did not seem to put her in
  a Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on
  that particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait
  till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had
  been used for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children
  from eking out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other
  scrapings. The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to
  give them. Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times
  a day. I can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from
  her flour barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make,
  and exactly what size they ought to be.
<br />
  Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table
  without fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to his
  liking, he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to eat
  every mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not
  have objected to eating it; but she did object to having her master cram
  it down her throat till she choked.
<br />
  They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered
  to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was
  held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the basin. He died a
  few minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had not been
  well cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent
  for the cook, and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman’s
  stomach was stronger than the dog’s; but her sufferings afterwards proved
  that he was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her
  master and mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing
  baby, for a whole day and night.
<br />
  When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation slaves
  was brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night when he
  arrived, and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work house, and tied
  up to the joist, so that his feet would just escape the ground. In that
  situation he was to wait till the doctor had taken his tea. I shall never
  forget that night. Never before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows
  fall; in succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his “O,
  pray don’t, massa,” rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were many
  conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some said master
  accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave had quarrelled with
  his wife, in presence of the overseer, and had accused his master of being
  the father of her child. They were both black, and the child was very
  fair.
<br />
  I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet
  with blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived, and
  continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr. Flint
  handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their value
  into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of
  sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader’s hands,
  she said. “You  to treat me well.” To which he replied,
  “You have let your tongue run too far; damn you!” She had forgotten that
  it was a crime for a slave to tell who was the father of her child.
<br />
  From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once
  saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white.
  In her agony she cried out, “O Lord, come and take me!” Her mistress stood
  by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. “You suffer, do you?” she
  exclaimed. “I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too.”
<br />
  The girl’s mother said, “The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor
  child will soon be in heaven, too.”
<br />
  “Heaven!” retorted the mistress. “There is no such place for the like of
  her and her bastard.”
<br />
  The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her,
  feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, “Don’t grieve so,
  mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me.”
<br />
  Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt
  unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still
  on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had
  but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked
  God for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life.
<br />

  [ ]()

  III. The Slaves’ New Year’s Day.
  Dr. Flint owned a fine residence in town, several farms, and about fifty
  slaves, besides hiring a number by the year.
<br />
  Hiring day at the south takes place on the 1st of January. On the 2d, the
  slaves are expected to go to their new masters. On a farm, they work until
  the corn and cotton are laid. They then have two holidays. Some masters
  give them a good dinner under the trees. This over, they work until
  Christmas eve. If no heavy charges are meantime brought against them, they
  are given four or five holidays, whichever the master or overseer may
  think proper. Then comes New Year’s eve; and they gather together their
  little alls, or more properly speaking, their little nothings, and wait
  anxiously for the dawning of day. At the appointed hour the grounds are
  thronged with men, women, and children, waiting, like criminals, to hear
  their doom pronounced. The slave is sure to know who is the most humane,
  or cruel master, within forty miles of him.
<br />
  It is easy to find out, on that day, who clothes and feeds his slaves
  well; for he is surrounded by a crowd, begging, “Please, massa, hire me
  this year. I will work  hard, massa.”
<br />
  If a slave is unwilling to go with his new master, he is whipped, or
  locked up in jail, until he consents to go, and promises not to run away
  during the year. Should he chance to change his mind, thinking it
  justifiable to violate an extorted promise, woe unto him if he is caught!
  The whip is used till the blood flows at his feet; and his stiffened limbs
  are put in chains, to be dragged in the field for days and days!
<br />
  If he lives until the next year, perhaps the same man will hire him again,
  without even giving him an opportunity of going to the hiring-ground.
  After those for hire are disposed of, those for sale are called up.
<br />
  O, you happy free women, contrast  New Year’s day with that of
  the poor bondwoman! With you it is a pleasant season, and the light of
  the day is blessed. Friendly wishes meet you every where, and gifts are
  showered upon you. Even hearts that have been estranged from you soften at
  this season, and lips that have been silent echo back, “I wish you a happy
  New Year.” Children bring their little offerings, and raise their rosy
  lips for a caress. They are your own, and no hand but that of death can
  take them from you.
<br />
  But to the slave mother New Year’s day comes laden with peculiar sorrows.
  She sits on her cold cabin floor, watching the children who may all be
  torn from her the next morning; and often does she wish that she and they
  might die before the day dawns. She may be an ignorant creature, degraded
  by the system that has brutalized her from childhood; but she has a
  mother’s instincts, and is capable of feeling a mother’s agonies.
<br />
  On one of these sale days, I saw a mother lead seven children to the
  auction block. She knew that  of them would be taken from her;
  but they took . The children were sold to a slave-trader, and
  their mother was bought by a man in her own town. Before night her
  children were all far away. She begged the trader to tell her where he
  intended to take them; this he refused to do. How  he, when he
  knew he would sell them, one by one, wherever he could command the highest
  price? I met that mother in the street, and her wild, haggard face lives
  to-day in my mind. She wrung her hands in anguish, and exclaimed, “Gone!
  All gone! Why  God kill me?” I had no words wherewith to
  comfort her. Instances of this kind are of daily, yea, of hourly
  occurrence.
<br />
  Slaveholders have a method, peculiar to their institution, of getting rid
  of  slaves, whose lives have been worn out in their service. I
  knew an old woman, who for seventy years faithfully served her master. She
  had become almost helpless, from hard labor and disease. Her owners moved
  to Alabama, and the old black woman was left to be sold to any body who
  would give twenty dollars for her.
<br />

  [ ]()

  IV. The Slave Who Dared To Feel Like A Man.
  Two years had passed since I entered Dr. Flint’s family, and those years
  had brought much of the knowledge that comes from experience, though they
  had afforded little opportunity for any other kinds of knowledge.
<br />
  My grandmother had, as much as possible, been a mother to her orphan
  grandchildren. By perseverance and unwearied industry, she was now
  mistress of a snug little home, surrounded with the necessaries of life.
  She would have been happy could her children have shared them with her.
  There remained but three children and two grandchildren, all slaves. Most
  earnestly did she strive to make us feel that it was the will of God: that
  He had seen fit to place us under such circumstances; and though it seemed
  hard, we ought to pray for contentment.
<br />
  It was a beautiful faith, coming from a mother who could not call her
  children her own. But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy, condemned it. We
  reasoned that it was much more the will of God that we should be situated
  as she was. We longed for a home like hers. There we always found sweet
  balsam for our troubles. She was so loving, so sympathizing! She always
  met us with a smile, and listened with patience to all our sorrows. She
  spoke so hopefully, that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine.
  There was a grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things
  for the town, and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for us.
<br />
  But, alas! Even the charms of the old oven failed to reconcile us to our
  hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly and gracefully
  made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a slave. My brother
  William, now twelve years old, had the same aversion to the word master
  that he had when he was an urchin of seven years. I was his confidant. He
  came to me with all his troubles. I remember one instance in particular.
  It was on a lovely spring morning, and when I marked the sunlight dancing
  here and there, its beauty seemed to mock my sadness. For my master, whose
  restless, craving, vicious nature roved about day and night, seeking whom
  to devour, had just left me, with stinging, scorching words; words that
  scathed ear and brain like fire. O, how I despised him! I thought how glad
  I should be, if some day when he walked the earth, it would open and
  swallow him up, and disencumber the world of a plague.
<br />
  When he told me that I was made for his use, made to obey his command in
   thing; that I was nothing but a slave, whose will must and
  should surrender to his, never before had my puny arm felt half so strong.
<br />
  So deeply was I absorbed in painful reflections afterwards, that I neither
  saw nor heard the entrance of any one, till the voice of William sounded
  close beside me. “Linda,” said he, “what makes you look so sad? I love
  you. O, Linda, isn’t this a bad world? Every body seems so cross and
  unhappy. I wish I had died when poor father did.”
<br />
  I told him that every body was  cross, or unhappy; that those
  who had pleasant homes, and kind friends, and who were not afraid to love
  them, were happy. But we, who were slave-children, without father or
  mother, could not expect to be happy. We must be good; perhaps that would
  bring us contentment.
<br />
  “Yes,” he said, “I try to be good; but what’s the use? They are all the
  time troubling me.” Then he proceeded to relate his afternoon’s difficulty
  with young master Nicholas. It seemed that the brother of master Nicholas
  had pleased himself with making up stories about William. Master Nicholas
  said he should be flogged, and he would do it. Whereupon he went to work;
  but William fought bravely, and the young master, finding he was getting
  the better of him, undertook to tie his hands behind him. He failed in
  that likewise. By dint of kicking and fisting, William came out of the
  skirmish none the worse for a few scratches.
<br />
  He continued to discourse, on his young master’s ; how he
  whipped the  boys, but was a perfect coward when a tussle
  ensued between him and white boys of his own size. On such occasions he
  always took to his legs. William had other charges to make against him.
  One was his rubbing up pennies with quicksilver, and passing them off for
  quarters of a dollar on an old man who kept a fruit stall. William was
  often sent to buy fruit, and he earnestly inquired of me what he ought to
  do under such circumstances. I told him it was certainly wrong to deceive
  the old man, and that it was his duty to tell him of the impositions
  practised by his young master. I assured him the old man would not be slow
  to comprehend the whole, and there the matter would end. William thought
  it might with the old man, but not with . He said he did not
  mind the smart of the whip, but he did not like the  of being
  whipped.
<br />
  While I advised him to be good and forgiving I was not unconscious of the
  beam in my own eye. It was the very knowledge of my own shortcomings that
  urged me to retain, if possible, some sparks of my brother’s God-given
  nature. I had not lived fourteen years in slavery for nothing. I had felt,
  seen, and heard enough, to read the characters, and question the motives,
  of those around me. The war of my life had begun; and though one of God’s
  most powerless creatures, I resolved never to be conquered. Alas, for me!
<br />
  If there was one pure, sunny spot for me, I believed it to be in
  Benjamin’s heart, and in another’s, whom I loved with all the ardor of a
  girl’s first love. My owner knew of it, and sought in every way to render
  me miserable. He did not resort to corporal punishment, but to all the
  petty, tyrannical ways that human ingenuity could devise.
<br />
  I remember the first time I was punished. It was in the month of February.
  My grandmother had taken my old shoes, and replaced them with a new pair.
  I needed them; for several inches of snow had fallen, and it still
  continued to fall. When I walked through Mrs. Flint’s room, their creaking
  grated harshly on her refined nerves. She called me to her, and asked what
  I had about me that made such a horrid noise. I told her it was my new
  shoes. “Take them off,” said she; “and if you put them on again, I’ll
  throw them into the fire.”
<br />
  I took them off, and my stockings also. She then sent me a long distance,
  on an errand. As I went through the snow, my bare feet tingled. That night
  I was very hoarse; and I went to bed thinking the next day would find me
  sick, perhaps dead. What was my grief on waking to find myself quite well!
<br />
  I had imagined if I died, or was laid up for some time, that my mistress
  would feel a twinge of remorse that she had so hated “the little imp,” as
  she styled me. It was my ignorance of that mistress that gave rise to such
  extravagant imaginings.
<br />
  Dr. Flint occasionally had high prices offered for me; but he always said,
  “She don’t belong to me. She is my daughter’s property, and I have no
  right to sell her.” Good, honest man! My young mistress was still a child,
  and I could look for no protection from her. I loved her, and she returned
  my affection. I once heard her father allude to her attachment to me, and
  his wife promptly replied that it proceeded from fear. This put unpleasant
  doubts into my mind. Did the child feign what she did not feel? or was her
  mother jealous of the mite of love she bestowed on me? I concluded it must
  be the latter. I said to myself, “Surely, little children are true.”
<br />
  One afternoon I sat at my sewing, feeling unusual depression of spirits.
  My mistress had been accusing me of an offence, of which I assured her I
  was perfectly innocent; but I saw, by the contemptuous curl of her lip,
  that she believed I was telling a lie.
<br />
  I wondered for what wise purpose God was leading me through such thorny
  paths, and whether still darker days were in store for me. As I sat musing
  thus, the door opened softly, and William came in. “Well, brother,” said
  I, “what is the matter this time?”
<br />
  “O Linda, Ben and his master have had a dreadful time!” said he.
<br />
  My first thought was that Benjamin was killed. “Don’t be frightened,
  Linda,” said William; “I will tell you all about it.”
<br />
  It appeared that Benjamin’s master had sent for him, and he did not
  immediately obey the summons. When he did, his master was angry, and began
  to whip him. He resisted. Master and slave fought, and finally the master
  was thrown. Benjamin had cause to tremble; for he had thrown to the ground
  his master—one of the richest men in town. I anxiously awaited the
  result.
<br />
  That night I stole to my grandmother’s house; and Benjamin also stole
  thither from his master’s. My grandmother had gone to spend a day or two
  with an old friend living in the country.
<br />
  “I have come,” said Benjamin, “to tell you good by. I am going away.”
<br />
  I inquired where.
<br />
  “To the north,” he replied.
<br />
  I looked at him to see whether he was in earnest. I saw it all in his
  firm, set mouth. I implored him not to go, but he paid no heed to my
  words. He said he was no longer a boy, and every day made his yoke more
  galling. He had raised his hand against his master, and was to be publicly
  whipped for the offence. I reminded him of the poverty and hardships he
  must encounter among strangers. I told him he might be caught and brought
  back; and that was terrible to think of.
<br />
  He grew vexed, and asked if poverty and hardships with freedom, were not
  preferable to our treatment in slavery. “Linda,” he continued, “we are
  dogs here; foot-balls, cattle, every thing that’s mean. No, I will not
  stay. Let them bring me back. We don’t die but once.”
<br />
  He was right; but it was hard to give him up. “Go,” said I, “and break
  your mother’s heart.”
<br />
  I repented of my words ere they were out.
<br />
  “Linda,” said he, speaking as I had not heard him speak that evening, “how
   you say that? Poor mother! be kind to her, Linda; and you,
  too, cousin Fanny.”
<br />
  Cousin Fanny was a friend who had lived some years with us.
<br />
  Farewells were exchanged, and the bright, kind boy, endeared to us by so
  many acts of love, vanished from our sight.
<br />
  It is not necessary to state how he made his escape. Suffice it to say, he
  was on his way to New York when a violent storm overtook the vessel. The
  captain said he must put into the nearest port. This alarmed Benjamin, who
  was aware that he would be advertised in every port near his own town. His
  embarrassment was noticed by the captain. To port they went. There the
  advertisement met the captain’s eye. Benjamin so exactly answered its
  description, that the captain laid hold on him, and bound him in chains.
  The storm passed, and they proceeded to New York. Before reaching that
  port Benjamin managed to get off his chains and throw them overboard. He
  escaped from the vessel, but was pursued, captured, and carried back to
  his master.
<br />
  When my grandmother returned home and found her youngest child had fled,
  great was her sorrow; but, with characteristic piety, she said, “God’s
  will be done.” Each morning, she inquired if any news had been heard from
  her boy. Yes, news  heard. The master was rejoicing over a
  letter, announcing the capture of his human chattel.
<br />
  That day seems but as yesterday, so well do I remember it. I saw him led
  through the streets in chains, to jail. His face was ghastly pale, yet
  full of determination. He had begged one of the sailors to go to his
  mother’s house and ask her not to meet him. He said the sight of her
  distress would take from him all self-control. She yearned to see him, and
  she went; but she screened herself in the crowd, that it might be as her
  child had said.
<br />
  We were not allowed to visit him; but we had known the jailer for years,
  and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the jail door for my
  grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we entered the cell not
  a sound broke the stillness. “Benjamin, Benjamin!” whispered my
  grandmother. No answer. “Benjamin!” she again faltered. There was a jingle
  of chains. The moon had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through
  the bars of the window. We knelt down and took Benjamin’s cold hands in
  ours. We did not speak. Sobs were heard, and Benjamin’s lips were
  unsealed; for his mother was weeping on his neck. How vividly does memory
  bring back that sad night! Mother and son talked together. He asked her
  pardon for the suffering he had caused her. She said she had nothing to
  forgive; she could not blame his desire for freedom. He told her that when
  he was captured, he broke away, and was about casting himself into the
  river, when thoughts of  came over him, and he desisted. She
  asked if he did not also think of God. I fancied I saw his face grow
  fierce in the moonlight. He answered, “No, I did not think of him. When a
  man is hunted like a wild beast he forgets there is a God, a heaven. He
  forgets every thing in his struggle to get beyond the reach of the
  bloodhounds.”
<br />
  “Don’t talk so, Benjamin,” said she. “Put your trust in God. Be humble, my
  child, and your master will forgive you.”
<br />
  “Forgive me for , mother? For not letting him treat me like a
  dog? No! I will never humble myself to him. I have worked for him for
  nothing all my life, and I am repaid with stripes and imprisonment. Here I
  will stay till I die, or till he sells me.”
<br />
  The poor mother shuddered at his words. I think he felt it; for when he
  next spoke, his voice was calmer. “Don’t fret about me, mother. I ain’t
  worth it,” said he. “I wish I had some of your goodness. You bear every
  thing patiently, just as though you thought it was all right. I wish I
  could.”
<br />
  She told him she had not always been so; once, she was like him; but when
  sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm to lean upon, she learned
  to call on God, and he lightened her burdens. She besought him to do
  likewise.
<br />
  We overstaid our time, and were obliged to hurry from the jail.
<br />
  Benjamin had been imprisoned three weeks, when my grandmother went to
  intercede for him with his master. He was immovable. He said Benjamin
  should serve as an example to the rest of his slaves; he should be kept in
  jail till he was subdued, or be sold if he got but one dollar for him.
  However, he afterwards relented in some degree. The chains were taken off,
  and we were allowed to visit him.
<br />
  As his food was of the coarsest kind, we carried him as often as possible
  a warm supper, accompanied with some little luxury for the jailer.
<br />
  Three months elapsed, and there was no prospect of release or of a
  purchaser. One day he was heard to sing and laugh. This piece of indecorum
  was told to his master, and the overseer was ordered to re-chain him. He
  was now confined in an apartment with other prisoners, who were covered
  with filthy rags. Benjamin was chained near them, and was soon covered
  with vermin. He worked at his chains till he succeeded in getting out of
  them. He passed them through the bars of the window, with a request that
  they should be taken to his master, and he should be informed that he was
  covered with vermin.
<br />
  This audacity was punished with heavier chains, and prohibition of our
  visits.
<br />
  My grandmother continued to send him fresh changes of clothes. The old
  ones were burned up. The last night we saw him in jail his mother still
  begged him to send for his master, and beg his pardon. Neither persuasion
  nor argument could turn him from his purpose. He calmly answered, “I am
  waiting his time.”
<br />
  Those chains were mournful to hear.
<br />
  Another three months passed, and Benjamin left his prison walls. We that
  loved him waited to bid him a long and last farewell. A slave-trader had
  bought him. You remember, I told you what price he brought when ten years
  of age. Now he was more than twenty years old, and sold for three hundred
  dollars. The master had been blind to his own interest. Long confinement
  had made his face too pale, his form too thin; moreover, the trader had
  heard something of his character, and it did not strike him as suitable
  for a slave. He said he would give any price if the handsome lad was a
  girl. We thanked God that he was not.
<br />
  Could you have seen that mother clinging to her child, when they fastened
  the irons upon his wrists; could you have heard her heart-rending groans,
  and seen her bloodshot eyes wander wildly from face to face, vainly
  pleading for mercy; could you have witnessed that scene as I saw it, you
  would exclaim, ! Benjamin, her youngest, her
  pet, was forever gone! She could not realize it. She had had an interview
  with the trader for the purpose of ascertaining if Benjamin could be
  purchased. She was told it was impossible, as he had given bonds not to
  sell him till he was out of the state. He promised that he would not sell
  him till he reached New Orleans.
<br />
  With a strong arm and unvaried trust, my grandmother began her work of
  love. Benjamin must be free. If she succeeded, she knew they would still
  be separated; but the sacrifice was not too great. Day and night she
  labored. The trader’s price would treble that he gave; but she was not
  discouraged.
<br />
  She employed a lawyer to write to a gentleman, whom she knew, in New
  Orleans. She begged him to interest himself for Benjamin, and he willingly
  favored her request. When he saw Benjamin, and stated his business, he
  thanked him; but said he preferred to wait a while before making the
  trader an offer. He knew he had tried to obtain a high price for him, and
  had invariably failed. This encouraged him to make another effort for
  freedom. So one morning, long before day, Benjamin was missing. He was
  riding over the blue billows, bound for Baltimore.
<br />
  For once his white face did him a kindly service. They had no suspicion
  that it belonged to a slave; otherwise, the law would have been followed
  out to the letter, and the  rendered back to slavery. The
  brightest skies are often overshadowed by the darkest clouds. Benjamin was
  taken sick, and compelled to remain in Baltimore three weeks. His strength
  was slow in returning; and his desire to continue his journey seemed to
  retard his recovery. How could he get strength without air and exercise?
  He resolved to venture on a short walk. A by-street was selected, where he
  thought himself secure of not being met by any one that knew him; but a
  voice called out, “Halloo, Ben, my boy! what are you doing !”
<br />
  His first impulse was to run; but his legs trembled so that he could not
  stir. He turned to confront his antagonist, and behold, there stood his
  old master’s next door neighbor! He thought it was all over with him now;
  but it proved otherwise. That man was a miracle. He possessed a goodly
  number of slaves, and yet was not quite deaf to that mystic clock, whose
  ticking is rarely heard in the slaveholder’s breast.
<br />
  “Ben, you are sick,” said he. “Why, you look like a ghost. I guess I gave
  you something of a start. Never mind, Ben, I am not going to touch you.
  You had a pretty tough time of it, and you may go on your way rejoicing
  for all me. But I would advise you to get out of this place plaguy quick,
  for there are several gentlemen here from our town.” He described the
  nearest and safest route to New York, and added, “I shall be glad to tell
  your mother I have seen you. Good by, Ben.”
<br />
  Benjamin turned away, filled with gratitude, and surprised that the town
  he hated contained such a gem—a gem worthy of a purer setting.
<br />
  This gentleman was a Northerner by birth, and had married a southern lady.
  On his return, he told my grandmother that he had seen her son, and of the
  service he had rendered him.
<br />
  Benjamin reached New York safely, and concluded to stop there until he had
  gained strength enough to proceed further. It happened that my
  grandmother’s only remaining son had sailed for the same city on business
  for his mistress. Through God’s providence, the brothers met. You may be
  sure it was a happy meeting. “O Phil,” exclaimed Benjamin, “I am here at
  last.” Then he told him how near he came to dying, almost in sight of free
  land, and how he prayed that he might live to get one breath of free air.
  He said life was worth something now, and it would be hard to die. In the
  old jail he had not valued it; once, he was tempted to destroy it; but
  something, he did not know what, had prevented him; perhaps it was fear.
  He had heard those who profess to be religious declare there was no heaven
  for self-murderers; and as his life had been pretty hot here, he did not
  desire a continuation of the same in another world. “If I die now,” he
  exclaimed, “thank God, I shall die a freeman!”
<br />
  He begged my uncle Phillip not to return south; but stay and work with
  him, till they earned enough to buy those at home. His brother told him it
  would kill their mother if he deserted her in her trouble. She had pledged
  her house, and with difficulty had raised money to buy him. Would he be
  bought?
<br />
  “No, never!” he replied. “Do you suppose, Phil, when I have got so far out
  of their clutches, I will give them one red cent? No! And do you suppose I
  would turn mother out of her home in her old age? That I would let her pay
  all those hard-earned dollars for me, and never to see me? For you know
  she will stay south as long as her other children are slaves. What a good
  mother! Tell her to buy , Phil. You have been a comfort to her,
  and I have been a trouble. And Linda, poor Linda; what’ll become of her?
  Phil, you don’t know what a life they lead her. She has told me something
  about it, and I wish old Flint was dead, or a better man. When I was in
  jail, he asked her if she didn’t want  to ask my master to
  forgive me, and take me home again. She told him, No; that I didn’t want
  to go back. He got mad, and said we were all alike. I never despised my
  own master half as much as I do that man. There is many a worse
  slaveholder than my master; but for all that I would not be his slave.”
<br />
  While Benjamin was sick, he had parted with nearly all his clothes to pay
  necessary expenses. But he did not part with a little pin I fastened in
  his bosom when we parted. It was the most valuable thing I owned, and I
  thought none more worthy to wear it. He had it still.
<br />
  His brother furnished him with clothes, and gave him what money he had.
<br />
  They parted with moistened eyes; and as Benjamin turned away, he said,
  “Phil, I part with all my kindred.” And so it proved. We never heard from
  him again.
<br />
  Uncle Phillip came home; and the first words he uttered when he entered
  the house were, “Mother, Ben is free! I have seen him in New York.” She
  stood looking at him with a bewildered air. “Mother, don’t you believe
  it?” he said, laying his hand softly upon her shoulder. She raised her
  hands, and exclaimed, “God be praised! Let us thank him.” She dropped on
  her knees, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Then Phillip must sit
  down and repeat to her every word Benjamin had said. He told her all; only
  he forbore to mention how sick and pale her darling looked. Why should he
  distress her when she could do him no good?
<br />
  The brave old woman still toiled on, hoping to rescue some of her other
  children. After a while she succeeded in buying Phillip. She paid eight
  hundred dollars, and came home with the precious document that secured his
  freedom. The happy mother and son sat together by the old hearthstone that
  night, telling how proud they were of each other, and how they would prove
  to the world that they could take care of themselves, as they had long
  taken care of others. We all concluded by saying, “He that is 
  to be a slave, let him be a slave.”
<br />