Discussions A

“But they shall be heard of;” and Ruth leaped to her feet. “Sooner than he dreams of, too. I can do it, I feel it, I will do it,” and she closed her lips Srmly; “but there will be a desperate struggle Srst,” and she clasped her hands over her heart as if it had already commenced; “there will be scant meals, and sleepless nights, and weary days, and a throbbing brow, and an aching heart; there will be the chilling tone, the rude repulse; there will be ten backward steps to one forward. Pride must sleep! but—” and Ruth glanced at her children—“it shall be done. They shall be proud of their mother. Hyacinth shall yet be proud to claim his sister.”

“What is it, mamma?” asked Katy, looking wonderingly at the strange expression of her mother’s face.

“What is it, my darling?” and Ruth caught up the child with convulsive energy; “what is it? only that when you are a woman you shall remember this day, my little pet;” and as she kissed Katy’s upturned brow a bright spot burned on her cheek, and her eye glowed like a star.

1855

HARRIET JACOBS c. 1813– 1897

The Srst African American woman known to have authored a slave narrative in the United States, Harriet Jacobs was born into slavery in Edenton, North Car- olina. Her father was a skilled carpenter who was permitted to hire himself out, and her parents were allowed to live together even though they had different masters; therefore, as a child Jacobs was unaware that she was a slave. Her mother’s death and a change of own ers for both Jacobs and her father brought her into the family of Dr. and Mrs. James Norcom in 1825. There, as she grew to adulthood, she was sexually threatened by the doctor and abused by his jealous wife. As a defense against this treatment, Jacobs became involved with an unmarried white attorney, Samuel Tredwell Sawyer, with whom she had two children: Joseph, born in 1829, and Louisa Matilda, born in 1833. When Norcom sent her to a country plantation in 1835, she escaped back to Edenton, hiding for perhaps seven years in an attic crawl space in the home of her maternal grandmother, who had been emancipated some years earlier. While Jacobs was in hiding, Sawyer purchased, but did not emancipate, their two children. Jacobs Snally escaped to the North in 1842, and later both her children came north as well. Life in the North remained insecure and perilous, however, because slave catchers were constantly hunting down escaped slaves to return them to the South, which they could do more aggressively after 1850 with the Fugitive Slave Act on their side.

For much of the next two de cades Jacobs worked in the family of Nathaniel Parker Willis (1806– 1867), one of the era’s most pop u lar writers and editors (and the brother of the pop u lar writer Fanny Fern). She took care of his children and became particu- larly close to his second wife, Cornelia Grinnell Willis, a staunch abolitionist. In 1852 Cornelia Willis arranged to purchase Jacobs from Norcom’s daughter, Jacobs’s

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legal own er; then she emancipated Jacobs, who continued to work for Willis after he became a widower.

Jacobs spent most of 1849 in Rochester, New York, working for the Anti- Slavery OfSce run by her younger brother, who had also escaped slavery. She read through a large body of antislavery writings and also came to know a number of abolition- ists, including many white women, among them the Quaker Amy Post, who became a mentor to her and in whose house she lived for nine months while her brother was away on lecture tours. Jacobs wanted to contribute her life story to the abolitionist cause in a way that would capture the attention of Northern white women in par tic- u lar, to show them how slavery debased and demoralized women, at once subjecting them to white male lust and also depriving them of the right to make homes for their families. Yet this topic was difScult to discuss in an era when extreme sexual prudery was the norm, when standards of female sexual “purity” could result in blaming the unmarried slave mother rather than the man whose victim she was. In Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl Jacobs tried to do more than create sympathy for her plight; she sought to win the respect and admiration of her readers for the cour- age with which she forestalled abuse and for the in de pen dence with which she chose a lover rather than having one forced on her. Her description of hiding in the attic, her emphasis on family life and maternal values, and her account of the dif- Sculties of fugitive slaves in the North differentiate the book from the numerous slave narratives produced in the twenty years before the Civil War.

Encouraged by the success of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1852)— one of whose heroines is the slave concubine Cassy— Jacobs began work on her narrative around 1853 and Snished it by 1858. She was not successful in Snding a publisher for it, however, until Lydia Maria Child (1802– 1880), the well- known woman of letters and abolitionist, agreed to write a preface for it. Child became interested in the project, putting much editorial work into the manuscript; and when the contracted publishers went bankrupt, she arranged for its publication. The book came out under the pseudonym “Linda Brent” in 1861; it was sold by anti- slavery societies in the Northeast, was published in En gland in 1862, and received several favorable reviews. The outbreak of the Civil War made its message less pressing, however; and it sank from notice until the 1980s, when renewed interest in writings by African American women and superb archival scholarship by Jean Fagin Yellin, establishing that this was an autobiographical narrative and not a novel, brought belated acclaim to the work.

During and after the war Jacobs worked with the Quakers in their efforts to help freed slaves through direct aid and by or ga niz ing schools, orphanages, and nursing homes. She ran a boarding house in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and later moved to Washington, D.C., with her daughter. She is buried in Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge.

From Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl1

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 condi- tion of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting him-

1. The text is that of the 1861 edition, published in Boston.

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self, 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 complex- ion 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 trea- sure 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,2 where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War; and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to differ- ent 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.3 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 house hold, ofS- ciating 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 house hold work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and her children from the proSts. 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 proStable; 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 dower4 in the hotel, which she continued to keep open. My grandmother remained in her ser vice as a slave; but her children were divided among her master’s chil- dren. As she had Sve, Benjamin, the youn gest 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 dol- lars, which her mistress one day begged as a loan, promising to pay her soon.

2. During the Revolutionary War, a British port town in what is now Florida. 3. John Horniblow, who ran the King’s Arms hotel in Edenton, North Carolina. Jacobs’s grand- mother’s legal name was Margaret (Molly) Horn- iblow (c. 1771– 1853); as was typical for the era,

Molly received the surname of her own er. Inci- dents never mentions a grandfather, and no infor- mation has been recovered relating to the paternal parentage of Molly’s children. 4. Inheritance from her husband’s estate.

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The reader probably knows that no promise or writing given to a slave is legally binding; for, according to Southern laws, a slave, being property, can hold no property. When my grandmother lent her hard earnings to her mis- tress, she trusted solely to her honor. The honor of a slaveholder to a slave!

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 ser vices.

Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood. When I was six years old, my mother died, and then, for the Srst 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 sufScient 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 upon 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 ̂ owers 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.

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 bur- ied her in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears fell upon her grave.

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 Snd 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 faith- ful ser vice. But, alas! we all know that the memory of a faithful slave does not avail much to save her children from the auction block.

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 Sve years old. So vanished our hopes. My mistress had taught me the precepts

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of God’s Word: “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”5 “Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.” 6 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.

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. Notwithstand- ing my grandmother’s long and faithful ser vice to her own ers, 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.

* * * VII. The Lover

Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the pious soul can bow in resignation, and say, “Not my will, but thine be done, O Lord!”7 But when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved, and I indulged the hope that the dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot that in the land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light to penetrate. A land

“Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind; Nor words a language; no e’en men mankind. Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his separate hell.”8

There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free born man. We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met together afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed to marry me. I loved him with all the ardor of a young girl’s Srst love. But when I re^ected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave no sanction to the marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I knew that Dr. Flint was too wilful and arbitrary a man to consent to that arrange- ment. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sorts of opposition, and I had nothing to hope from my mistress.9 She would have been delighted to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It would have relieved her mind of a burden if she could have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I was married near home I should be just as much in her husband’s power as I

5. Mark 12.31. 6. Matthew 7.12. 7. Matthew 26.39. 8. From The Lament of Tasso 4.7– 10 (1817), by the En glish poet George Gordon, Lord Byron

(1788– 1824). 9. Dr. Flint is the father of Brent’s own er, Emily Flint, who is a child at this time, giving Flint and his wife (whom Brent refers to as her mistress) legal power.

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had previously been,— for the husband of a slave has no power to protect her.1 Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves had no right to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely to wait upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young slave girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. “I will have you peeled and pickled, my lady,” said she, “if I ever hear you mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending my children with the children of that nigger?” The girl to whom she said this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its father. The poor black man who loved her would have been proud to acknowledge his helpless offspring.

Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a loss what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover the insults that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my grandmother about it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to tell her the worst. She had long suspected all was not right, and if I conSrmed her suspicions I knew a storm would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes.

This love- dream had been my support through many trials; and I could not bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was a lady in the neighborhood, a par tic u lar friend of Dr. Flint’s, who often visited the house. I had a great respect for her, and she had always manifested a friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she would have great in^u- ence with the doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I was aware that my lover’s being a free- born man would prove a great objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would consent to that arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to pay any reasonable price. She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that perhaps my mistress would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her of me. The lady listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her utmost to promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose.

How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned to his presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him. The next morning, a message was brought to me: “Master wants you in his study.” I found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the hateful man who claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked Sxedly at me, with an expression which seemed to say, “I have half a mind to kill you on the spot.” At last he broke the silence, and that was a relief to both of us.

“So you want to be married, do you?” said he, “and to a free nigger.” “Yes, sir.” “Well, I’ll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger fel-

low you honor so highly. If you must have a husband, you may take up with one of my slaves.”

What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of his slaves, even if my heart had been interested!

I replied, “Don’t you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some preference about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike to her?”

1. Flint has been attempting to coerce Brent into sexual relations.

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“Do you love this nigger?” said he, abruptly. “Yes, sir.” “How dare you tell me so!” he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a slight

pause, he added, “I supposed you thought more of yourself; that you felt above the insults of such puppies.”

I replied, “If he is a puppy I am a puppy, for we are both of the negro race. It is right and honorable for us to love each other. The man you call a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he would not love me if he did not believe me to be a virtuous woman.”

He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It was the Srst time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable me to control my anger. When I had recovered a little from the effects, I exclaimed, “You have struck me for answering you honestly. How I despise you!”

There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what should be my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to re^ect on what I had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he asked, “Do you know what you have said?”

“Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it.” “Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,— that I can kill

you, if I please?” “You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no right to do

as you like with me.” “Silence!” he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. “By heavens, girl, you

forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will soon bring you to your senses. Do you think any other master would bear what I have borne from you this morning? Many masters would have killed you on the spot. How would you like to be sent to jail for your insolence?”

“I know I have been disrespectful, sir,” I replied; “but you drove me to it; I couldn’t help it. As for the jail, there would be more peace for me there than there is here.”

“You deserve to go there,” he said, “and to be under such treatment, that you would forget the meaning of the word peace. It would do you good. It would take some of your high notions out of you. But I am not ready to send you there yet, notwithstanding your ingratitude for all my kindness and forbearance. You have been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you happy, and I have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you have proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to redeem your character. If you behave yourself and do as I require, I will forgive you and treat you as I always have done; but if you disobey me, I will punish you as I would the meanest slave on my plantation. Never let me hear that fellow’s name mentioned again. If I ever know of your speaking to him, I will cow- hide you both; and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will shoot him as soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I’ll teach you a lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be the last time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject.”

Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and I trust I  never shall again. Somebody has called it “the atmosphere of hell;” and I believe it is so.

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For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to mortify me; to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by receiving the honorable addresses of a respectable colored man, in preference to the base propos- als of a white man. But though his lips disdained to address me, his eyes were very loquacious. No animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he watched me. He knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me read his letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I was sorry for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to leave the house, he con- trived to thrust a note into my hand. I thought I had better read it, and spare myself the vexation of having him read it to me. It expressed regret for the blow he had given me, and reminded me that I myself was wholly to blame for it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was doing myself by incurring his dis plea sure. He wrote that he had made up his mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves with him, and intended I should be one of the number. My mistress would remain where she was; therefore I should have nothing to fear from that quarter. If I merited kindness from him, he assured me that it would be lavishly bestowed. He begged me to think over the matter, and answer the following day.

The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his room. I laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He thought it was my answer, and did not call me back. I went as usual to attend my young mistress to and from school. He met me in the street, and ordered me to stop at his ofSce on my way back. When I entered, he showed me his letter, and asked me why I had not answered it. I replied, “I am your daughter’s property, and it is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you please.” He said he was very glad to Snd me so willing to go, and that we should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the town, and I rather thought he had made up the story merely to frighten me. However that might be, I was deter- mined that I would never go to Louisiana with him.

Summer passed away, and early in the autumn, Dr. Flint’s eldest son was sent to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to emigrating. That news did not disturb me. I knew very well that I should not be sent with him. That I had not been taken to the plantation before this time, was owing to the fact that his son was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of the overseer had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the Selds to work. Is it strange that I was not proud of these protectors? As for the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I had for a bloodhound.

Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of Louisiana, and I heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my lover met me at the cor- ner of the street, and I stopped to speak to him. Looking up, I saw my master watching us from his window. I hurried home, trembling with fear. I was sent for, immediately, to go to his room. He met me with a blow. “When is mistress to be married?” said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths and imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free man! that my tyrant had no power to ^og him for speaking to me in the street!

Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end. There was no hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any terms. He had an iron will, and was determined to keep me, and to conquer me. My lover was

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2. In Southern law, the mother’s legal status as slave or free determined the legal status of the child. 3. One of Brent’s uncles, caught attempting to

escape, was jailed for six months, then sold to a trader. He eventually escaped to New York City but never saw his mother again.

an intelligent and religious man. Even if he could have obtained permission to marry me while I was a slave, the marriage would give him no power to protect me from my master. It would have made him miserable to witness the insults I should have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I knew they must “follow the condition of the mother.”2 What a terrible blight that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For his sake, I felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy destiny. He was going to Savannah to see about a little property left him by an uncle; and hard as it was to bring my feelings to it, I earnestly entreated him not to come back. I advised him to go to the Free States, where his tongue would not be tied, and where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He left me, still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over. I felt lonely and desolate.

Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother, and my affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck, and looked into my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared not tell, I felt that I still had something to love. But even that pleasant emotion was chilled by the re^ec- tion that he might be torn from me at any moment, by some sudden freak of my master. If he had known how we love each other, I think he would have exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier said than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had no means of getting any money to defray our expenses. As for grandmother, she was strongly opposed to her children’s undertaking any such project. She had not forgotten poor Benjamin’s sufferings3 and she was afraid that if another child tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To me, nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to myself, “William must be free. He shall go to the north, and I will follow him.” Many a slave sister has formed the same plans.

* * * X. A Perilous Passage in the Slave Girl’s Life

After my lover went away, Dr. Flint contrived a new plan. He seemed to have an idea that my fear of my mistress was his greatest obstacle. In the blandest tones, he told me that he was going to build a small house for me, in a secluded place, four miles away from the town. I shuddered; but I was constrained to listen, while he talked of his intention to give me a home of my own, and to make a lady of me. Hitherto, I had escaped my dreaded fate, by being in the midst of people. My grandmother had already had high words with my master about me. She had told him pretty plainly what she thought of his character, and there was considerable gossip in the neighbor- hood about our affairs, to which the open- mouthed jealousy of Mrs. Flint contributed not a little. When my master said he was going to build a house for me, and that he could do it with little trouble and expense, I was in hopes something would happen to frustrate his scheme; but I soon heard that the house was actually begun. I vowed before my Maker that I would never enter

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it. I had rather toil on the plantation from dawn till dark; I had rather live and die in jail, than drag on, from day to day, through such a living death. I was determined that the master, whom I so hated and loathed, who had blighted the prospects of my youth, and made my life a desert, should not, after my long struggle with him, succeed at last in trampling his victim under his feet. I would do any thing, every thing, for the sake of defeating him. What could I do? I thought and thought, till I became desperate, and made a plunge into the abyss.

And now, reader, I come to a period in my unhappy life, which I would gladly forget if I could. The remembrance Slls me with sorrow and shame. It pains me to tell you of it; but I have promised to tell you the truth, and I will do it honestly, let it cost me what it may. I will not try to screen myself behind the plea of compulsion from a master; for it was not so. Neither can I plead ignorance or thoughtlessness. For years, my master had done his utmost to pollute my mind with foul images, and to destroy the pure principles incul- cated by my grandmother, and the good mistress of my childhood. The in^u- ences of slavery had had the same effect on me that they had on other young girls; they had made me prematurely knowing, concerning the evil ways of the world. I knew what I did, and I did it with deliberate calculation.

But, O, ye happy women, whose purity has been sheltered from childhood, who have been free to choose the objects of your affection, whose homes are protected by law, do not judge the poor desolate slave girl too severely! If slav- ery had been abolished, I, also, could have married the man of my choice; I could have had a home shielded by the laws; and I should have been spared the painful task of confessing what I am now about to relate; but all my pros- pects had been blighted by slavery. I wanted to keep myself pure; and, under the most adverse circumstances, I tried hard to preserve my self- respect; but I was struggling alone in the powerful grasp of the demon Slavery; and the monster proved too strong for me. I felt as if I was forsaken by God and man; as if all my efforts must be frustrated; and I became reckless in my despair.

I have told you that Dr. Flint’s persecutions and his wife’s jealousy had given rise to some gossip in the neighborhood. Among others, it chanced that a white unmarried gentleman had obtained some knowledge of the circum- stances in which I was placed. He knew my grandmother, and often spoke to me in the street. He became interested for me, and asked questions about my master, which I answered in part. He expressed a great deal of sympathy, and a wish to aid me. He constantly sought opportunities to see me, and wrote to me frequently. I was a poor slave girl, only Sfteen years old.

So much attention from a superior person was, of course, ^attering; for human nature is the same in all. I also felt grateful for his sympathy, and encouraged by his kind words. It seemed to me a great thing to have such a friend. By degrees, a more tender feeling crept into my heart. He was an edu- cated and eloquent gentleman; too eloquent, alas, for the poor slave girl who trusted in him. Of course I saw whither all this was tending. I knew the impass- able gulf between us; but to be an object of interest to a man who is not mar- ried, and who is not her master, is agreeable to the pride and feelings of a slave, if her miserable situation has left her any pride or sentiment. It seems less degrading to give one’s self, than to submit to compulsion. There is something akin to freedom in having a lover who has no control over you, except that which he gains by kindness and attachment. A master may treat you as rudely

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as he pleases, and you dare not speak; moreover, the wrong does not seem so great with an unmarried man, as with one who has a wife to be made unhappy. There may be sophistry in all this; but the condition of a slave confuses all principles of morality, and, in fact, renders the practice of them impossible.

When I found that my master had actually begun to build the lonely cot- tage, other feelings mixed with those I have described. Revenge, and calcu- lations of interest, were added to ^attered vanity and sincere gratitude for kindness. I knew nothing would enrage Dr. Flint so much as to know that I favored another; and it was something to triumph over my tyrant even in that small way. I thought he would revenge himself by selling me, and I was sure my friend, Mr. Sands, would buy me.4 He was a man of more generos- ity and feeling than my master, and I thought my freedom could be easily obtained from him. The crisis of my fate now came so near that I was des- perate. I shuddered to think of being the mother of children that should be owned by my old tyrant. I knew that as soon as a new fancy took him, his victims were sold far off to get rid of them; especially if they had children. I had seen several women sold, with his babies at the breast. He never allowed his offspring by slaves to remain long in sight of himself and his wife. Of a man who was not my master I could ask to have my children well supported; and in this case, I felt conSdent I should obtain the boon. I also felt quite sure that they would be made free. With all these thoughts revolving in my mind, and seeing no other way of escaping the doom I so much dreaded, I made a headlong plunge. Pity me, and pardon me, O virtuous reader! You never knew what it is to be a slave; to be entirely unprotected by law or cus- tom; to have the laws reduce you to the condition of a chattel, entirely subject to the will of another. You never exhausted your ingenuity in avoiding the snares, and eluding the power of a hated tyrant; you never shuddered at the sound of his footsteps, and trembled within hearing of his voice. I know I did wrong. No one can feel it more sensibly than I do. The painful and humiliat- ing memory will haunt me to my dying day. Still, in looking back, calmly, on the events of my life, I feel that the slave woman ought not to be judged by the same standard as others.

The months passed on. I had many unhappy hours. I secretly mourned over the sorrow I was bringing on my grandmother, who had so tried to shield me from harm. I knew that I was the greatest comfort of her old age, and that it was a source of pride to her that I had not degraded myself, like most of the slaves. I wanted to confess to her that I was no longer worthy of her love; but I could not utter the dreaded words.

As for Dr. Flint, I had a feeling of satisfaction and triumph in the thought of telling him. From time to time he told me of his intended arrangements, and I was silent. At last, he came and told me the cottage was completed, and ordered me to go to it. I told him I would never enter it. He said, “I have heard enough of such talk as that. You shall go, if you are carried by force; and you shall remain there.”

I replied, “I will never go there. In a few months I shall be a mother.” He stood and looked at me in dumb amazement, and left the house with-

out a word. I thought I should be happy in my triumph over him. But now that

4. Brent misjudged Flint, who becomes even more possessive when he learns of her relationship with Sands.

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the truth was out, and my relatives would hear of it, I felt wretched. Humble as were their circumstances, they had pride in my good character. Now, how could I look them in the face? My self- respect was gone! I had resolved that I would be virtuous, though I was a slave. I had said, “Let the storm beat! I will brave it till I die.” And now, how humiliated I felt!

I went to my grandmother. My lips moved to make confession, but the words stuck in my throat. I sat down in the shade of a tree at her door and began to sew. I think she saw something unusual was the matter with me. The mother of slaves is very watchful. She knows there is no security for her children. After they have entered their teens she lives in daily expectation of trouble. This leads to many questions. If the girl is of a sensitive nature, timidity keeps her from answering truthfully, and this well- meant course has a tendency to drive her from maternal counsels. Presently, in came my mistress, like a mad woman, and accused me concerning her husband. My grandmother, whose suspicions had been previously awakened, believed what she said. She exclaimed, “O Linda! has it come to this? I had rather see you dead than to see you as you now are. You are a disgrace to your dead mother.” She tore from my Sngers my mother’s wedding ring and her silver thimble. “Go away!” she exclaimed, “and never come to my house, again.” Her reproaches fell so hot and heavy, that they left me no chance to answer. Bitter tears, such as the eyes never shed but once, were my only answer. I rose from my seat, but fell back again, sobbing. She did not speak to me; but the tears were running down her furrowed cheeks, and they scorched me like Sre. She had always been so kind to me! So kind! How I longed to throw myself at her feet, and tell her all the truth! But she had ordered me to go, and never to come there again. After a few minutes, I mustered strength, and started to obey her. With what feelings did I now close that little gate, which I used to open with such an eager hand in my childhood! It closed upon me with a sound I never heard before.

Where could I go? I was afraid to return to my master’s. I walked on reck- lessly, not caring where I went, or what would become of me. When I had gone four or Sve miles, fatigue compelled me to stop. I sat down on the stump of an old tree. The stars were shining through the boughs above me. How they mocked me, with their bright, calm light! The hours passed by, and as I sat there alone a chilliness and deadly sickness came over me. I sank on the ground. My mind was full of horrid thoughts. I prayed to die; but the prayer was not answered. At last, with great effort I roused myself, and walked some distance further, to the house of a woman who had been a friend of my mother. When I told her why I was there, she spoke soothingly to me; but I could not be comforted. I thought I could bear my shame if I could only be reconciled to my grandmother. I longed to open my heart to her. I thought if she could know the real state of the case, and all I had been bearing for years, she would perhaps judge me less harshly. My friend advised me to send for her. I did so; but days of agonizing suspense passed before she came. Had she utterly forsaken me? No. She came at last. I knelt before her, and told her the things that had poisoned my life; how long I had been persecuted; that I saw no way of escape; and in an hour of extremity I had become desperate. She listened in silence. I told her I would bear any thing and do any thing, if in time I had hopes of obtaining her forgiveness. I begged of her to pity me, for my dead mother’s sake. And she did pity me.

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She did not say, “I forgive you;” but she looked at me lovingly, with her eyes full of tears. She laid her old hand gently on my head, and murmured, “Poor child! Poor child!”

* * * XIV. Another Link to Life

I had not returned to my master’s house since the birth of my child. The old man raved to have me thus removed from his immediate power; but his wife vowed, by all that was good and great, she would kill me if I came back; and he did not doubt her word. Sometimes he would stay away for a season. Then he would come and renew the old threadbare discourse about his for- bearance and my ingratitude. He labored, most unnecessarily, to convince me that I had lowered myself. The venomous old reprobate had no need of descanting on that theme. I felt humiliated enough. My unconscious babe was the ever- present witness of my shame. I listened with silent contempt when he talked about my having forfeited his good opinion; but I shed bitter tears that I was no longer worthy of being respected by the good and pure. Alas! slavery still held me in its poisonous grasp. There was no chance for me to be respectable. There was no prospect of being able to lead a better life.

Sometimes, when my master found that I still refused to accept what he called his kind offers, he would threaten to sell my child. “Perhaps that will humble you,” said he.

Humble me! Was I not already in the dust?5 But his threat lacerated my heart. I knew the law gave him power to fulSll it; for slaveholders have been cunning enough to enact that “the child shall follow the condition of the mother,” not of the father; thus taking care that licentiousness shall not inter- fere with avarice. This re^ection made me clasp my innocent babe all the more Srmly to my heart. Horrid visions passed through my mind when I thought of his liability to fall into the slave trader’s hands. I wept over him, and said, “O my child! perhaps they will leave you in some cold cabin to die, and then throw you into a hole, as if you were a dog.”

When Dr. Flint learned that I was again to be a mother, he was exasper- ated beyond mea sure. He rushed from the house, and returned with a pair of shears. I had a Sne head of hair; and he often railed about my pride of arranging it nicely. He cut every hair close to my head, storming and swearing all the time. I replied to some of his abuse, and he struck me. Some months before, he had pitched me down stairs in a St of passion; and the injury I received was so serious that I was unable to turn myself in bed for many days. He then said, “Linda, I swear by God I will never raise my hand against you again;” but I knew that he would forget his promise.

After he discovered my situation, he was like a restless spirit from the pit. He came every day; and I was subjected to such insults as no pen can describe. I would not describe them if I could; they were too low, too revolt- ing. I tried to keep them from my grandmother’s knowledge as much as I could. I knew she had enough to sadden her life, without having my troubles to bear. When she saw the doctor treat me with violence, and heard him utter oaths terrible enough to palsy a man’s tongue, she could not always hold her

5. Job 42.6.

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peace. It was natural and motherlike that she should try to defend me; but it only made matters worse.

When they told me my new- born babe was a girl, my heart was heavier than it had ever been before. Slavery is terrible for men; but it is far more terrible for women. Superadded to the burden common to all, they have wrongs, and sufferings, and mortiScations peculiarly their own.

Dr. Flint had sworn that he would make me suffer, to my last day, for this new crime against him, as he called it; and as long as he had me in his power he kept his word. On the fourth day after the birth of my babe, he entered my room suddenly, and commanded me to rise and bring my baby to him. The nurse who took care of me had gone out of the room to prepare some nourishment, and I was alone. There was no alternative. I rose, took up my babe, and crossed the room to where he sat. “Now stand there,” said he, “till I tell you to go back!” My child bore a strong resemblance to her father, and to the deceased Mrs. Sands, her grandmother. He noticed this; and while I stood before him, trembling with weakness, he heaped upon me and my lit- tle one every vile epithet he could think of. Even the grandmother in her grave did not escape his curses. In the midst of his vituperations I fainted at his feet. This recalled him to his senses. He took the baby from my arms, laid it on the bed, dashed cold water in my face, took me up, and shook me violently, to restore my consciousness before any one entered the room. Just then my grandmother came in, and he hurried out of the house. I suffered in consequence of this treatment; but I begged my friends to let me die, rather than send for the doctor. There was nothing I dreaded so much as his pres- ence. My life was spared; and I was glad for the sake of my little ones. Had it not been for these ties to life, I should have been glad to be released by death, though I had lived only nineteen years.

Always it gave me a pang that my children had no lawful claim to a name. Their father offered his; but, if I had wished to accept the offer, I dared not while my master lived. Moreover, I knew it would not be accepted at their baptism. A Christian name they were at least entitled to; and we resolved to call my boy for our dear good Benjamin, who had gone far away from us.

My grandmother belonged to the church, and she was very desirous of hav- ing the children christened. I knew Dr. Flint would forbid it, and I did not venture to attempt it. But chance favored me. He was called to visit a patient out of town, and was obliged to be absent during Sunday. “Now is the time,” said my grandmother; “we will take the children to church, and have them christened.”

When I entered the church, recollections of my mother came over me, and I felt subdued in spirit. There she had presented me for baptism, without any reason to feel ashamed. She had been married, and had such legal rights as slavery allows a slave. The vows had at least been sacred to her, and she had never violated them. I was glad she was not alive, to know under what differ- ent circumstances her grandchildren were presented for baptism. Why had my lot been so different from my mother’s? Her master had died when she was a child; and she remained with her mistress till she married. She was never in the power of any master; and thus she escaped one class of the evils that generally fall upon slaves.

When my baby was about to be christened, the former mistress of my father stepped up to me, and proposed to give it her Christian name. To this

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I added the surname of my father, who had himself no legal right to it; for my grandfather on the paternal side was a white gentleman. What tangled skeins are the genealogies of slavery!6 I loved my father; but it mortiSed me to be obliged to bestow his name on my children.

When we left the church, my father’s old mistress invited me to go home with her. She clasped a gold chain around my baby’s neck. I thanked her for this kindness; but I did not like the emblem. I wanted no chain to be fas- tened on my daughter, not even if its links were of gold. How earnestly I prayed that she might never feel the weight of slavery’s chain, whose iron entereth into the soul.

* * * XXI. The Loophole of Retreat7

A small shed had been added to my grandmother’s house years ago. Some boards were laid across the joists at the top, and between these boards and the roof was a very small garret, never occupied by any thing but rats and mice. It was a pent roof, covered with nothing but shingles, according to the southern custom for such buildings. The garret was only nine feet long and seven wide. The highest part was three feet high, and sloped down abruptly to the loose board ^oor. There was no admission for either light or air. My uncle Phillip, who was a carpenter, had very skilfully made a con- cealed trap- door, which communicated with the storeroom. He had been doing this while I was waiting in the swamp. The storeroom opened upon a piazza. To this hole I was conveyed as soon as I entered the house. The air was sti^ing; the darkness total. A bed had been spread on the ^oor. I could sleep quite comfortably on one side; but the slope was so sudden that I could not turn on the other without hitting the roof. The rats and mice ran over my bed; but I was weary, and I slept such sleep as the wretched may, when a tempest has passed over them. Morning came. I knew it only by the noises I heard; for in my small den day and night were all the same. I suffered for air even more than for light. But I was not comfortless. I heard the voices of my children. There was joy and there was sadness in the sound. It made my tears ^ow. How I longed to speak to them! I was eager to look on their faces; but there was no hole, no crack, through which I could peep. This continued darkness was oppressive. It seemed horrible to sit or lie in a cramped position day after day, without one gleam of light. Yet I would have chosen this, rather than my lot as a slave, though white people considered it an easy one; and it was so compared with the fate of others. I was never cruelly over- worked; I was never lacerated with the whip from head to foot; I was never so beaten and bruised that I could not turn from one side to the other; I never had my heel- strings cut to prevent my running away; I was never chained to a log and forced to drag it about, while I toiled in the Selds from morning till night; I was never branded with hot iron, or torn by bloodhounds. On the contrary, I had always been kindly treated, and tenderly

6. Jacobs stresses her mixed- race parentage not to claim that she is really white but to show the arbitrariness and absurdity of racial distinctions. 7. From The Task 4.88– 90, a pop u lar long poem (1785) by the En glish poet William Cowper

(1731– 1800). By this point in the narrative Brent has escaped from the Flint house hold and is hid- ing in a crawl space beneath the roof of her grand- mother’s house. The account states that she remains there for seven years.

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cared for, until I came into the hands of Dr. Flint. I had never wished for freedom till then. But though my life in slavery was comparatively devoid of hardships, God pity the woman who is compelled to lead such a life!

My food was passed up to me through the trap- door my uncle had con- trived; and my grandmother, my uncle Phillip, and aunt Nancy would seize such opportunities as they could, to mount up there and chat with me at the opening. But of course this was not safe in the daytime. It must all be done in darkness. It was impossible for me to move in an erect position, but I crawled about my den for exercise. One day I hit my head against something, and found it was a gimlet.8 My uncle had left it sticking there when he made the trap- door. I was as rejoiced as Robinson Crusoe9 could have been at Snding such a trea sure. It put a lucky thought into my head. I said to myself, “Now I will have some light. Now I will see my children.” I did not dare to begin my work during the daytime, for fear of attracting attention. But I groped round; and having found the side next the street, where I could frequently see my children, I struck the gimlet in and waited for eve ning. I bored three rows of holes, one above another; then I bored out the interstices between. I thus succeeded in making one hole about an inch long and an inch broad. I sat by it till late into the night, to enjoy the little whiff of air that ^oated in. In the morning I watched for my children. The Srst person I saw in the street was Dr. Flint. I had a shuddering, superstitious feeling that it was a bad omen. Several familiar faces passed by. At last I heard the merry laugh of children, and presently two sweet little faces were looking up at me, as though they knew I was there, and were conscious of the joy they imparted. How I longed to tell them I was there!

My condition was now a little improved. But for weeks I was tormented by hundreds of little red insects, Sne as a needle’s point, that pierced through my skin, and produced an intolerable burning. The good grandmother gave me herb teas and cooling medicines, and Snally I got rid of them. The heat of my den was intense, for nothing but thin shingles protected me from the scorching summer’s sun. But I had my consolations. Through my peeping- hole I could watch the children, and when they were near enough, I could hear their talk. Aunt Nancy brought me all the news she could hear at Dr. Flint’s. From her I learned that the doctor had written to New York to a col- ored woman, who had been born and raised in our neighborhood, and had breathed his contaminating atmosphere. He offered her a reward if she could Snd out any thing about me. I know not what was the nature of her reply; but he soon after started for New York in haste, saying to his family that he had business of importance to transact. I peeped at him as he passed on his way to the steamboat. It was a satisfaction to have miles of land and water between us, even for a little while; and it was a still greater satisfaction to know that he believed me to be in the Free States. My little den seemed less dreary than it had done. He returned, as he did from his former journey to New York, without obtaining any satisfactory information. When he passed our house next morning, Benny was standing at the gate. He had heard them say that he had gone to Snd me, and he called out, “Dr. Flint, did you bring my mother home? I want to see her.” The doctor stamped his foot at him in a

8. Small tool for boring holes. 9. Hero of a novel of the same name (1719) by

the En glish writer Daniel Defoe (1660– 1731) about a man shipwrecked on a desert island.

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rage, and exclaimed, “Get out of the way, you little damned rascal! If you don’t, I’ll cut off your head.”

Benny ran terriSed into the house, saying, “You can’t put me in jail again. I don’t belong to you now.” It was well that the wind carried the words away from the doctor’s ear. I told my grandmother of it, when we had our next conference at the trap- door; and begged of her not to allow the children to be impertinent to the irascible old man.

Autumn came, with a pleasant abatement of heat. My eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, and by holding my book or work in a certain position near the aperture I contrived to read and sew. That was a great relief to the tedious monotony of my life. But when winter came, the cold pene- trated through the thin shingle roof, and I was dreadfully chilled. The winters there are not so long, or so severe, as in northern latitudes; but the houses are not built to shelter from cold, and my little den was peculiarly comfortless. The kind grandmother brought me bed- clothes and warm drinks. Often I was obliged to lie in bed all day to keep comfortable; but with all my precau- tions, my shoulders and feet were frostbitten. O, those long, gloomy days, with no object for my eye to rest upon, and no thoughts to occupy my mind, except the dreary past and the uncertain future! I was thankful when there came a day sufSciently mild for me to wrap myself up and sit at the loophole to watch the passers by. Southerners have the habit of stopping and talking in the streets, and I heard many conversations not intended to meet my ears. I heard slave- hunters planning how to catch some poor fugitive. Several times I heard allusions to Dr. Flint, myself, and the history of my children, who, perhaps, were playing near the gate. One would say, “I wouldn’t move my little Snger to catch her, as old Flint’s property.” Another would say, “I’ll catch any nigger for the reward. A man ought to have what belongs to him, if he is a damned brute.” The opinion was often expressed that I was in the Free States. Very rarely did any one suggest that I might be in the vicinity. Had the least suspicion rested on my grandmother’s house, it would have been burned to the ground. But it was the last place they thought of. Yet there was no place, where slavery existed, that could have afforded me so good a place of concealment.

Dr. Flint and his family repeatedly tried to coax and bribe my children to tell something they had heard said about me. One day the doctor took them into a shop, and offered them some bright little silver pieces and gay handker- chiefs if they would tell where their mother was. Ellen shrank away from him, and would not speak; but Benny spoke up, and said, “Dr. Flint, I don’t know where my mother is. I guess she’s in New York; and when you go there again, I wish you’d ask her to come home, for I want to see her; but if you put her in jail, or tell her you’ll cut her head off, I’ll tell her to go right back.”

* * * XLI. Free at Last1

Mrs. Bruce, and every member of her family, were exceedingly kind to me. I was thankful for the blessings of my lot, yet I could not always wear a cheer-

1. This is the Snal chapter of Incidents. Having escaped from the South on a ship headed to Phila- delphia, Brent Snds employment with the Bruce

family of New York City, but she remains in con- stant fear of being returned to the South under the provisions of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1793.

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ful countenance. I was doing harm to no one; on the contrary, I was doing all the good I could in my small way; yet I could never go out to breathe God’s free air without trepidation at my heart. This seemed hard; and I could not think it was a right state of things in any civilized country.

From time to time I received news from my good old grandmother. She could not write; but she employed others to write for her. The following is an extract from one of her last letters:—

“Dear Daughter: I cannot hope to see you again on earth; but I pray to God to unite us above, where pain will no more rack this feeble body of mine; where sorrow and parting from my children will be no more.2 God has promised these things if we are faithful unto the end. My age and feeble health deprive me of going to church now; but God is with me here at home. Thank your brother for his kindness. Give much love to him, and tell him to remember the Creator in the days of his youth,3 and strive to meet me in the Father’s kingdom. Love to Ellen and Ben- jamin. Don’t neglect him. Tell him for me, to be a good boy. Strive, my child, to train them for God’s children. May he protect and provide for you, is the prayer of your loving old mother.”

These letters both cheered and saddened me. I was always glad to have tidings from the kind, faithful old friend of my unhappy youth; but her mes- sages of love made my heart yearn to see her before she died, and I mourned over the fact that it was impossible. Some months after I returned from my ^ight to New En gland, I received a letter from her, in which she wrote, “Dr. Flint is dead. He has left a distressed family. Poor old man! I hope he made his peace with God.”

I remembered how he had defrauded my grandmother of the hard earn- ings she had loaned; how he had tried to cheat her out of the freedom her mistress had promised her, and how he had persecuted her children; and I thought to myself that she was a better Christian than I was, if she could entirely forgive him. I cannot say, with truth, that the news of my old mas- ter’s death softened my feelings towards him. There are wrongs which even the grave does not bury. The man was odious to me while he lived, and his memory is odious now.

His departure from this world did not diminish my danger. He had threat- ened my grandmother that his heirs should hold me in slavery after he was gone; that I never should be free so long as a child of his survived. As for Mrs. Flint, I had seen her in deeper af^ictions than I supposed the loss of her husband would be, for she had buried several children; yet I never saw any signs of softening in her heart. The doctor had died in embarrassed circum- stances, and had little to will to his heirs, except such property as he was unable to grasp. I was well aware what I had to expect from the family of Flints; and my fears were conSrmed by a letter from the south, warning me to be on my guard, because Mrs. Flint openly declared that her daughter could not afford to lose so valuable a slave as I was.

I kept close watch of the newspapers for arrivals; but one Saturday night, being much occupied, I forgot to examine the Eve ning Express as usual.

2. Paraphrase of Revelation 21.4. 3. Ecclesiastes 12.1.

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I went down into the parlor for it, early in the morning, and found the boy about to kindle a Sre with it. I took it from him and examined the list of arriv- als. Reader, if you have never been a slave, you cannot imagine the acute sensation of suffering at my heart, when I read the names of Mr. and Mrs. Dodge,4 at a hotel in Courtland Street. It was a third- rate hotel, and that cir- cumstance convinced me of the truth of what I had heard, that they were short of funds and had need of my value, as they valued me; and that was by dollars and cents. I hastened with the paper to Mrs. Bruce. Her heart and hand were always open to every one in distress, and she always warmly sym- pathized with mine. It was impossible to tell how near the enemy was. He might have passed and repassed the house while we were sleeping. He might at that moment be waiting to pounce upon me if I ventured out of doors. I had never seen the husband of my young mistress, and therefore I could not distinguish him from any other stranger. A carriage was hastily ordered; and, closely veiled, I followed Mrs. Bruce, taking the baby again with me into exile. After various turnings and crossings, and returnings, the carriage stopped at the house of one of Mrs. Bruce’s friends, where I was kindly received. Mrs. Bruce returned immediately, to instruct the domestics what to say if any one came to inquire for me.

It was lucky for me that the eve ning paper was not burned up before I had a chance to examine the list of arrivals. It was not long after Mrs. Bruce’s return to her house, before several people came to inquire for me. One inquired for me, another asked for my daughter Ellen, and another said he had a letter from my grandmother, which he was requested to deliver in person.

They were told, “She has lived here, but she has left.” “How long ago?” “I don’t know, sir.” “Do you know where she went?” “I do not, sir.” And the door was closed. This Mr. Dodge, who claimed me as his property, was originally a Yankee

pedler in the south; then he became a merchant, and Snally a slaveholder. He managed to get introduced into what was called the Srst society, and married Miss Emily Flint. A quarrel arose between him and her brother, and the brother cowhided him. This led to a family feud, and he proposed to remove to Virginia. Dr. Flint left him no property, and his own means had become circumscribed, while a wife and children depended upon him for support. Under these circumstances, it was very natural that he should make an effort to put me into his pocket.

I had a colored friend, a man from my native place, in whom I had the most implicit conSdence. I sent for him, and told him that Mr. and Mrs. Dodge had arrived in New York. I proposed that he should call upon them to make inqui- ries about his friends at the south, with whom Dr. Flint’s family were well acquainted. He thought there was no impropriety in his doing so, and he con- sented. He went to the hotel, and knocked at the door of Mr. Dodge’s room, which was opened by the gentleman himself, who gruf^y inquired, “What brought you here? How came you to know I was in the city?”

4. Dodge is the married name of Emily Flint, Brent’s legal own er.

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“Your arrival was published in the eve ning papers, sir; and I called to ask Mrs. Dodge about my friends at home. I didn’t suppose it would give any offence.”

“Where’s that negro girl, that belongs to my wife?” “What girl, sir?” “You know well enough. I mean Linda, that ran away from Dr. Flint’s plan-

tation, some years ago. I dare say you’ve seen her, and know where she is.” “Yes, sir, I’ve seen her, and know where she is. She is out of your reach,

sir.” “Tell me where she is, or bring her to me, and I will give her a chance to

buy her freedom.” “I don’t think it would be of any use, sir. I have heard her say she would

go to the ends of the earth, rather than pay any man or woman for her free- dom, because she thinks she has a right to it. Besides, she couldn’t do it, if she would, for she has spent her earnings to educate her children.”

This made Mr. Dodge very angry, and some high words passed between them. My friend was afraid to come where I was; but in the course of the day I received a note from him. I supposed they had not come from the south, in the winter, for a plea sure excursion; and now the nature of their business was very plain.

Mrs. Bruce came to me and entreated me to leave the city the next morn- ing. She said her house was watched, and it was possible that some clew to me might be obtained. I refused to take her advice. She pleaded with an ear- nest tenderness, that ought to have moved me; but I was in a bitter, disheart- ened mood. I was weary of ^ying from pillar to post. I had been chased during half my life, and it seemed as if the chase was never to end. There I sat, in that great city, guiltless of crime, yet not daring to worship God in any of the churches. I heard the bells ringing for afternoon ser vice, and, with contemptuous sarcasm, I said, “Will the preachers take for their text, ‘Pro- claim liberty to the captive, and the opening of prison doors to them that are bound’?5 or will they preach from the text, ‘Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you’?” 6 Oppressed Poles and Hungarians could Snd a safe refuge in that city; John Mitchell7 was free to proclaim in the City Hall his desire for “a plantation well stocked with slaves;” but there I sat, an oppressed American, not daring to show my face. God forgive the black and bitter thoughts I indulged on that Sabbath day! The Scripture says, “Oppression makes even a wise man mad;” 8 and I was not wise.

I had been told that Mr. Dodge said his wife had never signed away her right to my children, and if he could not get me, he would take them. This it was, more than any thing else, that roused such a tempest in my soul. Benja- min was with his uncle William in California, but my innocent young daugh- ter had come to spend a vacation with me. I thought of what I had suffered in slavery at her age, and my heart was like a tiger’s when a hunter tries to seize her young.

5. Isaiah 61.1. 6. Matthew 7.12. 7. Irish American (1815– 1875) who founded the proslavery New York newspaper The Citizen and who argued that free blacks would take the jobs of

Irish workers. “Poles and Hungarians”: following the failed Eu ro pe an revolutions of 1848, many po liti cal refugees settled in New York City and New En gland. 8. Ecclesiastes 7.7.

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Dear Mrs. Bruce! I seem to see the expression of her face, as she turned away discouraged by my obstinate mood. Finding her expostulations unavail- ing, she sent Ellen to entreat me. When ten o’clock in the eve ning arrived and Ellen had not returned, this watchful and unwearied friend became anxious. She came to us in a carriage, bringing a well- Slled trunk for my journey— trusting that by this time I would listen to reason. I yielded to her, as I ought to have done before.

The next day, baby and I set out in a heavy snow storm, bound for New En gland again. I received letters from the City of Iniquity,9 addressed to me under an assumed name. In a few days one came from Mrs. Bruce, informing me that my new master was still searching for me, and that she intended to put an end to this persecution by buying my freedom. I felt grateful for the kindness that prompted this offer, but the idea was not so pleasant to me as might have been expected. The more my mind had become enlightened, the more difScult it was for me to consider myself an article of property; and to pay money to those who had so grievously oppressed me seemed like taking from my sufferings the glory of triumph. I wrote to Mrs. Bruce, thanking her, but saying that being sold from one own er to another seemed too much like slavery; that such a great obligation could not be easily cancelled; and that I preferred to go to my brother in California.

Without my knowledge, Mrs. Bruce employed a gentleman in New York to enter into negotiations with Mr. Dodge. He proposed to pay three hun- dred dollars down, if Mr. Dodge would sell me, and enter into obligations to relinquish all claim to me or my children forever after. He who called him- self my master said he scorned so small an offer for such a valuable servant. The gentleman replied, “You can do as you choose, sir. If you reject this offer you will never get any thing; for the woman has friends who will con- vey her and her children out of the country.”

Mr. Dodge concluded that “half a loaf was better than no bread,” and he agreed to the proffered terms. By the next mail I received this brief letter from Mrs. Bruce: “I am rejoiced to tell you that the money for your freedom has been paid to Mr. Dodge. Come home to- morrow. I long to see you and my sweet babe.”

My brain reeled as I read these lines. A gentleman near me said, “It’s true; I have seen the bill of sale.” “The bill of sale!” Those words struck me like a blow. So I was sold at last! A human being sold in the free city of New York! The bill of sale is on record, and future generations will learn from it that women were articles of trafSc in New York, late in the nineteenth cen- tury of the Christian religion. It may hereafter prove a useful document to antiquaries, who are seeking to mea sure the progress of civilization in the United States. I well know the value of that bit of paper; but much as I love freedom, I do not like to look upon it. I am deeply grateful to the generous friend who procured it, but I despise the miscreant who demanded payment for what never rightfully belonged to him or his.

I had objected to having my freedom bought, yet I must confess that when it was done I felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from my weary

9. New York City, because it was the center of activity for hunters of fugitive slaves.

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shoulders. When I rode home in the cars I was no longer afraid to unveil my face and look at people as they passed. I should have been glad to have met Daniel Dodge himself; to have had him seen me and known me, that he might have mourned over the untoward circumstances which compelled him to sell me for three hundred dollars.

When I reached home, the arms of my benefactress were thrown round me, and our tears mingled. As soon as she could speak, she said, “O Linda, I’m so glad it’s all over! You wrote to me as if you thought you were going to be transferred from one own er to another. But I did not buy you for your ser vices. I should have done just the same, if you had been going to sail for California tomorrow. I should, at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that you left me a free woman.”

My heart was exceedingly full. I remembered how my poor father had tried to buy me, when I was a small child, and how he had been disap- pointed. I hoped his spirit was rejoicing over me now. I remembered how my good old grandmother had laid up her earnings to purchase me in later years, and how often her plans had been frustrated. How that faithful, lov- ing old heart would leap for joy, if she could look on me and my children now that we were free! My relatives had been foiled in all their efforts, but God had raised me up a friend among strangers, who had bestowed on me the precious, long- desired boon. Friend! It is a common word, often lightly used. Like other good and beautiful things, it may be tarnished by careless handling; but when I speak of Mrs. Bruce as my friend, the word is sacred.

My grandmother lived to rejoice in my freedom; but not long after, a let- ter came with a black seal. She had gone “where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”1

Time passed on, and a paper came to me from the south, containing an obituary notice of my uncle Phillip. It was the only case I ever knew of such an honor conferred upon a colored person. It was written by one of his friends, and contained these words: “Now that death has laid him low, they call him a good man and a useful citizen; but what are eulogies to the black man, when the world has faded from his vision? It does not require man’s praise to obtain rest in God’s kingdom.” So they called a colored man a citi- zen! Strange words to be uttered in that region!2

Reader, my story ends with freedom; not in the usual way, with marriage.3 I and my children are now free! We are as free from the power of slaveholders as are the white people of the north; and though that, according to my ideas, is not saying a great deal, it is a vast improvement in my condition. The dream of my life is not yet realized. I do not sit with my children in a home of my own. I still long for a hearthstone of my own, however humble. I wish it for my children’s sake far more than for my own. But God so orders circum- stances as to keep me with my friend Mrs. Bruce. Love, duty, gratitude, also bind me to her side. It is a privilege to serve her who pities my oppressed

1. Job 3.17. 2. Free blacks in North Carolina did not have the legal status of citizens.

3. Allusion to the way pop u lar novels of the period typically ended with a happy marriage.

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people, and who has bestowed the inestimable boon of freedom on me and my children.

It has been painful to me, in many ways, to recall the dreary years I passed in bondage. I would gladly forget them if I could. Yet the retrospec- tion is not altogether without solace; for with those gloomy recollections come tender memories of my good old grandmother, like light, ^eecy clouds ^oating over a dark and troubled sea.

1861

WILLIAM WELLS BROWN 1814–1884

One of the most renowned antislavery lecturers and reformers of the time, and the author of the Srst novel published by an African American, William Wells Brown was born into slavery on a plantation near Lexington, Kentucky, in 1814. His mother, Elizabeth, was a slave; his father was a white man, probably a relative of Dr. John Young, the own er of Elizabeth and her son. As a boy he spent several years in the Missouri territory with Young, and by 1827 he was living in St. Louis when Young purchased a farm there. After working a variety of jobs, ranging from house servant to assistant to the slave trader James Walker, Brown, accompanied by his mother, attempted to escape from slavery in 1833. Captured in Illinois, he was returned to Young and eventually sold to Enoch Price, a St. Louis merchant and steamboat own er. His mother, whom he would never see again, was sold and taken to New Orleans. Early in 1834, Brown made a second escape attempt, this time suc- cessful, traveling at night from Cincinnati to Cleveland and receiving invaluable assistance in Ohio from the Quakers Wells Brown and his wife. To celebrate his escape from slavery, William, who had been renamed “Sandford” when Young adopted a nephew named “William,” reassumed his birth name and added to it the name of his Quaker benefactor. By the spring of 1834 Brown had a job on the Lake Erie steamer Detroit, and by the end of the summer he was married to the free black Elizabeth Schooner, with whom he would have two daughters. Over the next nine years he worked as a steamboatsman on Lake Erie, while surreptitiously helping fugitive slaves to escape to Canada.

Brown moved to Buffalo in 1836 and there initiated his career as a reformer, or ga niz ing and later serving as president of a black temperance society while con- tinuing his work as a steamboatsman. He met Frederick Douglass at an antislavery convention in Buffalo in 1843, and that same year he began lecturing for the West- ern New York Anti- Slavery Society. In 1847 he moved to Boston to work as a paid lecturer for William Lloyd Garrison’s Massachusetts Anti- Slavery Society. During the summer of 1847 Garrison published Brown’s Narrative of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave, which rivaled Douglass’s 1845 Narrative in popularity and conse- quently made him, as had been true for Douglass, a target for those who sought the cash bounty promised for returning fugitive slaves to their own ers. Estranged from

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his wife, who would die in 1851, Brown traveled to Paris with his daughters to attend the 1849 International Peace Congress, subsequently toured Great Britain as an anti- slavery lecturer, and decided to stay in En gland when he learned that the Fugitive Slave Act had been approved by the U.S. Congress in 1850. After the British reformer Ellen Richardson (the same woman who had helped purchase Douglass’s freedom in 1846) bought his manumission papers for $300, Brown was able to return to the United States in 1854.

Both before and after his manumission, Brown published widely, working in a number of genres. In addition to his 1847 Narrative, he published A Lecture Delivered before the Female Anti- Slavery Society of Salem (1847); The Anti- Slavery Harp: A Collection of Songs for Anti- Slavery Meetings (1848); a cata log description of antislav- ery drawings on canvas titled A Description of William Wells Brown’s Original Pano- ramic Views (1850); a travel book, Three Years in Eu rope (1852); and the novel Clotel; or, The President’s Daughter (1853). Brown would go on to publish three signiScantly revised versions of Clotel— Miralda; or, The Beautiful Quadroon (1860– 1861), Clotelle: A Tale of the Southern States (1864), and Clotelle; or, The Colored Heroine (1867); three major histories of blacks in the United States; the play The Escape; or A Leap for Freedom (1857); several memoirs; and one of his most famous speeches, St. Domingo: Its Revolution and Its Patriots (1855). In a review of Brown’s Srst history, The Black Man, His Antecedents, His Genius, and His Achievements (1863), Frederick Douglass hailed the book as a “valuable contribution to the colored literature of the coun- try” and admiringly wondered, “whence had this man this knowledge? He seems to have read and remembered nearly every thing which has been written or said respect- ing the ability of the negro.” Brown’s last published book, My Southern Home (1880), revisited the terrain of his earlier autobiographies, offering the hope for black and white reconciliation despite the failure of Reconstruction.

In his best-known book, the novel Clotel, Brown engaged the ideological contradic- tions of a nation that celebrated itself as a bastion of republican freedom even as it continued to uphold the institution of slavery. Locating those contradictions in the Founding Father Thomas Jefferson, Brown conceived of Jefferson as both the father of the nation’s egalitarian ideals and the father of slaves. For his depiction of Jefferson’s Sctional slave daughters, Brown took seriously the rumor that Jefferson, who owned a slave plantation in Virginia with approximately two hundred slaves, had had sexual relations and children with his slave Sally Hemings (DNA testing in 1998 and his- torical research suggest that the rumor had its source in fact). In addition to working with this rumor, Brown remarked in the closing chapter of Clotel that he created the novel by drawing on his personal experiences and wide reading, which he then “com- bined” into the narrative that “made up my story.” Among the sources that he appro- priated for Clotel were proslavery prayer books, Lydia Maria Child’s 1842 short story “The Quadroons” (which can be found on pp. 149–57), a speech by Andrew Jackson, and numerous other discourses and texts that he artfully arranged and recontextual- izd to suggest the limits of their truth- telling capacities and thus the limits (and blindnesses) of the dominant culture itself. As can be seen in the autobiographical selection printed here, Brown was something of a trickster. But he was also a shrewd cultural critic. In his various works, he presented himself as living proof of an African American’s ability to become a learned man of letters capable of refuting a culture that denied blacks a basic recognition of their humanity.

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