Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
not apprehend any unkind treatment, as we have not put ourselves
to any trouble or expense to get you. Had we done so, perhaps we
should feel otherwise. You know my sister was always attached to
you, and that you were never treated as a slave. You were never
put to hard work, nor exposed to field labor. On the contrary, you
were taken into the house, and treated as one of us, and almost
as free; and we, at least, felt that you were above disgracing
yourself by running away. Believing you may be induced to come home
voluntarily has induced me to write for my sister. The family will
be rejoiced to see you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a
great desire to have you come, when she heard your letter read. In
her old age she needs the consolation of having her children round
her. Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a
faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church. In
her Christian life she taught us how to live—and, O, too high the
price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have seen
us round her death bed, with her mother, all mingling our tears in
one common stream, you would have thought the same heartfelt tie
existed between a master and his servant, as between a mother and
her child. But this subject is too painful to dwell upon. I must
bring my letter to a close. If you are contented to stay away from
your old grandmother, your child, and the friends who love you,
stay where you are. We shall never trouble ourselves to apprehend
you. But should you prefer to come home, we will do all that we
can to make you happy. If you do not wish to remain in the family,
I know that father, by our persuasion, will be induced to let you
be purchased by any person you may choose in our community. You
will please answer this as soon as possible, and let us know your
decision. Sister sends much love to you. In the mean time believe
me your sincere friend and well wisher.”
This letter was signed by Emily’s brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I
knew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and
though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in
former years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the
hypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough
to go into such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on “the stupidity
of the African race.” I did not return the family of Flints any thanks
for their cordial invitation—a remissness for which I was, no doubt,
charged with base ingratitude.
Not long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at
the south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north.
The letter had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on
the way. Mrs. Bruce did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that
important business called me to Boston, where my brother then was,
and asked permission to bring a friend to supply my place as nurse,
for a fortnight. I started on my journey immediately; and as soon
as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother that if Benny came, he must
be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting for a good chance to
send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal power to do so,
without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and when my
children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of sale
drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money,
but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of
colored children without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase
them, with the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be
dangerous to their “peculiar institution,” and he becomes unpopular.
There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly
to New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was
requested to see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud
rap at my door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. “O mother!”
he exclaimed, “here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How
d’you do?”
O reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been
a slave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go.
“Mother, why don’t you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see
her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, ‘O Ben, I
wish I was going too.’ I thought she’d know ever so much; but she don’t
know so much as I do; for I can read, and she can’t. And, mother, I
lost all my clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I ’spose
free boys can get along here at the north as well as white boys.”
I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much
he was mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of
clothes. The rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering
of questions, with the wish constantly repeated that the good old
grandmother was with us, and frequent injunctions from Benny to write
to her immediately, and be sure to tell her every thing about his
voyage, and his journey to Boston.
Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call
upon me, and invite me to return with him; but not being able to
ascertain where I was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and
the affectionate family, who were waiting for me with “open arms,” were
doomed to disappointment.
As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care
of my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained
through the winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties
faithfully, and finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions
of baby Mary, the considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and
occasional interviews with my darling daughter.
But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was
necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh
air, and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might
recognize me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I
like one class of the venomous creatures as little as I do the other.
What a comfort it is, to be free to _say_ so!
XXXV. Prejudice Against Color.
It was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We
went to Albany in the steamboat Knickerbocker. When the gong sounded
for tea, Mrs. Bruce said, “Linda, it is late, and you and baby had
better come to the table with me.” I replied, “I know it is time baby
had her supper, but I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am
afraid of being insulted.” “O no, not if you are with _me_,” she said.
I saw several white nurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do
the same. We were at the extreme end of the table. I was no sooner
seated, than a gruff voice said, “Get up! You know you are not allowed
to sit here.” I looked up, and, to my astonishment and indignation,
saw that the speaker was a colored man. If his office required him
to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might, at least, have done it
politely. I replied, “I shall not get up, unless the captain comes and
takes me up.” No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs. Bruce handed me
hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the other nurses
were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly waited on.
Next morning, when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, every body was
making a rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, “Take my arm, Linda, and
we’ll go in together.” The landlord heard her, and said, “Madam, will
you allow your nurse and baby to take breakfast with my family?” I knew
this was to be attributed to my complexion; but he spoke courteously,
and therefore I did not mind it.
At Saratoga we found the United States Hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce
took one of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought, with
gladness, of going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few
people, but here I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners.
I looked round me with fear and trembling, dreading to see some one who
would recognize me. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a
short time.
We soon returned to New York, to make arrangements for spending the
remainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting
the clothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to
see Ellen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she
said, were, “O, mother, don’t go to Mrs. Hobbs’s. Her brother, Mr.
Thorne, has come from the south, and may be he’ll tell where you are.”
I accepted the warning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the
next day, and would try to see her when I came back.
Being in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a “Jim
Crow car,” on our way to Rockaway, neither was I invited to ride
through the streets on the top of trunks in a truck; but every where
I found the same manifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so
discourages the feelings, and represses the energies of the colored
people. We reached Rockaway before dark, and put up at the Pavilion—a
large hotel, beautifully situated by the sea-side—a great resort of
the fashionable world. Thirty or forty nurses were there, of a great
variety of nations. Some of the ladies had colored waiting-maids and
coachmen, but I was the only nurse tinged with the blood of Africa.
When the tea bell rang, I took little Mary and followed the other
nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young man, who had the
ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or three times,
and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As there was
but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap. Whereupon the
young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, “Will
you please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it
and feed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen,
where you will have a good supper.”
This was the climax! I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when
I looked round, and saw women who were nurses, as I was, and only one
shade lighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look, as if my
presence were a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly
took the child in my arms, went to our room, and refused to go to
the table again. Mr. Bruce ordered meals to be sent to the room for
little Mary and I. This answered for a few days; but the waiters of the
establishment were white, and they soon began to complain, saying they
were not hired to wait on negroes. The landlord requested Mr. Bruce
to send me down to my meals, because his servants rebelled against
bringing them up, and the colored servants of other boarders were
dissatisfied because all were not treated alike.
My answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied
with _themselves_, for not having too much self-respect to submit to
such treatment; that there was no difference in the price of board
for colored and white servants, and there was no justification for
difference of treatment. I staid a month after this, and finding I was
resolved to stand up for my rights, they concluded to treat me well.
Let every colored man and woman do this, and eventually we shall cease
to be trampled under foot by our oppressors.
XXXVI. The Hairbreadth Escape.
After we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go
and see Ellen. I asked to have her called down stairs; for I supposed
Mrs. Hobbs’s southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous
to avoid seeing him, if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen,
and insisted on my going up stairs. “My brother wants to see you,” said