Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
The next day, baby and I set out in a heavy snow storm, bound for New
England again. I received letters from the City of Iniquity, 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 difficult 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 owner 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
hundred 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 himself 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 convey 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 traffic in
New York, late in the nineteenth century of the Christian religion. It
may hereafter prove a useful document to antiquaries, who are seeking
to measure 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 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 owner to another. But I did not buy
you for your services. I should have done just the same, if you had
been going to sail for California to-morrow. 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 disappointed. 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, loving 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
letter came with a black seal. She had gone “where the wicked cease
from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
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 _citizen_! Strange words to be uttered in that
region!
Reader, my story ends with freedom; not in the usual way, with
marriage. 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
circumstances 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 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
retrospection is not altogether without solace; for with those gloomy
recollections come tender memories of my good old grandmother, like
light, fleecy clouds floating over a dark and troubled sea.
APPENDIX.
The following statement is from Amy Post, a member of the Society of
Friends in the State of New York, well known and highly respected by
friends of the poor and the oppressed. As has been already stated, in
the preceding pages, the author of this volume spent some time under
her hospitable roof.
L.M.C.
“The author of this book is my highly-esteemed friend. If its
readers knew her as I know her, they could not fail to be deeply
interested in her story. She was a beloved inmate of our family
nearly the whole of the year 1849. She was introduced to us by her
affectionate and conscientious brother, who had previously related
to us some of the almost incredible events in his sister’s life. I
immediately became much interested in Linda; for her appearance was
prepossessing, and her deportment indicated remarkable delicacy of
feeling and purity of thought.
“As we became acquainted, she related to me, from time to time
some of the incidents in her bitter experiences as a slave-woman.
Though impelled by a natural craving for human sympathy, she
passed through a baptism of suffering, even in recounting her
trials to me, in private confidential conversations. The burden of
these memories lay heavily upon her spirit—naturally virtuous and
refined. I repeatedly urged her to consent to the publication of
her narrative; for I felt that it would arouse people to a more
earnest work for the disinthralment of millions still remaining in
that soul-crushing condition, which was so unendurable to her. But
her sensitive spirit shrank from publicity. She said, “You know
a woman can whisper her cruel wrongs in the ear of a dear friend
much easier than she can record them for the world to read.” Even
in talking with me, she wept so much, and seemed to suffer such
mental agony, that I felt her story was too sacred to be drawn from
her by inquisitive questions, and I left her free to tell as much,
or as little, as she chose. Still, I urged upon her the duty of
publishing her experience, for the sake of the good it might do;
and, at last, she undertook the task.
“Having been a slave so large a portion of her life, she is
unlearned; she is obliged to earn her living by her own labor, and
she has worked untiringly to procure education for her children;
several times she has been obliged to leave her employments, in
order to fly from the man-hunters and woman-hunters of our land;
but she pressed through all these obstacles and overcame them.
After the labors of the day were over, she traced secretly and
wearily, by the midnight lamp, a truthful record of her eventful
life.
“This Empire State is a shabby place of refuge for the oppressed;
but here, through anxiety, turmoil, and despair, the freedom of
Linda and her children was finally secured, by the exertions of a
generous friend. She was grateful for the boon; but the idea of
having been _bought_ was always galling to a spirit that could
never acknowledge itself to be a chattel. She wrote to us thus,
soon after the event: ‘I thank you for your kind expressions in
regard to my freedom; but the freedom I had before the money was
paid was dearer to me. God gave me _that_ freedom; but man put
God’s image in the scales with the paltry sum of three hundred
dollars. I served for my liberty as faithfully as Jacob served for
Rachel. At the end, he had large possessions; but I was robbed of
my victory; I was obliged to resign my crown, to rid myself of a
tyrant.’
“Her story, as written by herself, cannot fail to interest the
reader. It is a sad illustration of the condition of this country,
which boasts of its civilization, while it sanctions laws and
customs which make the experiences of the present more strange than
any fictions of the past.
Amy Post.
“Rochester, N.Y., Oct. 30th, 1859.”
The following testimonial is from a man who is now a highly respectable
colored citizen of Boston.
L.M.C.
“This narrative contains some incidents so extraordinary, that,
doubtless, many persons, under whose eyes it may chance to
fall, will be ready to believe that it is colored highly, to
serve a special purpose. But, however it may be regarded by the
incredulous, I know that it is full of living truths. I have been
well acquainted with the author from my boyhood. The circumstances
recounted in her history are perfectly familiar to me. I knew of
her treatment from her master; of the imprisonment of her children;
of their sale and redemption; of her seven years’ concealment;
and of her subsequent escape to the North. I am now a resident of
Boston, and am a living witness to the truth of this interesting
narrative.
George W. Lowther.”