prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XVIII

  Then, fresh tears
 Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
 Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd
     SHAKESPEARE

After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by
the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and
received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shewn
her.

Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter,
which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled with
satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of the
anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping under
the effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary to
restrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary
relief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his
attention with this subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the
chateau were already busied in preparations for that event, and the
arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety, which
surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her spirits being
depressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the
fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the description of his
manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in it
the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that
despair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief.
The state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself
condemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable,
and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to assume the
composure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit the
company she was with, and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deep
solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here, the faint roar
of foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the wind
among the branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temper
of her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of
her favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of the evening
clouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops
of billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst
the darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower,
she frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would
endeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and
to turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects.

One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot,
she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that
led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the
building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide
prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting
on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon,
and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the
wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow
of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and
then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting
airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in
rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines.

 TO MELANCHOLY

 Spirit of love and sorrow--hail!
 Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
 Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale:
 Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

 O! at this still, this lonely hour,
 Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
 Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r
 Shall call up Fancy to obey:

 To paint the wild romantic dream,
 That meets the poet's musing eye,
 As, on the bank of shadowy stream,
 He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

 O lonely spirit! let thy song
 Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
 The minister's moon-light aisles along,
 Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

 I hear their dirges faintly swell!
 Then, sink at once in silence drear,
 While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell,
 Dimly their gliding forms appear!

 Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
 Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
 As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
 Darts her long beams the leaves between.

 Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
 Where, far below, in shade profound,
 Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,
 And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

 Or guide me, where the dashing oar
 Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
 As slow it tracks the winding shore,
 To meet the ocean's distant sail:

 To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
 With measur'd surges, loud and deep,
 Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
 And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

 There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
 And list the long-resounding gale;
 And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r,
 O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze
scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the
last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all
that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody
of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she
sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they
awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the
lute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to
proceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected
light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave the
watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a
footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking through
the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however, soon
perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulness
his step had interrupted. After some time, she again struck her lute,
and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as she
paused to listen, she heard it ascending the stair-case of the tower.
The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some degree of
fear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few minutes
before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick and
bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a
person entered, whose features were veiled in the obscurity of
twilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voice
of Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without emotion, she
started, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely
beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, overcome by the
various emotions, that contended at her heart, and almost insensible to
that voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring
to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash
impatience, in having thus surprised her: for when he had arrived at
the chateau, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he
understood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as
he passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and
immediately ascended.

It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her
recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of
reserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible she
could feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion of his
visit.

'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words--alas! I have, then,
little to hope--when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love
me!'

'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring to command her trembling
voice; 'and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me
this new occasion for uneasiness.'

Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt to
an expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and then
said, 'I had been taught to hope for a very different reception! Is
it, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever? am I to
believe, that, though your esteem for me may return--your affection
never can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures
me with a second death?'

The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words
surprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he would
explain them.

'Can any explanation be necessary?' said Valancourt, 'do you not know
how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of
which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so
degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions--I hold in
as much contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant,
that Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed me
of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify to
you my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can be uninformed of
these circumstances, and I am again torturing myself with a false hope!'

The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilight
would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment and doubting
joy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable to
speak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits,
and she said,

'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstances
you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you of the truth
of this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not taught
myself entirely to forget you.'

'This moment,' said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for support
against the window--'this moment brings with it a conviction that
overpowers me!--I am dear to you then--still dear to you, my Emily!'

'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied, 'is it
necessary, that I should say--these are the first moments of joy I have
known, since your departure, and that they repay me for all those of
pain I have suffered in the interval?'

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed
her hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language,
which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate.

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the chateau,
and then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited
Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation had
yet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart would
not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his
unworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noble
sincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again permitted
herself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and powerful,
than she had ever before experienced.

Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the
chateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a
fairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they had
reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were other
persons in the world besides themselves. The Count then came forth
with surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure benevolence, to welcome
Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the injustice he had done
him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group, in which he
and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet.

When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became
somewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the
library, where a long conversation passed between them, in which
the latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of the
conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelingly
lamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was
confirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived so
many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught him
to detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did not
scruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the dignity of
a wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness of
Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this
he soon informed her, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had left
him. While Emily listened to a relation of the services, that Valancourt
had rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure,
and the further conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated
every doubt, as to the past and future conduct of him, to whom she now
restored, without fear, the esteem and affection, with which she had
formerly received him.

When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche
met Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was
so much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, for a
while, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, though
he had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy was, soon
after, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered from
the wounds, received, during his perilous adventure among the Pyrenees,
the mention of which served to heighten to the parties, who had
been involved in it, the sense of their present happiness. New
congratulations passed between them, and round the supper-table appeared
a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity, which had
in each a different character. The smile of Blanche was frank and gay,
that of Emily tender and pensive; Valancourt's was rapturous, tender and
gay alternately; Mons. St. Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as
he looked on the surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacency
of benevolence; while the features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons.
Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont did
not, by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for,
when he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem
of Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of
his own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn from
Chateau-le-Blanc--a conduct, which Emily now understood, and rewarded
with her admiration and pity.

The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yielding
to the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. When
Annette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficulty
to prevent her going into the supper-room, to express her joy, for she
declared, that she had never been so rejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this,
since she had found Ludovico himself.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Even though the Count's okey-dokey with Valancourt now, he doesn't yet tell Emily that she's in the clear to marry him. He's a busy guy and all. Plus, his only daughter is getting married to Monsieur St. Foix. One evening, Em's out wandering as she often likes to do. You betcha she runs into Valancourt. Of course, he thinks the Count's already cleared his name. No such luck, Valancourt. Valancourt tells Em all about how he's a stand-up guy, and Em gets all starry-eyed. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes little Valancourts and Ems in a baby carriage! When the two head back to the chateau, the Count is there offer his congrats. Way to avoid the hard stuff, Count.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XIX

  Now my task is smoothly done,
 I can fly, or I can run
 Quickly to the green earth's end,
 Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend,
 And, from thence, can soar as soon
 To the corners of the moon.
     MILTON

The marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were celebrated,
on the same day, and with the ancient baronial magnificence, at
Chateau-le-Blanc. The feasts were held in the great hall of the castle,
which, on this occasion, was hung with superb new tapestry, representing
the exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve peers; here, were seen the
Saracens, with their horrible visors, advancing to battle; and there,
were displayed the wild solemnities of incantation, and the necromantic
feats, exhibited by the magician JARL before the Emperor. The sumptuous
banners of the family of Villeroi, which had long slept in dust, were
once more unfurled, to wave over the gothic points of painted casements;
and music echoed, in many a lingering close, through every winding
gallery and colonnade of that vast edifice.

As Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches and
windows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and gazed
on the splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of the
attendants, the canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listened to
the gay strains that floated along the vaulted roof, she almost fancied
herself in an enchanted palace, and declared, that she had not met with
any place, which charmed her so much, since she read the fairy tales;
nay, that the fairies themselves, at their nightly revels in this old
hall, could display nothing finer; while old Dorothee, as she surveyed
the scene, sighed, and said, the castle looked as it was wont to do in
the time of her youth.

After gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days,
Valancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned to
La Vallee, where the faithful Theresa received them with unfeigned
joy, and the pleasant shades welcomed them with a thousand tender and
affecting remembrances; and, while they wandered together over the
scenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. and Madame St. Aubert, and
Emily pointed out, with pensive affection, their favourite haunts, her
present happiness was heightened, by considering, that it would have
been worthy of their approbation, could they have witnessed it.

Valancourt led her to the plane-tree on the terrace, where he had first
ventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of the
anxiety he had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the dangers
and misfortunes they had each encountered, since last they sat together
beneath its broad branches, exalted the sense of their present felicity,
which, on this spot, sacred to the memory of St. Aubert, they solemnly
vowed to deserve, as far as possible, by endeavouring to imitate his
benevolence,--by remembering, that superior attainments of every sort
bring with them duties of superior exertion,--and by affording to their
fellow-beings, together with that portion of ordinary comforts, which
prosperity always owes to misfortune, the example of lives passed in
happy thankfulness to GOD, and, therefore, in careful tenderness to his
creatures.

Soon after their return to La Vallee, the brother of Valancourt came to
congratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to Emily, with
whom he was so much pleased, as well as with the prospect of rational
happiness, which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, that he
immediately resigned to him a part of the rich domain, the whole of
which, as he had no family, would of course descend to his brother, on
his decease.

The estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased of
Mons. Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having given
Annette a marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeeper,
and Ludovico as the steward; but, since both Valancourt and herself
preferred the pleasant and long-loved shades of La Vallee to the
magnificence of Epourville, they continued to reside there, passing,
however, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert, in
tender respect to his memory.

The legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini,
she begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac;
and Valancourt, when she made the request, felt all the value of the
compliment it conveyed. The castle of Udolpho, also, descended to the
wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest surviving relation of the
house of that name, and thus affluence restored his long-oppressed
spirits to peace, and his family to comfort.

O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourt
and Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of the
vicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length, restored to
each other--to the beloved landscapes of their native country,--to the
securest felicity of this life, that of aspiring to moral and labouring
for intellectual improvement--to the pleasures of enlightened society,
and to the exercise of the benevolence, which had always animated their
hearts; while the bowers of La Vallee became, once more, the retreat of
goodness, wisdom and domestic blessedness!

O! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious can
sometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transient
and their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressed
by injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph over
misfortune!

And, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its scenes,
beguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught him
to sustain it--the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is the
writer unrewarded.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Blanche and Em get married in a double wedding to their sweethearts in grand style at Chateau-le-Blanc. Soon after all the celebrating goes down, Em and Valancourt zip back to La Vallee to start their married life together. Valancourt's brother likes Em so much that he gives him part of his estates. Nice. Em gives Annette a hefty chunk of moolah to settle down with Ludovico. Oh yeah, and Em gives away Udolpho to the Bonnacs. We didn't know Em was that tight with the guy Valancourt helped out of prison, but maybe she wanted the creepy castle out of her hair. Everyone is happy, happy, happy. Let's shut this thing down before a ghost pops up somewhere.


prompt:
Chapter: INTRODUCTORY--ANCESTRY--THE NORTHUP FAMILY--BIRTH AND
  PARENTAGE--MINTUS NORTHUP--MARRIAGE WITH ANNE HAMPTON--GOOD
  RESOLUTIONS--CHAMPLAIN CANAL--RAFTING EXCURSION TO
  CANADA--FARMING--THE VIOLIN--COOKING--REMOVAL TO SARATOGA--PARKER AND
  PERRY--SLAVES AND SLAVERY--THE CHILDREN--THE BEGINNING OF SORROW.

Having been born a freeman, and for more than thirty years enjoyed
the blessings of liberty in a free State--and having at the end of
that time been kidnapped and sold into Slavery, where I remained,
until happily rescued in the month of January, 1853, after a bondage
of twelve years--it has been suggested that an account of my life and
fortunes would not be uninteresting to the public.

Since my return to liberty, I have not failed to perceive the
increasing interest throughout the Northern States, in regard to
the subject of Slavery. Works of fiction, professing to portray
its features in their more pleasing as well as more repugnant
aspects, have been circulated to an extent unprecedented, and, as I
understand, have created a fruitful topic of comment and discussion.

I can speak of Slavery only so far as it came under my own
observation--only so far as I have known and experienced it in my
own person. My object is, to give a candid and truthful statement of
facts: to repeat the story of my life, without exaggeration, leaving
it for others to determine, whether even the pages of fiction present
a picture of more cruel wrong or a severer bondage.

As far back as I have been able to ascertain, my ancestors on the
paternal side were slaves in Rhode Island. They belonged to a family
by the name of Northup, one of whom, removing to the State of
New-York, settled at Hoosic, in Rensselaer county. He brought with him
Mintus Northup, my father. On the death of this gentleman, which must
have occurred some fifty years ago, my father became free, having been
emancipated by a direction in his will.

Henry B. Northup, Esq., of Sandy Hill, a distinguished counselor at
law, and the man to whom, under Providence, I am indebted for my
present liberty, and my return to the society of my wife and children,
is a relative of the family in which my forefathers were thus held to
service, and from which they took the name I bear. To this fact may be
attributed the persevering interest he has taken in my behalf.

Sometime after my father's liberation, he removed to the town of
Minerva, Essex county, N. Y., where I was born, in the month of July,
1808. How long he remained in the latter place I have not the means
of definitely ascertaining. From thence he removed to Granville,
Washington county, near a place known as Slyborough, where, for some
years, he labored on the farm of Clark Northup, also a relative of his
old master; from thence he removed to the Alden farm, at Moss Street,
a short distance north of the village of Sandy Hill; and from thence
to the farm now owned by Russel Pratt, situated on the road leading
from Fort Edward to Argyle, where he continued to reside until his
death, which took place on the 22d day of November, 1829. He left a
widow and two children--myself, and Joseph, an elder brother. The
latter is still living in the county of Oswego, near the city of that
name; my mother died during the period of my captivity.

Though born a slave, and laboring under the disadvantages to which
my unfortunate race is subjected, my father was a man respected for
his industry and integrity, as many now living, who well remember
him, are ready to testify. His whole life was passed in the peaceful
pursuits of agriculture, never seeking employment in those more menial
positions, which seem to be especially allotted to the children of
Africa. Besides giving us an education surpassing that ordinarily
bestowed upon children in our condition, he acquired, by his diligence
and economy, a sufficient property qualification to entitle him to
the right of suffrage. He was accustomed to speak to us of his early
life; and although at all times cherishing the warmest emotions of
kindness, and even of affection towards the family, in whose house
he had been a bondsman, he nevertheless comprehended the system of
Slavery, and dwelt with sorrow on the degradation of his race. He
endeavored to imbue our minds with sentiments of morality, and to
teach us to place our trust and confidence in Him who regards the
humblest as well as the highest of his creatures. How often since
that time has the recollection of his paternal counsels occurred to
me, while lying in a slave hut in the distant and sickly regions of
Louisiana, smarting with the undeserved wounds which an inhuman master
had inflicted, and longing only for the grave which had covered him,
to shield me also from the lash of the oppressor. In the church-yard
at Sandy Hill, an humble stone marks the spot where he reposes, after
having worthily performed the duties appertaining to the lowly sphere
wherein God had appointed him to walk.

Up to this period I had been principally engaged with my father in the
labors of the farm. The leisure hours allowed me were generally either
employed over my books, or playing on the violin--an amusement which
was the ruling passion of my youth. It has also been the source of
consolation since, affording pleasure to the simple beings with whom
my lot was cast, and beguiling my own thoughts, for many hours, from
the painful contemplation of my fate.

On Christmas day, 1829, I was married to Anne Hampton, a colored
girl then living in the vicinity of our residence. The ceremony was
performed at Fort Edward, by Timothy Eddy, Esq., a magistrate of that
town, and still a prominent citizen of the place. She had resided
a long time at Sandy Hill, with Mr. Baird, proprietor of the Eagle
Tavern, and also in the family of Rev. Alexander Proudfit, of Salem.
This gentleman for many years had presided over the Presbyterian
society at the latter place, and was widely distinguished for his
learning and piety. Anne still holds in grateful remembrance the
exceeding kindness and the excellent counsels of that good man. She
is not able to determine the exact line of her descent, but the blood
of three races mingles in her veins. It is difficult to tell whether
the red, white, or black predominates. The union of them all, however,
in her origin, has given her a singular but pleasing expression, such
as is rarely to be seen. Though somewhat resembling, yet she cannot
properly be styled a quadroon, a class to which, I have omitted to
mention, my mother belonged.

I had just now passed the period of my minority, having reached the
age of twenty-one years in the month of July previous. Deprived of
the advice and assistance of my father, with a wife dependent upon
me for support, I resolved to enter upon a life of industry; and
notwithstanding the obstacle of color, and the consciousness of my
lowly state, indulged in pleasant dreams of a good time coming, when
the possession of some humble habitation, with a few surrounding
acres, should reward my labors, and bring me the means of happiness
and comfort.

From the time of my marriage to this day the love I have borne my
wife has been sincere and unabated; and only those who have felt
the glowing tenderness a father cherishes for his offspring, can
appreciate my affection for the beloved children which have since been
born to us. This much I deem appropriate and necessary to say, in
order that those who read these pages, may comprehend the poignancy of
those sufferings I have been doomed to bear.

Immediately upon our marriage we commenced house-keeping, in the old
yellow building then standing at the southern extremity of Fort Edward
village, and which has since been transformed into a modern mansion,
and lately occupied by Captain Lathrop. It is known as the Fort House.
In this building the courts were sometime held after the organization
of the county. It was also occupied by Burgoyne in 1777, being
situated near the old Fort on the left bank of the Hudson.

During the winter I was employed with others repairing the Champlain
Canal, on that section over which William Van Nortwick was
superintendent. David McEachron had the immediate charge of the men in
whose company I labored. By the time the canal opened in the spring,
I was enabled, from the savings of my wages, to purchase a pair of
horses, and other things necessarily required in the business of
navigation.

Having hired several efficient hands to assist me, I entered into
contracts for the transportation of large rafts of timber from Lake
Champlain to Troy. Dyer Beckwith and a Mr. Bartemy, of Whitehall,
accompanied me on several trips. During the season I became perfectly
familiar with the art and mysteries of rafting--a knowledge which
afterwards enabled me to render profitable service to a worthy master,
and to astonish the simple-witted lumbermen on the banks of the Bayou
Boeuf.

In one of my voyages down Lake Champlain, I was induced to make a
visit to Canada. Repairing to Montreal, I visited the cathedral
and other places of interest in that city, from whence I continued
my excursion to Kingston and other towns, obtaining a knowledge of
localities, which was also of service to me afterwards, as will appear
towards the close of this narrative.

Having completed my contracts on the canal satisfactorily to myself
and to my employer, and not wishing to remain idle, now that the
navigation of the canal was again suspended, I entered into another
contract with Medad Gunn, to cut a large quantity of wood. In this
business I was engaged during the winter of 1831-32.

With the return of spring, Anne and myself conceived the project of
taking a farm in the neighborhood. I had been accustomed from earliest
youth to agricultural labors, and it was an occupation congenial to
my tastes. I accordingly entered into arrangements for a part of the
old Alden farm, on which my father formerly resided. With one cow,
one swine, a yoke of fine oxen I had lately purchased of Lewis Brown,
in Hartford, and other personal property and effects, we proceeded to
our new home in Kingsbury. That year I planted twenty-five acres of
corn, sowed large fields of oats, and commenced farming upon as large
a scale as my utmost means would permit. Anne was diligent about the
house affairs, while I toiled laboriously in the field.

On this place we continued to reside until 1834. In the winter season
I had numerous calls to play on the violin. Wherever the young people
assembled to dance, I was almost invariably there. Throughout the
surrounding villages my fiddle was notorious. Anne, also, during her
long residence at the Eagle Tavern, had become somewhat famous as a
cook. During court weeks, and on public occasions, she was employed at
high wages in the kitchen at Sherrill's Coffee House.

We always returned home from the performance of these services with
money in our pockets; so that, with fiddling, cooking, and farming,
we soon found ourselves in the possession of abundance, and, in fact,
leading a happy and prosperous life. Well, indeed, would it have been
for us had we remained on the farm at Kingsbury; but the time came
when the next step was to be taken towards the cruel destiny that
awaited me.

In March, 1834, we removed to Saratoga Springs. We occupied a house
belonging to Daniel O'Brien, on the north side of Washington street.
At that time Isaac Taylor kept a large boarding house, known as
Washington Hall, at the north end of Broadway. He employed me to drive
a hack, in which capacity I worked for him two years. After this
time I was generally employed through the visiting season, as also
was Anne, in the United States Hotel, and other public houses of the
place. In winter seasons I relied upon my violin, though during the
construction of the Troy and Saratoga railroad, I performed many hard
days' labor upon it.

I was in the habit, at Saratoga, of purchasing articles necessary for
my family at the stores of Mr. Cephas Parker and Mr. William Perry,
gentlemen towards whom, for many acts of kindness, I entertained
feelings of strong regard. It was for this reason that, twelve years
afterwards, I caused to be directed to them the letter, which is
hereinafter inserted, and which was the means, in the hands of Mr.
Northup, of my fortunate deliverance.

While living at the United States Hotel, I frequently met with slaves,
who had accompanied their masters from the South. They were always
well dressed and well provided for, leading apparently an easy life,
with but few of its ordinary troubles to perplex them. Many times they
entered into conversation with me on the subject of Slavery. Almost
uniformly I found they cherished a secret desire for liberty. Some of
them expressed the most ardent anxiety to escape, and consulted me
on the best method of effecting it. The fear of punishment, however,
which they knew was certain to attend their re-capture and return, in
all cases proved sufficient to deter them from the experiment. Having
all my life breathed the free air of the North, and conscious that I
possessed the same feelings and affections that find a place in the
white man's breast; conscious, moreover, of an intelligence equal to
that of some men, at least, with a fairer skin, I was too ignorant,
perhaps too independent, to conceive how any one could be content to
live in the abject condition of a slave. I could not comprehend the
justice of that law, or that religion, which upholds or recognizes the
principle of Slavery; and never once, I am proud to say, did I fail to
counsel any one who came to me, to watch his opportunity, and strike
for freedom.

I continued to reside at Saratoga until the spring of 1841. The
flattering anticipations which, seven years before, had seduced us
from the quiet farm-house, on the east side of the Hudson, had not
been realized. Though always in comfortable circumstances, we had
not prospered. The society and associations at that world-renowned
watering place, were not calculated to preserve the simple habits
of industry and economy to which I had been accustomed, but, on
the contrary, to substitute others in their stead, tending to
shiftlessness and extravagance.

At this time we were the parents of three children--Elizabeth,
Margaret, and Alonzo. Elizabeth, the eldest, was in her tenth year;
Margaret was two years younger, and little Alonzo had just passed his
fifth birth-day. They filled our house with gladness. Their young
voices were music in our ears. Many an airy castle did their mother
and myself build for the little innocents. When not at labor I was
always walking with them, clad in their best attire, through the
streets and groves of Saratoga. Their presence was my delight; and
I clasped them to my bosom with as warm and tender love as if their
clouded skins had been as white as snow.

Thus far the history of my life presents nothing whatever
unusual--nothing but the common hopes, and loves, and labors of an
obscure colored man, making his humble progress in the world. But now
I had reached a turning point in my existence--reached the threshold
of unutterable wrong, and sorrow, and despair. Now had I approached
within the shadow of the cloud, into the thick darkness whereof I was
soon to disappear, thenceforward to be hidden from the eyes of all
my kindred, and shut out from the sweet light of liberty, for many a
weary year.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Solomon Northup narrates his own story of being kidnapped and sold into slavery, in which he remained for twelve years until he was freed. He states that he will tell his story as faithfully as possible. Solomon paternal ancestors were slaves in Rhode Island, and eventually his father became free. Henry B. Northup of Sandy Hill, a lawyer and the person to whom Solomon owes his freedom, is a current relative of the family who freed his father. Solomon's father moved to Minerva in Essex County, New York, where Solomon was born. He died and left Solomon, a brother, and their mother. He had been respected for integrity and industry, and he had peacefully worked in agriculture. Even though his time in slavery was not as bad as others', he still saw the degradation of the system and taught his children morality and faith. As a young man, Solomon worked with his father on the farm. He married Anne Hampton in 1829. Solomon and Anne lived near the Hudson River. Solomon worked diligently on navigation and rafting. He arranged to purchase part of the old Alden farm, where the family resided until 1834. Solomon often played the violin, and everyone nearby loved to hear him. Anne was known for her cooking. The couple and their three children moved to Saratoga Springs. Solomon writes of purchasing items from storekeepers Mr. Cephas Parker and Mr. William Perry, who would later be helpful in delivering him from slavery. While Solomon lived in the North, he did encounter slaves visiting with their masters from the South. Solomon observed that they always evinced the desire to escape but were afraid of punishment. Solomon could not understand how one could be content to live in those conditions, and he could comprehend neither the "justice" nor the religious systems that upheld the system of Slavery. Solomon loved his three children, Elizabeth, Margaret, and Alonzo. His life was peaceful and comfortable while he resided in the North with his family. Now, though, he comes to the part of the story where the cloud begins to overshadow him


prompt:
Chapter: THE TWO STRANGERS--THE CIRCUS COMPANY--DEPARTURE FROM
  SARATOGA--VENTRILOQUISM AND LEGERDEMAIN--JOURNEY TO NEW-YORK--FREE
  PAPERS--BROWN AND HAMILTON--THE HASTE TO REACH THE CIRCUS--ARRIVAL IN
  WASHINGTON--FUNERAL OF HARRISON--THE SUDDEN SICKNESS--THE TORMENT OF
  THIRST--THE RECEDING LIGHT--INSENSIBILITY--CHAINS AND DARKNESS.

One morning, towards the latter part of the month of March, 1841,
having at that time no particular business to engage my attention, I
was walking about the village of Saratoga Springs, thinking to myself
where I might obtain some present employment, until the busy season
should arrive. Anne, as was her usual custom, had gone over to Sandy
Hill, a distance of some twenty miles, to take charge of the culinary
department at Sherrill's Coffee House, during the session of the
court. Elizabeth, I think, had accompanied her. Margaret and Alonzo
were with their aunt at Saratoga.

On the corner of Congress street and Broadway, near the tavern,
then, and for aught I know to the contrary, still kept by Mr. Moon,
I was met by two gentlemen of respectable appearance, both of whom
were entirely unknown to me. I have the impression that they were
introduced to me by some one of my acquaintances, but who, I have in
vain endeavored to recall, with the remark that I was an expert player
on the violin.

At any rate, they immediately entered into conversation on that
subject, making numerous inquiries touching my proficiency in that
respect. My responses being to all appearances satisfactory, they
proposed to engage my services for a short period, stating, at the
same time, I was just such a person as their business required. Their
names, as they afterwards gave them to me, were Merrill Brown and
Abram Hamilton, though whether these were their true appellations,
I have strong reasons to doubt. The former was a man apparently
forty years of age, somewhat short and thick-set, with a countenance
indicating shrewdness and intelligence. He wore a black frock coat and
black hat, and said he resided either at Rochester or at Syracuse.
The latter was a young man of fair complexion and light eyes, and, I
should judge, had not passed the age of twenty-five. He was tall and
slender, dressed in a snuff-colored coat, with glossy hat, and vest of
elegant pattern. His whole apparel was in the extreme of fashion. His
appearance was somewhat effeminate, but prepossessing, and there was
about him an easy air, that showed he had mingled with the world. They
were connected, as they informed me, with a circus company, then in
the city of Washington; that they were on their way thither to rejoin
it, having left it for a short time to make an excursion northward,
for the purpose of seeing the country, and were paying their expenses
by an occasional exhibition. They also remarked that they had found
much difficulty in procuring music for their entertainments, and that
if I would accompany them as far as New-York, they would give me one
dollar for each day's services, and three dollars in addition for
every night I played at their performances, besides sufficient to pay
the expenses of my return from New-York to Saratoga.

I at once accepted the tempting offer, both for the reward it
promised, and from a desire to visit the metropolis. They were anxious
to leave immediately. Thinking my absence would be brief, I did
not deem it necessary to write to Anne whither I had gone; in fact
supposing that my return, perhaps, would be as soon as hers. So taking
a change of linen and my violin, I was ready to depart. The carriage
was brought round--a covered one, drawn by a pair of noble bays,
altogether forming an elegant establishment. Their baggage, consisting
of three large trunks, was fastened on the rack, and mounting to the
driver's seat, while they took their places in the rear, I drove away
from Saratoga on the road to Albany, elated with my new position, and
happy as I had ever been, on any day in all my life.

We passed through Ballston, and striking the ridge road, as it is
called, if my memory correctly serves me, followed it direct to
Albany. We reached that city before dark, and stopped at a hotel
southward from the Museum.

This night I had an opportunity of witnessing one of their
performances--the only one, during the whole period I was with them.
Hamilton was stationed at the door; I formed the orchestra, while
Brown provided the entertainment. It consisted in throwing balls,
dancing on the rope, frying pancakes in a hat, causing invisible pigs
to squeal, and other like feats of ventriloquism and legerdemain.
The audience was extraordinarily sparse, and not of the selectest
character at that, and Hamilton's report of the proceeds presented but
a "beggarly account of empty boxes."

Early next morning we renewed our journey. The burden of their
conversation now was the expression of an anxiety to reach the
circus without delay. They hurried forward, without again stopping
to exhibit, and in due course of time, we reached New-York, taking
lodgings at a house on the west side of the city, in a street running
from Broadway to the river. I supposed my journey was at an end, and
expected in a day or two at least, to return to my friends and family
at Saratoga. Brown and Hamilton, however, began to importune me to
continue with them to Washington. They alleged that immediately on
their arrival, now that the summer season was approaching, the circus
would set out for the north. They promised me a situation and high
wages if I would accompany them. Largely did they expatiate on the
advantages that would result to me, and such were the flattering
representations they made, that I finally concluded to accept the
offer.

The next morning they suggested that, inasmuch as we were about
entering a slave State, it would be well, before leaving New-York, to
procure free papers. The idea struck me as a prudent one, though I
think it would scarcely have occurred to me, had they not proposed it.
We proceeded at once to what I understood to be the Custom House. They
made oath to certain facts showing I was a free man. A paper was drawn
up and handed us, with the direction to take it to the clerk's office.
We did so, and the clerk having added something to it, for which he
was paid six shillings, we returned again to the Custom House. Some
further formalities were gone through with before it was completed,
when, paying the officer two dollars, I placed the papers in my
pocket, and started with my two friends to our hotel. I thought at the
time, I must confess, that the papers were scarcely worth the cost of
obtaining them--the apprehension of danger to my personal safety never
having suggested itself to me in the remotest manner. The clerk, to
whom we were directed, I remember, made a memorandum in a large book,
which, I presume, is in the office yet. A reference to the entries
during the latter part of March, or first of April, 1841, I have no
doubt will satisfy the incredulous, at least so far as this particular
transaction is concerned.

With the evidence of freedom in my possession, the next day after
our arrival in New-York, we crossed the ferry to Jersey City, and
took the road to Philadelphia. Here we remained one night, continuing
our journey towards Baltimore early in the morning. In due time, we
arrived in the latter city, and stopped at a hotel near the railroad
depot, either kept by a Mr. Rathbone, or known as the Rathbone House.
All the way from New-York, their anxiety to reach the circus seemed
to grow more and more intense. We left the carriage at Baltimore, and
entering the cars, proceeded to Washington, at which place we arrived
just at nightfall, the evening previous to the funeral of General
Harrison, and stopped at Gadsby's Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue.

After supper they called me to their apartments, and paid me
forty-three dollars, a sum greater than my wages amounted to, which
act of generosity was in consequence, they said, of their not having
exhibited as often as they had given me to anticipate, during our
trip from Saratoga. They moreover informed me that it had been
the intention of the circus company to leave Washington the next
morning, but that on account of the funeral, they had concluded to
remain another day. They were then, as they had been from the time
of our first meeting, extremely kind. No opportunity was omitted of
addressing me in the language of approbation; while, on the other
hand, I was certainly much prepossessed in their favor. I gave them
my confidence without reserve, and would freely have trusted them to
almost any extent. Their constant conversation and manner towards
me--their foresight in suggesting the idea of free papers, and a
hundred other little acts, unnecessary to be repeated--all indicated
that they were friends indeed, sincerely solicitous for my welfare.
I know not but they were. I know not but they were innocent of the
great wickedness of which I now believe them guilty. Whether they were
accessory to my misfortunes--subtle and inhuman monsters in the shape
of men--designedly luring me away from home and family, and liberty,
for the sake of gold--those who read these pages will have the same
means of determining as myself. If they were innocent, my sudden
disappearance must have been unaccountable indeed; but revolving in
my mind all the attending circumstances, I never yet could indulge,
towards them, so charitable a supposition.

After receiving the money from them, of which they appeared to have
an abundance, they advised me not to go into the streets that night,
inasmuch as I was unacquainted with the customs of the city. Promising
to remember their advice, I left them together, and soon after was
shown by a colored servant to a sleeping room in the back part of the
hotel, on the ground floor. I laid down to rest, thinking of home and
wife, and children, and the long distance that stretched between us,
until I fell asleep. But no good angel of pity came to my bedside,
bidding me to fly--no voice of mercy forewarned me in my dreams of the
trials that were just at hand.

The next day there was a great pageant in Washington. The roar of
cannon and the tolling of bells filled the air, while many houses
were shrouded with crape, and the streets were black with people. As
the day advanced, the procession made its appearance, coming slowly
through the Avenue, carriage after carriage, in long succession, while
thousands upon thousands followed on foot--all moving to the sound of
melancholy music. They were bearing the dead body of Harrison to the
grave.

From early in the morning, I was constantly in the company of Hamilton
and Brown. They were the only persons I knew in Washington. We stood
together as the funeral pomp passed by. I remember distinctly how the
window glass would break and rattle to the ground, after each report
of the cannon they were firing in the burial ground. We went to the
Capitol, and walked a long time about the grounds. In the afternoon,
they strolled towards the President's House, all the time keeping me
near to them, and pointing out various places of interest. As yet,
I had seen nothing of the circus. In fact, I had thought of it but
little, if at all, amidst the excitement of the day.

My friends, several times during the afternoon, entered drinking
saloons, and called for liquor. They were by no means in the habit,
however, so far as I knew them, of indulging to excess. On these
occasions, after serving themselves, they would pour out a glass and
hand it to me. I did not become intoxicated, as may be inferred from
what subsequently occurred. Towards evening, and soon after partaking
of one of these potations, I began to experience most unpleasant
sensations. I felt extremely ill. My head commenced aching--a dull,
heavy pain, inexpressibly disagreeable. At the supper table, I was
without appetite; the sight and flavor of food was nauseous. About
dark the same servant conducted me to the room I had occupied the
previous night. Brown and Hamilton advised me to retire, commiserating
me kindly, and expressing hopes that I would be better in the morning.
Divesting myself of coat and boots merely, I threw myself upon the
bed. It was impossible to sleep. The pain in my head continued to
increase, until it became almost unbearable. In a short time I became
thirsty. My lips were parched. I could think of nothing but water--of
lakes and flowing rivers, of brooks where I had stooped to drink, and
of the dripping bucket, rising with its cool and overflowing nectar,
from the bottom of the well. Towards midnight, as near as I could
judge, I arose, unable longer to bear such intensity of thirst. I was
a stranger in the house, and knew nothing of its apartments. There was
no one up, as I could observe. Groping about at random, I knew not
where, I found the way at last to a kitchen in the basement. Two or
three colored servants were moving through it, one of whom, a woman,
gave me two glasses of water. It afforded momentary relief, but by the
time I had reached my room again, the same burning desire of drink,
the same tormenting thirst, had again returned. It was even more
torturing than before, as was also the wild pain in my head, if such a
thing could be. I was in sore distress--in most excruciating agony! I
seemed to stand on the brink of madness! The memory of that night of
horrible suffering will follow me to the grave.

In the course of an hour or more after my return from the kitchen,
I was conscious of some one entering my room. There seemed to be
several--a mingling of various voices,--but how many, or who they
were, I cannot tell. Whether Brown and Hamilton were among them, is
a mere matter of conjecture. I only remember, with any degree of
distinctness, that I was told it was necessary to go to a physician
and procure medicine, and that pulling on my boots, without coat
or hat, I followed them through a long passage-way, or alley, into
the open street. It ran out at right angles from Pennsylvania
Avenue. On the opposite side there was a light burning in a window.
My impression is there were then three persons with me, but it is
altogether indefinite and vague, and like the memory of a painful
dream. Going towards the light, which I imagined proceeded from a
physician's office, and which seemed to recede as I advanced, is the
last glimmering recollection I can now recall. From that moment I was
insensible. How long I remained in that condition--whether only that
night, or many days and nights--I do not know; but when consciousness
returned, I found myself alone, in utter darkness, and in chains.

The pain in my head had subsided in a measure, but I was very faint
and weak. I was sitting upon a low bench, made of rough boards, and
without coat or hat. I was hand-cuffed. Around my ankles also were
a pair of heavy fetters. One end of a chain was fastened to a large
ring in the floor, the other to the fetters on my ankles. I tried in
vain to stand upon my feet. Waking from such a painful trance, it
was some time before I could collect my thoughts. Where was I? What
was the meaning of these chains? Where were Brown and Hamilton? What
had I done to deserve imprisonment in such a dungeon? I could not
comprehend. There was a blank of some indefinite period, preceding
my awakening in that lonely place, the events of which the utmost
stretch of memory was unable to recall. I listened intently for some
sign or sound of life, but nothing broke the oppressive silence, save
the clinking of my chains, whenever I chanced to move. I spoke aloud,
but the sound of my voice startled me. I felt of my pockets, so far
as the fetters would allow--far enough, indeed, to ascertain that I
had not only been robbed of liberty, but that my money and free papers
were also gone! Then did the idea begin to break upon my mind, at
first dim and confused, that I had been kidnapped. But that I thought
was incredible. There must have been some misapprehension--some
unfortunate mistake. It could not be that a free citizen of New-York,
who had wronged no man, nor violated any law, should be dealt with
thus inhumanly. The more I contemplated my situation, however, the
more I became confirmed in my suspicions. It was a desolate thought,
indeed. I felt there was no trust or mercy in unfeeling man; and
commending myself to the God of the oppressed, bowed my head upon my
fettered hands, and wept most bitterly.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Anne is about twenty miles away with Elizabeth, engaged in culinary work. Alonzo and Margaret are with their aunt. Thus, Solomon is alone as he strolls about Saratoga Springs one day in 1841. He meets two respectably-dressed gentlemen named Merrill Brown and Abram Hamilton. They tell Solomon that they are part of a circus company, which was in Washington DC at the time, and that they were going to rejoin it. They hope that Solomon will accompany them and play the violin, as they had heard he was proficient at it. Solomon accepts because his expenses will be paid and he will earn more money. He assumes his absence will be brief and therefore does not write his wife. He is extremely happy to set out on this adventure. On their journey, Solomon gets to see Brown and Hamilton do one of their performances and is struck by the sparse, uncouth nature of the audience. Nevertheless, he continues on. Leaving New York, the men suggest he get his free papers because they are entering a slave state. This is completed, and Solomon is relieved. As they get closer to Washington, the men seem more and more anxious to arrive. They finally arrive on the occasion of President William Henry Harrison's funeral. The men tell Solomon that the circus is leaving tomorrow but thst they plan to stay another day on account of the funeral. Solomon never suspects anything strange of them at this time. Looking back, he knows they must have known what was happening and have been part of it, but it is still difficult to fathom. The next day, a great pageant is held for Harrison. Solomon stands with Brown and Hamilton watching the pomp. They venture into a few saloons and the men order Solomon drinks. He accepts but does not become drunk. However, he begins to feel extremely ill. Brown and Hamilton advise him to retire, and he does. In his room, he cannot sleep and his thirst becomes acute. He is in a strange lodging house; he makes his way downstairs to get water. When he returns, though, the thirst has started up again. He feels a wild, burning pain and desire for water. In a stupor, Solomon hears voices in his room. He thinks he hears them saying that he must go to a doctor. However, when he wakes up from his insensibility, he finds himself alone in the dark and chained up. He is faint, weak, and confused, knowing neither where he is nor why he is chained. There is a blank period in his mind that he cannot account for. His pockets are empty, his money and free papers gone. He starts to wonder if he has been kidnapped, but he knows it is a mistake because he is a free citizen of New York. He weeps bitterly


prompt:
Chapter: PAINFUL MEDITATIONS--JAMES H. BURCH--WILLIAMS' SLAVE PEN IN
  WASHINGTON--THE LACKEY, RADBURN--ASSERT MY FREEDOM--THE ANGER OF
  THE TRADER--THE PADDLE AND CAT-O'-NINETAILS--THE WHIPPING--NEW
  ACQUAINTANCES--RAY, WILLIAMS, AND RANDALL--ARRIVAL OF LITTLE EMILY
  AND HER MOTHER IN THE PEN--MATERNAL SORROWS--THE STORY OF ELIZA.

Some three hours elapsed, during which time I remained seated on the
low bench, absorbed in painful meditations. At length I heard the
crowing of a cock, and soon a distant rumbling sound, as of carriages
hurrying through the streets, came to my ears, and I knew that it
was day. No ray of light, however, penetrated my prison. Finally,
I heard footsteps immediately overhead, as of some one walking to
and fro. It occurred to me then that I must be in an underground
apartment, and the damp, mouldy odors of the place confirmed the
supposition. The noise above continued for at least an hour, when,
at last, I heard footsteps approaching from without. A key rattled
in the lock--a strong door swung back upon its hinges, admitting a
flood of light, and two men entered and stood before me. One of them
was a large, powerful man, forty years of age, perhaps, with dark,
chestnut-colored hair, slightly interspersed with gray. His face was
full, his complexion flush, his features grossly coarse, expressive
of nothing but cruelty and cunning. He was about five feet ten inches
high, of full habit, and, without prejudice, I must be allowed to say,
was a man whose whole appearance was sinister and repugnant. His name
was James H. Burch, as I learned afterwards--a well-known slave-dealer
in Washington; and then, or lately, connected in business, as a
partner, with Theophilus Freeman, of New-Orleans. The person who
accompanied him was a simple lackey, named Ebenezer Radburn, who acted
merely in the capacity of turnkey. Both of these men still live in
Washington, or did, at the time of my return through that city from
slavery in January last.

The light admitted through the open door enabled me to observe the
room in which I was confined. It was about twelve feet square--the
walls of solid masonry. The floor was of heavy plank. There was one
small window, crossed with great iron bars, with an outside shutter,
securely fastened.

An iron-bound door led into an adjoining cell, or vault, wholly
destitute of windows, or any means of admitting light. The furniture
of the room in which I was, consisted of the wooden bench on which
I sat, an old-fashioned, dirty box stove, and besides these, in
either cell, there was neither bed, nor blanket, nor any other thing
whatever. The door, through which Burch and Radburn entered, led
through a small passage, up a flight of steps into a yard, surrounded
by a brick wall ten or twelve feet high, immediately in rear of a
building of the same width as itself. The yard extended rearward from
the house about thirty feet. In one part of the wall there was a
strongly ironed door, opening into a narrow, covered passage, leading
along one side of the house into the street. The doom of the colored
man, upon whom the door leading out of that narrow passage closed,
was sealed. The top of the wall supported one end of a roof, which
ascended inwards, forming a kind of open shed. Underneath the roof
there was a crazy loft all round, where slaves, if so disposed, might
sleep at night, or in inclement weather seek shelter from the storm.
It was like a farmer's barnyard in most respects, save it was so
constructed that the outside world could never see the human cattle
that were herded there.

The building to which the yard was attached, was two stories high,
fronting on one of the public streets of Washington. Its outside
presented only the appearance of a quiet private residence. A stranger
looking at it, would never have dreamed of its execrable uses. Strange
as it may seem, within plain sight of this same house, looking down
from its commanding height upon it, was the Capitol. The voices of
patriotic representatives boasting of freedom and equality, and the
rattling of the poor slave's chains, almost commingled. A slave pen
within the very shadow of the Capitol!

       *       *       *       *       *

Such is a correct description as it was in 1841, of Williams' slave
pen in Washington, in one of the cellars of which I found myself so
unaccountably confined.

"Well, my boy, how do you feel now?" said Burch, as he entered through
the open door. I replied that I was sick, and inquired the cause of my
imprisonment. He answered that I was his slave--that he had bought me,
and that he was about to send me to New-Orleans. I asserted, aloud and
boldly, that I was a free man--a resident of Saratoga, where I had a
wife and children, who were also free, and that my name was Northup.
I complained bitterly of the strange treatment I had received, and
threatened, upon my liberation, to have satisfaction for the wrong.
He denied that I was free, and with an emphatic oath, declared that I
came from Georgia. Again and again I asserted I was no man's slave,
and insisted upon his taking off my chains at once. He endeavored to
hush me, as if he feared my voice would be overheard. But I would not
be silent, and denounced the authors of my imprisonment, whoever they
might be, as unmitigated villains. Finding he could not quiet me, he
flew into a towering passion. With blasphemous oaths, he called me
a black liar, a runaway from Georgia, and every other profane and
vulgar epithet that the most indecent fancy could conceive.

During this time Radburn was standing silently by. His business was,
to oversee this human, or rather inhuman stable, receiving slaves,
feeding and whipping them, at the rate of two shillings a head per
day. Turning to him, Burch ordered the paddle and cat-o'-ninetails
to be brought in. He disappeared, and in a few moments returned
with these instruments of torture. The paddle, as it is termed in
slave-beating parlance, or at least the one with which I first became
acquainted, and of which I now speak, was a piece of hard-wood
board, eighteen or twenty inches long, moulded to the shape of an
old-fashioned pudding stick, or ordinary oar. The flattened portion,
which was about the size in circumference of two open hands, was bored
with a small auger in numerous places. The cat was a large rope of
many strands--the strands unraveled, and a knot tied at the extremity
of each.

As soon as these formidable whips appeared, I was seized by both
of them, and roughly divested of my clothing. My feet, as has been
stated, were fastened to the floor. Drawing me over the bench, face
downwards, Radburn placed his heavy foot upon the fetters, between my
wrists, holding them painfully to the floor. With the paddle, Burch
commenced beating me. Blow after blow was inflicted upon my naked
body. When his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked
if I still insisted I was a free man. I did insist upon it, and then
the blows were renewed, faster and more energetically, if possible,
than before. When again tired, he would repeat the same question, and
receiving the same answer, continue his cruel labor. All this time,
the incarnate devil was uttering most fiendish oaths. At length the
paddle broke, leaving the useless handle in his hand. Still I would
not yield. All his brutal blows could not force from my lips the foul
lie that I was a slave. Casting madly on the floor the handle of the
broken paddle, he seized the rope. This was far more painful than the
other. I struggled with all my power, but it was in vain. I prayed
for mercy, but my prayer was only answered with imprecations and with
stripes. I thought I must die beneath the lashes of the accursed
brute. Even now the flesh crawls upon my bones, as I recall the scene.
I was all on fire. My sufferings I can compare to nothing else than
the burning agonies of hell!

[Illustration: SCENE IN THE SLAVE PEN AT WASHINGTON.]

At last I became silent to his repeated questions. I would make no
reply. In fact, I was becoming almost unable to speak. Still he plied
the lash without stint upon my poor body, until it seemed that the
lacerated flesh was stripped from my bones at every stroke. A man with
a particle of mercy in his soul would not have beaten even a dog so
cruelly. At length Radburn said that it was useless to whip me any
more--that I would be sore enough. Thereupon, Burch desisted, saying,
with an admonitory shake of his fist in my face, and hissing the
words through his firm-set teeth, that if ever I dared to utter again
that I was entitled to my freedom, that I had been kidnapped, or any
thing whatever of the kind, the castigation I had just received was
nothing in comparison with what would follow. He swore that he would
either conquer or kill me. With these consolatory words, the fetters
were taken from my wrists, my feet still remaining fastened to the
ring; the shutter of the little barred window, which had been opened,
was again closed, and going out, locking the great door behind them, I
was left in darkness as before.

In an hour, perhaps two, my heart leaped to my throat, as the key
rattled in the door again. I, who had been so lonely, and who had
longed so ardently to see some one, I cared not who, now shuddered
at the thought of man's approach. A human face was fearful to me,
especially a white one. Radburn entered, bringing with him, on a tin
plate, a piece of shriveled fried pork, a slice of bread and a cup
of water. He asked me how I felt, and remarked that I had received a
pretty severe flogging. He remonstrated with me against the propriety
of asserting my freedom. In rather a patronizing and confidential
manner, he gave it to me as his advice, that the less I said on that
subject the better it would be for me. The man evidently endeavored
to appear kind--whether touched at the sight of my sad condition, or
with the view of silencing, on my part, any further expression of
my rights, it is not necessary now to conjecture. He unlocked the
fetters from my ankles, opened the shutters of the little window, and
departed, leaving me again alone.

By this time I had become stiff and sore; my body was covered with
blisters, and it was with great pain and difficulty that I could
move. From the window I could observe nothing but the roof resting on
the adjacent wall. At night I laid down upon the damp, hard floor,
without any pillow or covering whatever. Punctually, twice a day,
Radburn came in, with his pork, and bread, and water. I had but
little appetite, though I was tormented with continual thirst. My
wounds would not permit me to remain but a few minutes in any one
position; so, sitting, or standing, or moving slowly round, I passed
the days and nights. I was heart sick and discouraged. Thoughts of
my family, of my wife and children, continually occupied my mind.
When sleep overpowered me I dreamed of them--dreamed I was again in
Saratoga--that I could see their faces, and hear their voices calling
me. Awakening from the pleasant phantasms of sleep to the bitter
realities around me, I could but groan and weep. Still my spirit was
not broken. I indulged the anticipation of escape, and that speedily.
It was impossible, I reasoned, that men could be so unjust as to
detain me as a slave, when the truth of my case was known. Burch,
ascertaining I was no runaway from Georgia, would certainly let me
go. Though suspicions of Brown and Hamilton were not unfrequent, I
could not reconcile myself to the idea that they were instrumental to
my imprisonment. Surely they would seek me out--they would deliver
me from thraldom. Alas! I had not then learned the measure of "man's
inhumanity to man," nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will
go for the love of gain.

In the course of several days the outer door was thrown open, allowing
me the liberty of the yard. There I found three slaves--one of
them a lad of ten years, the others young men of about twenty and
twenty-five. I was not long in forming an acquaintance, and learning
their names and the particulars of their history.

The eldest was a colored man named Clemens Ray. He had lived in
Washington; had driven a hack, and worked in a livery stable there
for a long time. He was very intelligent, and fully comprehended his
situation. The thought of going south overwhelmed him with grief.
Burch had purchased him a few days before, and had placed him there
until such time as he was ready to send him to the New-Orleans market.
From him I learned for the first time that I was in William's Slave
Pen, a place I had never heard of previously. He described to me the
uses for which it was designed. I repeated to him the particulars of
my unhappy story, but he could only give me the consolation of his
sympathy. He also advised me to be silent henceforth on the subject
of my freedom; for, knowing the character of Burch, he assured me
that it would only be attended with renewed whipping. The next
eldest was named John Williams. He was raised in Virginia, not far
from Washington. Burch had taken him in payment of a debt, and he
constantly entertained the hope that his master would redeem him--a
hope that was subsequently realized. The lad was a sprightly child,
that answered to the name of Randall. Most of the time he was playing
about the yard, but occasionally would cry, calling for his mother,
and wondering when she would come. His mother's absence seemed to be
the great and only grief in his little heart. He was too young to
realize his condition, and when the memory of his mother was not in
his mind, he amused us with his pleasant pranks.

At night, Ray, Williams, and the boy, slept in the loft of the shed,
while I was locked in the cell. Finally we were each provided with
blankets, such as are used upon horses--the only bedding I was allowed
to have for twelve years afterwards. Ray and Williams asked me many
questions about New-York--how colored people were treated there; how
they could have homes and families of their own, with none to disturb
and oppress them; and Ray, especially, sighed continually for freedom.
Such conversations, however, were not in the hearing of Burch, or the
keeper Radburn. Aspirations such as these would have brought down the
lash upon our backs.

It is necessary in this narrative, in order to present a full and
truthful statement of all the principal events in the history of my
life, and to portray the institution of Slavery as I have seen and
known it, to speak of well-known places, and of many persons who are
yet living. I am, and always was, an entire stranger in Washington
and its vicinity--aside from Burch and Radburn, knowing no man there,
except as I have heard of them through my enslaved companions. What I
am about to say, if false, can be easily contradicted.

I remained in Williams' slave pen about two weeks. The night previous
to my departure a woman was brought in, weeping bitterly, and
leading by the hand a little child. They were Randall's mother and
half-sister. On meeting them he was overjoyed, clinging to her dress,
kissing the child, and exhibiting every demonstration of delight. The
mother also clasped him in her arms, embraced him tenderly, and gazed
at him fondly through her tears, calling him by many an endearing name.

Emily, the child, was seven or eight years old, of light complexion,
and with a face of admirable beauty. Her hair fell in curls around her
neck, while the style and richness of her dress, and the neatness of
her whole appearance indicated she had been brought up in the midst
of wealth. She was a sweet child indeed. The woman also was arrayed
in silk, with rings upon her fingers, and golden ornaments suspended
from her ears. Her air and manners, the correctness and propriety
of her language--all showed, evidently, that she had sometime stood
above the common level of a slave. She seemed to be amazed at
finding herself in such a place as that. It was plainly a sudden and
unexpected turn of fortune that had brought her there. Filling the air
with her complainings, she was hustled, with the children and myself,
into the cell. Language can convey but an inadequate impression of the
lamentations to which she gave incessant utterance. Throwing herself
upon the floor, and encircling the children in her arms, she poured
forth such touching words as only maternal love and kindness can
suggest. They nestled closely to her, as if _there_ only was there any
safety or protection. At last they slept, their heads resting upon
her lap. While they slumbered, she smoothed the hair back from their
little foreheads, and talked to them all night long. She called them
her darlings--her sweet babes--poor innocent things, that knew not the
misery they were destined to endure. Soon they would have no mother
to comfort them--they would be taken from her. What would become of
them? Oh! she could not live away from her little Emmy and her dear
boy. They had always been good children, and had such loving ways. It
would break her heart, God knew, she said, if they were taken from
her; and yet she knew they meant to sell them, and, may be, they would
be separated, and could never see each other any more. It was enough
to melt a heart of stone to listen to the pitiful expressions of that
desolate and distracted mother. Her name was Eliza; and this was the
story of her life, as she afterwards related it:

She was the slave of Elisha Berry, a rich man, living in the
neighborhood of Washington. She was born, I think she said, on his
plantation. Years before, he had fallen into dissipated habits, and
quarreled with his wife. In fact, soon after the birth of Randall,
they separated. Leaving his wife and daughter in the house they had
always occupied, he erected a new one near by, on the estate. Into
this house he brought Eliza; and, on condition of her living with
him, she and her children were to be emancipated. She resided with
him there nine years, with servants to attend upon her, and provided
with every comfort and luxury of life. Emily was his child! Finally,
her young mistress, who had always remained with her mother at the
homestead, married a Mr. Jacob Brooks. At length, for some cause, (as
I gathered from her relation,) beyond Berry's control, a division of
his property was made. She and her children fell to the share of Mr.
Brooks. During the nine years she had lived with Berry, in consequence
of the position she was compelled to occupy, she and Emily had become
the object of Mrs. Berry and her daughter's hatred and dislike. Berry
himself she represented as a man of naturally a kind heart, who always
promised her that she should have her freedom, and who, she had no
doubt, would grant it to her then, if it were only in his power.
As soon as they thus came into the possession and control of the
daughter, it became very manifest they would not live long together.
The sight of Eliza seemed to be odious to Mrs. Brooks; neither could
she bear to look upon the child, half-sister, and beautiful as she was!

The day she was led into the pen, Brooks had brought her from the
estate into the city, under pretence that the time had come when
her free papers were to be executed, in fulfillment of her master's
promise. Elated at the prospect of immediate liberty, she decked
herself and little Emmy in their best apparel, and accompanied him
with a joyful heart. On their arrival in the city, instead of being
baptized into the family of freemen, she was delivered to the trader
Burch. The paper that was executed was a bill of sale. The hope of
years was blasted in a moment. From the height of most exulting
happiness to the utmost depths of wretchedness, she had that day
descended. No wonder that she wept, and filled the pen with wailings
and expressions of heart-rending woe.

Eliza is now dead. Far up the Red River, where it pours its waters
sluggishly through the unhealthy low lands of Louisiana, she rests
in the grave at last--the only resting place of the poor slave! How
all her fears were realized--how she mourned day and night, and never
would be comforted--how, as she predicted, her heart did indeed break,
with the burden of maternal sorrow, will be seen as the narrative
proceeds.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Solomon hears footsteps above him. He seems to be in an underground space; it is damp, dark, and moldy. Finally, two men enter: the first is James H. Burch, a repugnant, coarse, and cruel slave trader; and Ebenezer Radburn, a lackey and a turnkey. The light coming into the room reveals more of its dimensions. There is a stairwell that leads up and out to a yard surrounded by a tall brick wall. In this place, the black man's fate is sealed. On the outside of the house, though, everything appears normal, pleasant, and private. Ironically, the Capitol building is visible from this slave pen. Burch addresses Solomon, and Solomon bursts into protestations about his freedom and the treatment he has received. Burch becomes enraged and blasphemes Solomon, viciously beating him. Solomon refuses to yield even though he feels like he is amongst the flames of Hell. He cannot speak anymore. Radburn tells Burch he should stop now, and Burch sneers at Solomon that if he ever says anything about being free, or kidnapped, or anything else, Burch will conquer or kill him. Solomon is left alone in the dark again. Radburn returns with a bit of food and water and seems disposed to be more sympathetic. Solomon's wounds preclude him from moving about. For the next few days he lingers there, heartsick and in pain. His spirit is not broken, though, and he thinks about how he can escape. Perhaps Hamilton and Brown can be addressed. Alas, he now knows the extent of man's inhumanity to man. In a few days, Solomon is allowed into the yard. There, he meets three other slaves. There is Clemens Ray, an older man who'd been laboring in Washington and is horrified to be going south. He is smart and tells Solomon that they are in Williams' Slave Pen. He tells Solomon he should not mention his freedom around Burch anymore. The second man is John Williams, taken by Burch as payment for a debt. There is also a young child about ten years old named Randall. He occasionally cries for his mother and does not quite comprehend his situation. Ray and Williams ask Solomon many questions about New York. They are in the pen for two weeks, and the night before their departure, a woman and a young girl arrive. They are Eliza, Randall's mother, and Emily, his sister. Eliza is inconsolable. She is wearing lovely, rich clothing and accessories and cannot grasp why she is here. She knows her children will be taken from her and cannot stem her grief on that account. She tells the men her story: she was the slave of Elisha Berry, who separated from his wife and daughter and took Eliza as a wife in a house at the edge of his property. She resided with him for nine years, had servants of her own, and had Emily by him. Her young mistress, Elisha's daughter, married a Mr. James Brooks. When Elisha Berry's property was divided against his will, Eliza and Emily fell to Mrs. Brooks and her mother, who hated both Eliza and Emily. Brooks had brought the two to the city under the pretense of getting them their free papers, but it was actually a bill of sale. All of Eliza's hopes were dashed at that instant. Solomon writes that Eliza is now dead, resting somewhere up the Red River. Her heart broke from the loss of her children