prompt:
Chapter: Mrs. Bruce, and every member of her family, were exceedingly kind to me. I
was thankful for the blessings of my lot, yet I could not always wear a
cheerful countenance. I was doing harm to no one; on the contrary, I was
doing all the good I could in my small way; yet I could never go out to
breathe God's free air without trepidation at my heart. This seemed hard;
and I could not think it was a right state of things in any civilized
country.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were told, "She _has_ lived here, but she has left."

"How long ago?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Do you know where she went?"

"I do not, sir." And the door was closed.

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

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

"Your arrival was published in the evening papers, sir; and I called to ask
Mrs. Dodge about my friends at home. I didn't suppose it would give any
offence."

"Where's that negro girl, that belongs to my wife?"

"What girl, sir?"

"You know well enough. I mean Linda, that ran away from Dr. Flint's
plantation, some years ago. I dare say you've seen her, and know where she
is."

"Yes, sir, I've seen her, and know where she is. She is out of your reach,
sir."

"Tell me where she is, or bring her to me, and I will give her a chance to
buy her freedom."

"I don't think it would be of any use, sir. I have heard her say she would
go to the ends of the earth, rather than pay any man or woman for her
freedom, because she thinks she has a right to it. Besides, she couldn't do
it, if she would, for she has spent her earnings to educate her children."

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

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

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

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

The next day, baby and I set out in a heavy snow storm, bound for New
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.

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

completion: Free At Last In the final chapter, Harriet wrote of her grandmother, who occasionally dictated letters that were sent to Harriet in New York. One day a letter came which said that Dr. Flint had died, leaving his family in an unhappy financial situation. Harriet was relieved he was dead, but knew that she was not out of danger yet. Mrs. Flint was open in that her daughter could not lose such a valuable slave. Harriet chanced to see the newspaper announcement of the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Dodge in the city one evening, and became frightened. She hurried to tell Mrs. Bruce, who gave her the child again and bade her escape to a friend's house. Several people came to Mrs. Bruce's home to inquire after her, but of course they were told nothing. Mr. Dodge had been a Yankee peddler and was now, through his social-climbing marriage, a slaveholder. He had not gotten along well with Emily Flint's brother, however, and was left no property by Dr. Flint. It was thus important that he procure Harriet. Harriet had a friend, a black man, who agreed to go to Mr. Dodge and pretend to ask about his own family back in town. Mr. Dodge knew what he was up to and threatened him. Mrs. Bruce became nervous and told Harriet she had to leave town, and that her house was being watched. Harriet was frustrated and depressed that she had to keep running; she had been chased for half of her life. However, she and the baby were sent to New England again to keep safe. Mrs. Bruce wrote to Harriet and asked her if she might ask Mr. Dodge if she could buy Harriet. Harriet wrote back that she did not even want to be sold as a piece of property at all anymore; she would rather escape to California to join her brother and son. Mrs. Bruce employed someone to negotiate with Mr. Dodge anyway, however, and he agreed once he realized how much he needed the money. A brief letter from Mrs. Bruce informed Harriet that she was now free, and another man standing near Harriet as she read confirmed that he had seen the bill of sale. Harriet wrote that "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. Although she had not wanted Mrs. Bruce to purchase her freedom, she felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from her shoulders. Harriet writes that she heard of the death of Aunt Marthy not long after that woman rejoiced in her granddaughter's freedom. Uncle Phillip also passed away and was honored with an obituary. Harriet was free but wished she had a home of her own. Duty and love kept her working for Mrs. Bruce, the woman who had risked so much to help a poor bondwoman survive and attain her cherished freedom


prompt:
Chapter: I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood
had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent
and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were
to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On
condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting
himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs.
His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though he several
times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never succeeded. In
complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were
termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we
were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a
piece of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be
demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who was two
years younger than myself--a bright, affectionate child. I had also a great
treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many
respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South Carolina, who, at his
death, left her mother and his three children free, with money to go to St.
Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War;
and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to
different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me;
but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a little girl when she
was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel. I have often heard
her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older she
evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and
mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to take care of
such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable personage in
the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse to
seamstress. She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers
became so famous in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of
obtaining them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked
permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the
household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she
would clothe herself and her children from the profits. Upon these terms,
after working hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight
bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved
profitable; and each year she laid by a little, which was saved for a fund
to purchase her children. Her master died, and the property was divided
among his heirs. The widow had her dower in the hotel which she continued
to keep open. My grandmother remained in her service as a slave; but her
children were divided among her master's children. As she had five,
Benjamin, the youngest one, was sold, in order that each heir might have an
equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little difference in our
ages that he seemed more like my brother than my uncle. He was a bright,
handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the complexion my grandmother
had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Though only ten years old, seven
hundred and twenty dollars were paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow
to my grandmother, but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with
renewed energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase some of her
children. She had laid up three hundred dollars, which her mistress one day
begged as a loan, promising to pay her soon. The reader probably knows that
no promise or writing given to a slave is legally binding; for, according
to Southern laws, a slave, _being_ property, can _hold_ no property. When
my grandmother lent her hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely
to her honor. The honor of a slaveholder to a slave!

To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My brother
Willie and I often received portions of the crackers, cakes, and preserves,
she made to sell; and after we ceased to be children we were indebted to
her for many more important services.

Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood. When
I was six years old, my mother died; and then, for the first time, I
learned, by the talk around me, that I was a slave. My mother's mistress
was the daughter of my grandmother's mistress. She was the foster sister of
my mother; they were both nourished at my grandmother's breast. In fact, my
mother had been weaned at three months old, that the babe of the mistress
might obtain sufficient food. They played together as children; and, when
they became women, my mother was a most faithful servant to her whiter
foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised that her children
should never suffer for any thing; and during her lifetime she kept her
word. They all spoke kindly of my dead mother, who had been a slave merely
in name, but in nature was noble and womanly. I grieved for her, and my
young mind was troubled with the thought who would now take care of me and
my little brother. I was told that my home was now to be with her mistress;
and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable duties were imposed
on me. My mistress was so kind to me that I was always glad to do her
bidding, and proud to labor for her as much as my young years would permit.
I would sit by her side for hours, sewing diligently, with a heart as free
from care as that of any free-born white child. When she thought I was
tired, she would send me out to run and jump; and away I bounded, to gather
berries or flowers to decorate her room. Those were happy days--too happy
to last. The slave child had no thought for the morrow; but there came that
blight, which too surely waits on every human being born to be a chattel.

When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died. As
I saw the cheek grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how earnestly I prayed
in my heart that she might live! I loved her; for she had been almost like
a mother to me. My prayers were not answered. She died, and they buried her
in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears fell upon her
grave.

I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old enough to
begin to think of the future; and again and again I asked myself what they
would do with me. I felt sure I should never find another mistress so kind
as the one who was gone. She had promised my dying mother that her children
should never suffer for any thing; and when I remembered that, and recalled
her many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes
that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it would be so.
They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my mother's love and
faithful service. But, alas! we all know that the memory of a faithful
slave does not avail much to save her children from the auction block.

After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was read, and we
learned that she had bequeathed me to her sister's daughter, a child of
five years old. So vanished our hopes. My mistress had taught me the
precepts of God's Word: "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
"Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them."
But I was her slave, and I suppose she did not recognize me as her
neighbor. I would give much to blot out from my memory that one great
wrong. As a child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the happy days
I spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of
injustice. While I was with her, she taught me to read and spell; and for
this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of a slave, I bless her
memory.

She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all distributed
among her relatives. Five of them were my grandmother's children, and had
shared the same milk that nourished her mother's children. Notwithstanding
my grandmother's long and faithful service to her owners, not one of her
children escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no
more, in the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant, or the
horses they tend.

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

completion: We start out with a happy childhood. Carefree, bunny rabbits, Disneyfied soundtrack, the whole thing. We're thinking it's about to go downhill. Yep, here it comes: the narrator's mom dies, and she's sent to live with and work for her mother's mistress. Oh, okay, whew. The new mistress seems like a nice lady. Now we get a little story about the narrator's grandmother: Grandma was so smart and faithful that her owners treated her very well. They even let her stay up all night after she was done with her chores so she could start her own business, and then pay for her own clothes out of the profit. That's so nice of them! Not. Well, okay, for the time, it actually was pretty nice. Grandma sets aside three hundred dollars from baking, hoping to one day buy her children. One day, the grandmother's mistress asks to borrow the three hundred dollars. The grandmother has evidently never read a single book, ever, because she's like, "Sure! Take all my money. I'm sure you'll pay it back." We suspect that's not going to happen. Back to our narrator. When the narrator is twelve, her mistress dies. She turns out not to be so nice after all, because instead of setting her slaves free she gives them away to her relatives. The narrator now belongs to her mistress's five-year-old niece.


prompt:
Chapter: Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my
mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It was not
without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what added to my
unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased by the same
family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting
business as a skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than
is common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up
under such influences, he daily detested the name of master and mistress.
One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call him at the
same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had
the strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his
mistress. When my father reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me,
and I didn't know which I ought to go to first."

"You are _my_ child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you should
come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water."

Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master.
Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in
the credulous hearts of youth.

When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and
cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I moaned
and wept, I felt so desolate and alone.

I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was
buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her only
child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that I still had
something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, "Come with me,
Linda;" and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened. She led
me apart from the people, and then said, "My child, your father is dead."
Dead! How could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not even heard
that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart rebelled
against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and friend.
The good grandmother tried to comfort me. "Who knows the ways of God?" said
she. "Perhaps they have been kindly taken from the evil days to come."
Years afterwards I often thought of this. She promised to be a mother to
her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so; and
strengthened by her love, I returned to my master's. I thought I should be
allowed to go to my father's house the next morning; but I was ordered to
go for flowers, that my mistress's house might be decorated for an evening
party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into festoons,
while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared
my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they
thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to feel that they
were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach;
presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters.

The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my
dear mother. There were those who knew my father's worth, and respected his
memory.

My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little
slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about the
joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I tried to
comfort him, by saying, "Take courage, Willie; brighter days will come by
and by."

"You don't know any thing about it, Linda," he replied. "We shall have to
stay here all our days; we shall never be free."

I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we
might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could earn
money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to say than
to do; moreover, he did not intend to _buy_ his freedom. We held daily
controversies upon this subject.

Little attention was paid to the slaves' meals in Dr. Flint's house. If
they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. I gave
myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I passed my
grandmother's house, where there was always something to spare for me. I
was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my
grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something
for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to _her_ for all my comforts,
spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty wardrobe.
I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every
winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery.

While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings,
the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were never repaid. When
her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was appointed executor. When
grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was insolvent,
and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from
retaining the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money.
I presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to
generation.

My grandmother's mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she
should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the promise.
But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old servant
that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be sold.

On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up,
proclaiming that there would be a "public sale of negroes, horses, &c." Dr.
Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to wound her
feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose
of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she
understood very well that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very
spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress
intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know it.
She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and preserves;
consequently, "Aunt Marthy," as she was called, was generally known, and
every body who knew her respected her intelligence and good character. Her
long and faithful service in the family was also well known, and the
intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she
took her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon
the auction-block. Many voices called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going to
sell _you_, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no place for _you_."
Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At
last, a feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It came from a maiden lady,
seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother's deceased mistress. She
had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how
faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been
defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer
waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above
her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was made
out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when she
had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant
her freedom.

At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had
passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had
defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One of
my mother's sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She
was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and
waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of
every thing.

Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She
had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were
so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped,
till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of
the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a
Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that
particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till
it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used
for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking
out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings.
The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them.
Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I
can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour
barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly
what size they ought to be.

Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table without
fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to his liking,
he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to eat every
mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not have
objected to eating it; but she did object to having her master cram it
down her throat till she choked.

They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered
to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was
held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the basin. He died a few
minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had not been well
cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for
the cook, and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman's stomach
was stronger than the dog's; but her sufferings afterwards proved that he
was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her master and
mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing baby, for a
whole day and night.

When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation slaves was
brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night when he arrived,
and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work house, and tied up to the
joist, so that his feet would just escape the ground. In that situation he
was to wait till the doctor had taken his tea. I shall never forget
that night. Never before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows fall;
in succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his "O, pray
don't, massa," rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were many
conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some said master
accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave had quarrelled with his
wife, in presence of the overseer, and had accused his master of being the
father of her child. They were both black, and the child was very fair.

I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet with
blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived, and
continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr. Flint
handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their value
into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of
sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader's hands,
she said. "You _promised_ to treat me well." To which he replied, "You have
let your tongue run too far; damn you!" She had forgotten that it was a
crime for a slave to tell who was the father of her child.

From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once
saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white.
In her agony she cried out, "O Lord, come and take me!" Her mistress stood
by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. "You suffer, do you?" she
exclaimed. "I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too."

The girl's mother said, "The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor
child will soon be in heaven, too."

"Heaven!" retorted the mistress. "There is no such place for the like of
her and her bastard."

The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her,
feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, "Don't grieve so,
mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me."

Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt
unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still on
her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had but
the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked God
for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life.

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

completion: The narrator and her brother William move in with their new family, headed by local physician Dr. Flint. They are not immediately made welcome. We finally get the narrator's name, courtesy of her grandmother. It's Linda. More sadness: Linda's dad dies. You'd think she might get the day off, but instead Mrs. Flint orders her to pick flowers to decorate the house. Remember Grandma's mistress, who borrowed all that money? She dies with the debt still outstanding. Grandma goes to the guy who inherited the mistress's estate to ask for the money back, which goes about as well as you'd expect: he basically laughs in her face.


prompt:
Chapter: Dr. Flint owned a fine residence in town, several farms, and about fifty
slaves, besides hiring a number by the year.

Hiring-day at the south takes place on the 1st of January. On the 2d, the
slaves are expected to go to their new masters. On a farm, they work until
the corn and cotton are laid. They then have two holidays. Some masters
give them a good dinner under the trees. This over, they work until
Christmas eve. If no heavy charges are meantime brought against them, they
are given four or five holidays, whichever the master or overseer may think
proper. Then comes New Year's eve; and they gather together their little
alls, or more properly speaking, their little nothings, and wait anxiously
for the dawning of day. At the appointed hour the grounds are thronged with
men, women, and children, waiting, like criminals, to hear their doom
pronounced. The slave is sure to know who is the most humane, or cruel
master, within forty miles of him.

It is easy to find out, on that day, who clothes and feeds his slaves well;
for he is surrounded by a crowd, begging, "Please, massa, hire me this
year. I will work _very_ hard, massa."

If a slave is unwilling to go with his new master, he is whipped, or locked
up in jail, until he consents to go, and promises not to run away during
the year. Should he chance to change his mind, thinking it justifiable to
violate an extorted promise, woe unto him if he is caught! The whip is used
till the blood flows at his feet; and his stiffened limbs are put in
chains, to be dragged in the field for days and days!

If he lives until the next year, perhaps the same man will hire him again,
without even giving him an opportunity of going to the hiring-ground. After
those for hire are disposed of, those for sale are called up.

O, you happy free women, contrast _your_ New Year's day with that of the
poor bond-woman! With you it is a pleasant season, and the light of the day
is blessed. Friendly wishes meet you every where, and gifts are showered
upon you. Even hearts that have been estranged from you soften at this
season, and lips that have been silent echo back, "I wish you a happy New
Year." Children bring their little offerings, and raise their rosy lips for
a caress. They are your own, and no hand but that of death can take them
from you.

But to the slave mother New Year's day comes laden with peculiar sorrows.
She sits on her cold cabin floor, watching the children who may all be torn
from her the next morning; and often does she wish that she and they might
die before the day dawns. She may be an ignorant creature, degraded by the
system that has brutalized her from childhood; but she has a mother's
instincts, and is capable of feeling a mother's agonies.

On one of these sale days, I saw a mother lead seven children to the
auction-block. She knew that _some_ of them would be taken from her; but
they took _all_. The children were sold to a slave-trader, and their mother
was bought by a man in her own town. Before night her children were all
far away. She begged the trader to tell her where he intended to take them;
this he refused to do. How _could_ he, when he knew he would sell them, one
by one, wherever he could command the highest price? I met that mother in
the street, and her wild, haggard face lives to-day in my mind. She wrung
her hands in anguish, and exclaimed, "Gone! All gone! Why _don't_ God kill
me?" I had no words wherewith to comfort her. Instances of this kind are of
daily, yea, of hourly occurrence.

Slaveholders have a method, peculiar to their institution, of getting rid
of _old_ slaves, whose lives have been worn out in their service. I knew an
old woman, who for seventy years faithfully served her master. She had
become almost helpless, from hard labor and disease. Her owners moved to
Alabama, and the old black woman was left to be sold to any body who would
give twenty dollars for her.

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

completion: New Year's Day! Brunches, champagne, and resolutions to finally lose that 10 pounds. Unless you're a slave. In that case, January 1st is the day slaves are sold to new masters. On one "hiring-day," Linda watched a slave mother lose all seven of her children at the auction-block. In case we're not outraged enough, Linda also describes how old slaves are deemed useless since they can no longer work. She knows one slave whose owners abandoned her at the auction-block when she was sick. For twenty dollars, they let anyone take her.


prompt:
Chapter: Two years had passed since I entered Dr. Flint's family, and those years
had brought much of the knowledge that comes from experience, though they
had afforded little opportunity for any other kinds of knowledge.

My grandmother had, as much as possible, been a mother to her orphan
grandchildren. By perseverance and unwearied industry, she was now mistress
of a snug little home, surrounded with the necessaries of life. She would
have been happy could her children have shared them with her. There
remained but three children and two grandchildren, all slaves. Most
earnestly did she strive to make us feel that it was the will of God: that
He had seen fit to place us under such circumstances; and though it seemed
hard, we ought to pray for contentment.

It was a beautiful faith, coming from a mother who could not call her
children her own. But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy, condemned it. We
reasoned that it was much more the will of God that we should be situated
as she was. We longed for a home like hers. There we always found sweet
balsam for our troubles. She was so loving, so sympathizing! She always met
us with a smile, and listened with patience to all our sorrows. She spoke
so hopefully, that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine. There
was a grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things for the
town, and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for us.

But, alas! Even the charms of the old oven failed to reconcile us to our
hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly and gracefully
made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a slave. My brother
William, now twelve years old, had the same aversion to the word master
that he had when he was an urchin of seven years. I was his confidant. He
came to me with all his troubles. I remember one instance in particular. It
was on a lovely spring morning, and when I marked the sunlight dancing here
and there, its beauty seemed to mock my sadness. For my master, whose
restless, craving, vicious nature roved about day and night, seeking whom
to devour, had just left me, with stinging, scorching words; words that
scathed ear and brain like fire. O, how I despised him! I thought how glad
I should be, if some day when he walked the earth, it would open and
swallow him up, and disencumber the world of a plague.

When he told me that I was made for his use, made to obey his command in
_every_ thing; that I was nothing but a slave, whose will must and should
surrender to his, never before had my puny arm felt half so strong.

So deeply was I absorbed in painful reflections afterwards, that I neither
saw nor heard the entrance of any one, till the voice of William sounded
close beside me. "Linda," said he, "what makes you look so sad? I love you.
O, Linda, isn't this a bad world? Every body seems so cross and unhappy. I
wish I had died when poor father did."

I told him that every body was _not_ cross, or unhappy; that those who had
pleasant homes, and kind friends, and who were not afraid to love them,
were happy. But we, who were slave-children, without father or mother,
could not expect to be happy. We must be good; perhaps that would bring us
contentment.

"Yes," he said, "I try to be good; but what's the use? They are all the
time troubling me." Then he proceeded to relate his afternoon's difficulty
with young master Nicholas. It seemed that the brother of master Nicholas
had pleased himself with making up stories about William. Master Nicholas
said he should be flogged, and he would do it. Whereupon he went to work;
but William fought bravely, and the young master, finding he was getting
the better of him, undertook to tie his hands behind him. He failed in that
likewise. By dint of kicking and fisting, William came out of the skirmish
none the worse for a few scratches.

He continued to discourse, on his young master's _meanness_; how he whipped
the _little_ boys, but was a perfect coward when a tussle ensued between
him and white boys of his own size. On such occasions he always took to his
legs. William had other charges to make against him. One was his rubbing up
pennies with quicksilver, and passing them off for quarters of a dollar on
an old man who kept a fruit stall. William was often sent to buy fruit, and
he earnestly inquired of me what he ought to do under such circumstances. I
told him it was certainly wrong to deceive the old man, and that it was his
duty to tell him of the impositions practised by his young master. I
assured him the old man would not be slow to comprehend the whole, and
there the matter would end. William thought it might with the old man, but
not with _him_. He said he did not mind the smart of the whip, but he did
not like the _idea_ of being whipped.

While I advised him to be good and forgiving I was not unconscious of the
beam in my own eye. It was the very knowledge of my own shortcomings that
urged me to retain, if possible, some sparks of my brother's God-given
nature. I had not lived fourteen years in slavery for nothing. I had felt,
seen, and heard enough, to read the characters, and question the motives,
of those around me. The war of my life had begun; and though one of God's
most powerless creatures, I resolved never to be conquered. Alas, for me!

If there was one pure, sunny spot for me, I believed it to be in Benjamin's
heart, and in another's, whom I loved with all the ardor of a girl's first
love. My owner knew of it, and sought in every way to render me miserable.
He did not resort to corporal punishment, but to all the petty, tyrannical
ways that human ingenuity could devise.

I remember the first time I was punished. It was in the month of February.
My grandmother had taken my old shoes, and replaced them with a new pair. I
needed them; for several inches of snow had fallen, and it still continued
to fall. When I walked through Mrs. Flint's room, their creaking grated
harshly on her refined nerves. She called me to her, and asked what I had
about me that made such a horrid noise. I told her it was my new shoes.
"Take them off," said she; "and if you put them on again, I'll throw them
into the fire."

I took them off, and my stockings also. She then sent me a long distance,
on an errand. As I went through the snow, my bare feet tingled. That night
I was very hoarse; and I went to bed thinking the next day would find me
sick, perhaps dead. What was my grief on waking to find myself quite well!

I had imagined if I died, or was laid up for some time, that my mistress
would feel a twinge of remorse that she had so hated "the little imp," as
she styled me. It was my ignorance of that mistress that gave rise to such
extravagant imaginings.

Dr. Flint occasionally had high prices offered for me; but he always said,
"She don't belong to me. She is my daughter's property, and I have no right
to sell her." Good, honest man! My young mistress was still a child, and I
could look for no protection from her. I loved her, and she returned my
affection. I once heard her father allude to her attachment to me, and his
wife promptly replied that it proceeded from fear. This put unpleasant
doubts into my mind. Did the child feign what she did not feel? or was her
mother jealous of the mite of love she bestowed on me? I concluded it must
be the latter. I said to myself, "Surely, little children are true."

One afternoon I sat at my sewing, feeling unusual depression of spirits. My
mistress had been accusing me of an offence, of which I assured her I was
perfectly innocent; but I saw, by the contemptuous curl of her lip, that
she believed I was telling a lie.

I wondered for what wise purpose God was leading me through such thorny
paths, and whether still darker days were in store for me. As I sat musing
thus, the door opened softly, and William came in. "Well, brother," said I,
"what is the matter this time?"

"O Linda, Ben and his master have had a dreadful time!" said he.

My first thought was that Benjamin was killed. "Don't be frightened,
Linda," said William; "I will tell you all about it."

It appeared that Benjamin's master had sent for him, and he did not
immediately obey the summons. When he did, his master was angry, and began
to whip him. He resisted. Master and slave fought, and finally the master
was thrown. Benjamin had cause to tremble; for he had thrown to the ground
his master--one of the richest men in town. I anxiously awaited the
result.

That night I stole to my grandmother's house; and Benjamin also stole
thither from his master's. My grandmother had gone to spend a day or two
with an old friend living in the country.

"I have come," said Benjamin, "to tell you good by. I am going away."

I inquired where.

"To the north," he replied.

I looked at him to see whether he was in earnest. I saw it all in his firm,
set mouth. I implored him not to go, but he paid no heed to my words. He
said he was no longer a boy, and every day made his yoke more galling. He
had raised his hand against his master, and was to be publicly whipped for
the offence. I reminded him of the poverty and hardships he must encounter
among strangers. I told him he might be caught and brought back; and that
was terrible to think of.

He grew vexed, and asked if poverty and hardships with freedom, were not
preferable to our treatment in slavery. "Linda," he continued, "we are dogs
here; foot-balls, cattle, every thing that's mean. No, I will not stay. Let
them bring me back. We don't die but once."

He was right; but it was hard to give him up. "Go," said I, "and break your
mother's heart."

I repented of my words ere they were out.

"Linda," said he, speaking as I had not heard him speak that evening, "how
_could_ you say that? Poor mother! be kind to her, Linda; and you, too,
cousin Fanny."

Cousin Fanny was a friend who had lived some years with us.

Farewells were exchanged, and the bright, kind boy, endeared to us by so
many acts of love, vanished from our sight.

It is not necessary to state how he made his escape. Suffice it to say, he
was on his way to New York when a violent storm overtook the vessel. The
captain said he must put into the nearest port. This alarmed Benjamin, who
was aware that he would be advertised in every port near his own town. His
embarrassment was noticed by the captain. To port they went. There the
advertisement met the captain's eye. Benjamin so exactly answered its
description, that the captain laid hold on him, and bound him in chains.
The storm passed, and they proceeded to New York. Before reaching that port
Benjamin managed to get off his chains and throw them overboard. He escaped
from the vessel, but was pursued, captured, and carried back to his master.

When my grandmother returned home and found her youngest child had fled,
great was her sorrow; but, with characteristic piety, she said, "God's will
be done." Each morning, she inquired if any news had been heard from her
boy. Yes, news _was_ heard. The master was rejoicing over a letter,
announcing the capture of his human chattel.

That day seems but as yesterday, so well do I remember it. I saw him led
through the streets in chains, to jail. His face was ghastly pale, yet full
of determination. He had begged one of the sailors to go to his mother's
house and ask her not to meet him. He said the sight of her distress would
take from him all self-control. She yearned to see him, and she went; but
she screened herself in the crowd, that it might be as her child had said.

We were not allowed to visit him; but we had known the jailer for years,
and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the jail door for my
grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we entered the cell not
a sound broke the stillness. "Benjamin, Benjamin!" whispered my
grandmother. No answer. "Benjamin!" she again faltered. There was a jingle
of chains. The moon had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through the
bars of the window. We knelt down and took Benjamin's cold hands in ours.
We did not speak. Sobs were heard, and Benjamin's lips were unsealed; for
his mother was weeping on his neck. How vividly does memory bring back that
sad night! Mother and son talked together. He asked her pardon for the
suffering he had caused her. She said she had nothing to forgive; she could
not blame his desire for freedom. He told her that when he was captured, he
broke away, and was about casting himself into the river, when thoughts of
_her_ came over him, and he desisted. She asked if he did not also think of
God. I fancied I saw his face grow fierce in the moonlight. He answered,
"No, I did not think of him. When a man is hunted like a wild beast he
forgets there is a God, a heaven. He forgets every thing in his struggle to
get beyond the reach of the bloodhounds."

"Don't talk so, Benjamin," said she. "Put your trust in God. Be humble, my
child, and your master will forgive you."

"Forgive me for _what_, mother? For not letting him treat me like a dog?
No! I will never humble myself to him. I have worked for him for nothing
all my life, and I am repaid with stripes and imprisonment. Here I will
stay till I die, or till he sells me."

The poor mother shuddered at his words. I think he felt it; for when he
next spoke, his voice was calmer. "Don't fret about me, mother. I ain't
worth it," said he. "I wish I had some of your goodness. You bear every
thing patiently, just as though you thought it was all right. I wish I
could."

She told him she had not always been so; once, she was like him; but when
sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm to lean upon, she learned
to call on God, and he lightened her burdens. She besought him to do
likewise.

We overstaid our time, and were obliged to hurry from the jail.

Benjamin had been imprisoned three weeks, when my grandmother went to
intercede for him with his master. He was immovable. He said Benjamin
should serve as an example to the rest of his slaves; he should be kept in
jail till he was subdued, or be sold if he got but one dollar for him.
However, he afterwards relented in some degree. The chains were taken off,
and we were allowed to visit him.

As his food was of the coarsest kind, we carried him as often as possible a
warm supper, accompanied with some little luxury for the jailer.

Three months elapsed, and there was no prospect of release or of a
purchaser. One day he was heard to sing and laugh. This piece of indecorum
was told to his master, and the overseer was ordered to re-chain him. He
was now confined in an apartment with other prisoners, who were covered
with filthy rags. Benjamin was chained near them, and was soon covered with
vermin. He worked at his chains till he succeeded in getting out of them.
He passed them through the bars of the window, with a request that they
should be taken to his master, and he should be informed that he was
covered with vermin.

This audacity was punished with heavier chains, and prohibition of our
visits.

My grandmother continued to send him fresh changes of clothes. The old ones
were burned up. The last night we saw him in jail his mother still begged
him to send for his master, and beg his pardon. Neither persuasion nor
argument could turn him from his purpose. He calmly answered, "I am waiting
his time."

Those chains were mournful to hear.

Another three months passed, and Benjamin left his prison walls. We that
loved him waited to bid him a long and last farewell. A slave trader had
bought him. You remember, I told you what price he brought when ten years
of age. Now he was more than twenty years old, and sold for three hundred
dollars. The master had been blind to his own interest. Long confinement
had made his face too pale, his form too thin; moreover, the trader had
heard something of his character, and it did not strike him as suitable for
a slave. He said he would give any price if the handsome lad was a girl. We
thanked God that he was not.

Could you have seen that mother clinging to her child, when they fastened
the irons upon his wrists; could you have heard her heart-rending groans,
and seen her bloodshot eyes wander wildly from face to face, vainly
pleading for mercy; could you have witnessed that scene as I saw it, you
would exclaim, _Slavery is damnable_! Benjamin, her youngest, her pet, was
forever gone! She could not realize it. She had had an interview with the
trader for the purpose of ascertaining if Benjamin could be purchased. She
was told it was impossible, as he had given bonds not to sell him till he
was out of the state. He promised that he would not sell him till he
reached New Orleans.

With a strong arm and unvaried trust, my grandmother began her work of
love. Benjamin must be free. If she succeeded, she knew they would still be
separated; but the sacrifice was not too great. Day and night she labored.
The trader's price would treble that he gave; but she was not discouraged.

She employed a lawyer to write to a gentleman, whom she knew, in New
Orleans. She begged him to interest himself for Benjamin, and he willingly
favored her request. When he saw Benjamin, and stated his business, he
thanked him; but said he preferred to wait a while before making the trader
an offer. He knew he had tried to obtain a high price for him, and had
invariably failed. This encouraged him to make another effort for freedom.
So one morning, long before day, Benjamin was missing. He was riding over
the blue billows, bound for Baltimore.

For once his white face did him a kindly service. They had no suspicion
that it belonged to a slave; otherwise, the law would have been followed
out to the letter, and the _thing_ rendered back to slavery. The brightest
skies are often overshadowed by the darkest clouds. Benjamin was taken
sick, and compelled to remain in Baltimore three weeks. His strength was
slow in returning; and his desire to continue his journey seemed to retard
his recovery. How could he get strength without air and exercise? He
resolved to venture on a short walk. A by-street was selected, where he
thought himself secure of not being met by any one that knew him; but a
voice called out, "Halloo, Ben, my boy! what are you doing _here_!"

His first impulse was to run; but his legs trembled so that he could not
stir. He turned to confront his antagonist, and behold, there stood his old
master's next door neighbor! He thought it was all over with him now; but
it proved otherwise. That man was a miracle. He possessed a goodly number
of slaves, and yet was not quite deaf to that mystic clock, whose ticking
is rarely heard in the slaveholder's breast.

"Ben, you are sick," said he. "Why, you look like a ghost. I guess I gave
you something of a start. Never mind, Ben, I am not going to touch you. You
had a pretty tough time of it, and you may go on your way rejoicing for all
me. But I would advise you to get out of this place plaguy quick, for there
are several gentlemen here from our town." He described the nearest and
safest route to New York, and added, "I shall be glad to tell your mother I
have seen you. Good by, Ben."

Benjamin turned away, filled with gratitude, and surprised that the town he
hated contained such a gem--a gem worthy of a purer setting.

This gentleman was a Northerner by birth, and had married a southern lady.
On his return, he told my grandmother that he had seen her son, and of the
service he had rendered him.

Benjamin reached New York safely, and concluded to stop there until he had
gained strength enough to proceed further. It happened that my
grandmother's only remaining son had sailed for the same city on business
for his mistress. Through God's providence, the brothers met. You may be
sure it was a happy meeting. "O Phil," exclaimed Benjamin, "I am here at
last." Then he told him how near he came to dying, almost in sight of free
land, and how he prayed that he might live to get one breath of free air.
He said life was worth something now, and it would be hard to die. In the
old jail he had not valued it; once, he was tempted to destroy it; but
something, he did not know what, had prevented him; perhaps it was fear. He
had heard those who profess to be religious declare there was no heaven for
self-murderers; and as his life had been pretty hot here, he did not desire
a continuation of the same in another world. "If I die now," he exclaimed,
"thank God, I shall die a freeman!"

He begged my uncle Phillip not to return south; but stay and work with him,
till they earned enough to buy those at home. His brother told him it would
kill their mother if he deserted her in her trouble. She had pledged her
house, and with difficulty had raised money to buy him. Would he be bought?

"No, never!" he replied. "Do you suppose, Phil, when I have got so far out
of their clutches, I will give them one red cent? No! And do you suppose I
would turn mother out of her home in her old age? That I would let her pay
all those hard-earned dollars for me, and never to see me? For you know she
will stay south as long as her other children are slaves. What a good
mother! Tell her to buy _you_, Phil. You have been a comfort to her, and I
have been a trouble. And Linda, poor Linda; what'll become of her? Phil,
you don't know what a life they lead her. She has told me something about
it, and I wish old Flint was dead, or a better man. When I was in jail, he
asked her if she didn't want _him_ to ask my master to forgive me, and take
me home again. She told him, No; that I didn't want to go back. He got mad,
and said we were all alike. I never despised my own master half as much as
I do that man. There is many a worse slaveholder than my master; but for
all that I would not be his slave."

While Benjamin was sick, he had parted with nearly all his clothes to pay
necessary expenses. But he did not part with a little pin I fastened in his
bosom when we parted. It was the most valuable thing I owned, and I thought
none more worthy to wear it. He had it still.

His brother furnished him with clothes, and gave him what money he had.

They parted with moistened eyes; and as Benjamin turned away, he said,
"Phil, I part with all my kindred." And so it proved. We never heard from
him again.

Uncle Phillip came home; and the first words he uttered when he entered the
house were, "Mother, Ben is free! I have seen him in New York." She stood
looking at him with a bewildered air. "Mother, don't you believe it?" he
said, laying his hand softly upon her shoulder. She raised her hands, and
exclaimed, "God be praised! Let us thank him." She dropped on her knees,
and poured forth her heart in prayer. Then Phillip must sit down and repeat
to her every word Benjamin had said. He told her all; only he forbore to
mention how sick and pale her darling looked. Why should he distress her
when she could do him no good?

The brave old woman still toiled on, hoping to rescue some of her other
children. After a while she succeeded in buying Phillip. She paid eight
hundred dollars, and came home with the precious document that secured his
freedom. The happy mother and son sat together by the old hearthstone that
night, telling how proud they were of each other, and how they would prove
to the world that they could take care of themselves, as they had long
taken care of others. We all concluded by saying, "He that is _willing_ to
be a slave, let him be a slave."

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

completion: Linda is fourteen now, and life has... not improved. In fact, you might say it's gotten worse. Take this fun little incident: One day in the middle of winter, Mrs. Flint sees Linda walking around in a new pair of shoes her grandmother has given her. Something about the way these shoes sound really drives Mrs. Flint crazy. She forces Linda to take the shoes off and threatens to burn them if she sees them again. And then, she sends Linda on an errand. Barefoot. In the snow. Something else that happens around this time: Linda's uncle Benjamin fights with his master and runs away. He tells Linda he's running away to the North. Benjamin heads to New York on a boat, but they have to head back to shore when a big storm hits. At port, the captain sees a runaway ad for Ben and chains him up. Benjamin manages to escape again briefly, but soon ends up back with his master. His master throws him in jail, where Linda and her grandmother visit him. He stays in jail for six months until a slave trader buys him. Once they reach New Orleans, Benjamin manages to escape again. This escape goes better than the last one, and Benjamin ends up in New York. One day, he's surprised to run into his brother, Phillip, on the streets of New York. Aunt Martha has raised the money to start buying her children out of slavery, and Phillip is planning to head back South so he can become legally free. He wants Benjamin to join him. Benjamin doesn't like this plan one bit. He's against the whole idea of being bought, plus he doesn't want Aunt Martha to spend all that money. Phillip returns South. Aunt Martha buys him for eight hundred dollars, and he's now a free man.


prompt:
Chapter: During the first years of my service in Dr. Flint's family, I was
accustomed to share some indulgences with the children of my mistress.
Though this seemed to me no more than right, I was grateful for it, and
tried to merit the kindness by the faithful discharge of my duties. But I
now entered on my fifteenth year--a sad epoch in the life of a slave girl.
My master began to whisper foul words in my ear. Young as I was, I could
not remain ignorant of their import. I tried to treat them with
indifference or contempt. The master's age, my extreme youth, and the fear
that his conduct would be reported to my grandmother, made him bear this
treatment for many months. He was a crafty man, and resorted to many means
to accomplish his purposes. Sometimes he had stormy, terrific ways, that
made his victims tremble; sometimes he assumed a gentleness that he thought
must surely subdue. Of the two, I preferred his stormy moods, although they
left me trembling. He tried his utmost to corrupt the pure principles my
grandmother had instilled. He peopled my young mind with unclean images,
such as only a vile monster could think of. I turned from him with disgust
and hatred. But he was my master. I was compelled to live under the same
roof with him--where I saw a man forty years my senior daily violating the
most sacred commandments of nature. He told me I was his property; that I
must be subject to his will in all things. My soul revolted against the
mean tyranny. But where could I turn for protection? No matter whether the
slave girl be as black as ebony or as fair as her mistress. In either case,
there is no shadow of law to protect her from insult, from violence, or
even from death; all these are inflicted by fiends who bear the shape of
men. The mistress, who ought to protect the helpless victim, has no other
feelings towards her but those of jealousy and rage. The degradation, the
wrongs, the vices, that grow out of slavery, are more than I can describe.
They are greater than you would willingly believe. Surely, if you credited
one half the truths that are told you concerning the helpless millions
suffering in this cruel bondage, you at the north would not help to tighten
the yoke. You surely would refuse to do for the master, on your own soil,
the mean and cruel work which trained bloodhounds and the lowest class of
whites do for him at the south.

Every where the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but in slavery
the very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows. Even the little child,
who is accustomed to wait on her mistress and her children, will learn,
before she is twelve years old, why it is that her mistress hates such and
such a one among the slaves. Perhaps the child's own mother is among those
hated ones. She listens to violent outbreaks of jealous passion, and cannot
help understanding what is the cause. She will become prematurely knowing
in evil things. Soon she will learn to tremble when she hears her master's
footfall. She will be compelled to realize that she is no longer a child.
If God has bestowed beauty upon her, it will prove her greatest curse. That
which commands admiration in the white woman only hastens the degradation
of the female slave. I know that some are too much brutalized by slavery to
feel the humiliation of their position; but many slaves feel it most
acutely, and shrink from the memory of it. I cannot tell how much I
suffered in the presence of these wrongs, nor how I am still pained by the
retrospect. My master met me at every turn, reminding me that I belonged to
him, and swearing by heaven and earth that he would compel me to submit to
him. If I went out for a breath of fresh air, after a day of unwearied
toil, his footsteps dogged me. If I knelt by my mother's grave, his dark
shadow fell on me even there. The light heart which nature had given me
became heavy with sad forebodings. The other slaves in my master's house
noticed the change. Many of them pitied me; but none dared to ask the
cause. They had no need to inquire. They knew too well the guilty practices
under that roof; and they were aware that to speak of them was an offence
that never went unpunished.

I longed for some one to confide in. I would have given the world to have
laid my head on my grandmother's faithful bosom, and told her all my
troubles. But Dr. Flint swore he would kill me, if I was not as silent as
the grave. Then, although my grandmother was all in all to me, I feared her
as well as loved her. I had been accustomed to look up to her with a
respect bordering upon awe. I was very young, and felt shamefaced about
telling her such impure things, especially as I knew her to be very strict
on such subjects. Moreover, she was a woman of a high spirit. She was
usually very quiet in her demeanor; but if her indignation was once
roused, it was not very easily quelled. I had been told that she once
chased a white gentleman with a loaded pistol, because he insulted one
of her daughters. I dreaded the consequences of a violent outbreak;
and both pride and fear kept me silent. But though I did not confide
in my grandmother, and even evaded her vigilant watchfulness and inquiry,
her presence in the neighborhood was some protection to me. Though she
had been a slave, Dr. Flint was afraid of her. He dreaded her scorching
rebukes. Moreover, she was known and patronized by many people; and he
did not wish to have his villany made public. It was lucky for me that
I did not live on a distant plantation, but in a town not so large that
the inhabitants were ignorant of each other's affairs. Bad as are the
laws and customs in a slaveholding community, the doctor, as a
professional man, deemed it prudent to keep up some outward show of
decency.

O, what days and nights of fear and sorrow that man caused me! Reader, it
is not to awaken sympathy for myself that I am telling you truthfully what
I suffered in slavery. I do it to kindle a flame of compassion in your
hearts for my sisters who are still in bondage, suffering as I once
suffered.

I once saw two beautiful children playing together. One was a fair white
child; the other was her slave, and also her sister. When I saw them
embracing each other, and heard their joyous laughter, I turned sadly away
from the lovely sight. I foresaw the inevitable blight that would fall on
the little slave's heart. I knew how soon her laughter would be changed to
sighs. The fair child grew up to be a still fairer woman. From childhood to
womanhood her pathway was blooming with flowers, and overarched by a sunny
sky. Scarcely one day of her life had been clouded when the sun rose on her
happy bridal morning.

How had those years dealt with her slave sister, the little playmate of her
childhood? She, also, was very beautiful; but the flowers and sunshine of
love were not for her. She drank the cup of sin, and shame, and misery,
whereof her persecuted race are compelled to drink.

In view of these things, why are ye silent, ye free men and women of the
north? Why do your tongues falter in maintenance of the right? Would that I
had more ability! But my heart is so full, and my pen is so weak! There are
noble men and women who plead for us, striving to help those who cannot
help themselves. God bless them! God give them strength and courage to go
on! God bless those, every where, who are laboring to advance the cause of
humanity!

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

completion: New year, new troubles. Now that Linda is fifteen, Mr. Flint is getting ideas. He whispers dirty suggestions in her ear and threatens to kill her if she tells anyone. It's the end of innocence. Here's a little anecdote to illustrate how different Linda's life is from that of a white teenager: She once saw two young girls playing together, one a free white child and the other a black slave. The girls seem like BFFs right now, but not for long. The white child will grow up free and protected, while the slave girl will only know sin and misery. Linda asks a pointed question: knowing all this, why are Northern men and women so silent on the question of slavery?


prompt:
Chapter: I would ten thousand times rather that my children should be the
half-starved paupers of Ireland than to be the most pampered among the
slaves of America. I would rather drudge out my life on a cotton
plantation, till the grave opened to give me rest, than to live with an
unprincipled master and a jealous mistress. The felon's home in a
penitentiary is preferable. He may repent, and turn from the error of his
ways, and so find peace; but it is not so with a favorite slave. She is not
allowed to have any pride of character. It is deemed a crime in her to wish
to be virtuous.

Mrs. Flint possessed the key to her husband's character before I was born.
She might have used this knowledge to counsel and to screen the young and
the innocent among her slaves; but for them she had no sympathy. They were
the objects of her constant suspicion and malevolence. She watched her
husband with unceasing vigilance; but he was well practised in means to
evade it. What he could not find opportunity to say in words he manifested
in signs. He invented more than were ever thought of in a deaf and dumb
asylum. I let them pass, as if I did not understand what he meant; and many
were the curses and threats bestowed on me for my stupidity. One day he
caught me teaching myself to write. He frowned, as if he was not well
pleased; but I suppose he came to the conclusion that such an
accomplishment might help to advance his favorite scheme. Before long,
notes were often slipped into my hand. I would return them, saying, "I
can't read them, sir." "Can't you?" he replied; "then I must read them to
you." He always finished the reading by asking, "Do you understand?"
Sometimes he would complain of the heat of the tea room, and order his
supper to be placed on a small table in the piazza. He would seat himself
there with a well-satisfied smile, and tell me to stand by and brush away
the flies. He would eat very slowly, pausing between the mouthfuls. These
intervals were employed in describing the happiness I was so foolishly
throwing away, and in threatening me with the penalty that finally awaited
my stubborn disobedience. He boasted much of the forbearance he had
exercised towards me, and reminded me that there was a limit to his
patience. When I succeeded in avoiding opportunities for him to talk to me
at home, I was ordered to come to his office, to do some errand. When
there, I was obliged to stand and listen to such language as he saw fit to
address to me. Sometimes I so openly expressed my contempt for him that he
would become violently enraged, and I wondered why he did not strike me.
Circumstanced as he was, he probably thought it was better policy to be
forebearing. But the state of things grew worse and worse daily. In
desperation I told him that I must and would apply to my grandmother for
protection. He threatened me with death, and worse than death, if I made
any complaint to her. Strange to say, I did not despair. I was naturally of
a buoyant disposition, and always I had a hope of somehow getting out of
his clutches. Like many a poor, simple slave before me, I trusted that some
threads of joy would yet be woven into my dark destiny.

I had entered my sixteenth year, and every day it became more apparent that
my presence was intolerable to Mrs. Flint. Angry words frequently passed
between her and her husband. He had never punished me himself, and he would
not allow any body else to punish me. In that respect, she was never
satisfied; but, in her angry moods, no terms were too vile for her to
bestow upon me. Yet I, whom she detested so bitterly, had far more pity for
her than he had, whose duty it was to make her life happy. I never wronged
her, or wished to wrong her, and one word of kindness from her would have
brought me to her feet.

After repeated quarrels between the doctor and his wife, he announced his
intention to take his youngest daughter, then four years old, to sleep in
his apartment. It was necessary that a servant should sleep in the same
room, to be on hand if the child stirred. I was selected for that office,
and informed for what purpose that arrangement had been made. By managing
to keep within sight of people, as much as possible, during the day time, I
had hitherto succeeded in eluding my master, though a razor was often held
to my throat to force me to change this line of policy. At night I slept by
the side of my great aunt, where I felt safe. He was too prudent to come
into her room. She was an old woman, and had been in the family many years.
Moreover, as a married man, and a professional man, he deemed it necessary
to save appearances in some degree. But he resolved to remove the obstacle
in the way of his scheme; and he thought he had planned it so that he
should evade suspicion. He was well aware how much I prized my refuge by
the side of my old aunt, and he determined to dispossess me of it. The
first night the doctor had the little child in his room alone. The next
morning, I was ordered to take my station as nurse the following night. A
kind Providence interposed in my favor. During the day Mrs. Flint heard of
this new arrangement, and a storm followed. I rejoiced to hear it rage.

After a while my mistress sent for me to come to her room. Her first
question was, "Did you know you were to sleep in the doctor's room?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Who told you?"

"My master."

"Will you answer truly all the questions I ask?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Tell me, then, as you hope to be forgiven, are you innocent of what I have
accused you?"

"I am."

She handed me a Bible, and said, "Lay your hand on your heart, kiss this
holy book, and swear before God that you tell me the truth."

I took the oath she required, and I did it with a clear conscience.

"You have taken God's holy word to testify your innocence," said she. "If
you have deceived me, beware! Now take this stool, sit down, look me
directly in the face, and tell me all that has passed between your master
and you."

I did as she ordered. As I went on with my account her color changed
frequently, she wept, and sometimes groaned. She spoke in tones so sad,
that I was touched by her grief. The tears came to my eyes; but I was soon
convinced that her emotions arose from anger and wounded pride. She felt
that her marriage vows were desecrated, her dignity insulted; but she had
no compassion for the poor victim of her husband's perfidy. She pitied
herself as a martyr; but she was incapable of feeling for the condition of
shame and misery in which her unfortunate, helpless slave was placed. Yet
perhaps she had some touch of feeling for me; for when the conference was
ended, she spoke kindly, and promised to protect me. I should have been
much comforted by this assurance if I could have had confidence in it; but
my experiences in slavery had filled me with distrust. She was not a very
refined woman, and had not much control over her passions. I was an object
of her jealousy, and, consequently, of her hatred; and I knew I could not
expect kindness or confidence from her under the circumstances in which I
was placed. I could not blame her. Slaveholders' wives feel as other women
would under similar circumstances. The fire of her temper kindled from
small-sparks, and now the flame became so intense that the doctor was
obliged to give up his intended arrangement.

I knew I had ignited the torch, and I expected to suffer for it afterwards;
but I felt too thankful to my mistress for the timely aid she rendered me
to care much about that. She now took me to sleep in a room adjoining her
own. There I was an object of her especial care, though not to her especial
comfort, for she spent many a sleepless night to watch over me. Sometimes I
woke up, and found her bending over me. At other times she whispered in my
ear, as though it was her husband who was speaking to me, and listened to
hear what I would answer. If she startled me, on such occasions, she would
glide stealthily away; and the next morning she would tell me I had been
talking in my sleep, and ask who I was talking to. At last, I began to be
fearful for my life. It had been often threatened; and you can imagine,
better than I can describe, what an unpleasant sensation it must produce to
wake up in the dead of night and find a jealous woman bending over you.
Terrible as this experience was, I had fears that it would give place to
one more terrible.

My mistress grew weary of her vigils; they did not prove satisfactory. She
changed her tactics. She now tried the trick of accusing my master of
crime, in my presence, and gave my name as the author of the accusation. To
my utter astonishment, he replied, "I don't believe it; but if she did
acknowledge it, you tortured her into exposing me." Tortured into exposing
him! Truly, Satan had no difficulty in distinguishing the color of his
soul! I understood his object in making this false representation. It was
to show me that I gained nothing by seeking the protection of my mistress;
that the power was still all in his own hands. I pitied Mrs. Flint. She was
a second wife, many years the junior of her husband; and the hoary-headed
miscreant was enough to try the patience of a wiser and better woman. She
was completely foiled, and knew not how to proceed. She would gladly have
had me flogged for my supposed false oath; but, as I have already stated,
the doctor never allowed any one to whip me. The old sinner was politic.
The application of the lash might have led to remarks that would have
exposed him in the eyes of his children and grandchildren. How often did I
rejoice that I lived in a town where all the inhabitants knew each other!
If I had been on a remote plantation, or lost among the multitude of a
crowded city, I should not be a living woman at this day.

The secrets of slavery are concealed like those of the Inquisition. My
master was, to my knowledge, the father of eleven slaves. But did the
mothers dare to tell who was the father of their children? Did the other
slaves dare to allude to it, except in whispers among themselves? No,
indeed! They knew too well the terrible consequences.

My grandmother could not avoid seeing things which excited her suspicions.
She was uneasy about me, and tried various ways to buy me; but the
never-changing answer was always repeated: "Linda does not belong to _me_.
She is my daughter's property, and I have no legal right to sell her." The
conscientious man! He was too scrupulous to _sell_ me; but he had no
scruples whatever about committing a much greater wrong against the
helpless young girl placed under his guardianship, as his daughter's
property. Sometimes my persecutor would ask me whether I would like to be
sold. I told him I would rather be sold to any body than to lead such a
life as I did. On such occasions he would assume the air of a very injured
individual, and reproach me for my ingratitude. "Did I not take you into
the house, and make you the companion of my own children?" he would say.
"Have _I_ ever treated you like a negro? I have never allowed you to be
punished, not even to please your mistress. And this is the recompense I
get, you ungrateful girl!" I answered that he had reasons of his own for
screening me from punishment, and that the course he pursued made my
mistress hate me and persecute me. If I wept, he would say, "Poor child!
Don't cry! don't cry! I will make peace for you with your mistress. Only
let me arrange matters in my own way. Poor, foolish girl! you don't know
what is for your own good. I would cherish you. I would make a lady of you.
Now go, and think of all I have promised you."

I did think of it.

Reader, I draw no imaginary pictures of southern homes. I am telling you
the plain truth. Yet when victims make their escape from the wild beast of
Slavery, northerners consent to act the part of bloodhounds, and hunt the
poor fugitive back into his den, "full of dead men's bones, and all
uncleanness." Nay, more, they are not only willing, but proud, to give
their daughters in marriage to slaveholders. The poor girls have romantic
notions of a sunny clime, and of the flowering vines that all the year
round shade a happy home. To what disappointments are they destined! The
young wife soon learns that the husband in whose hands she has placed her
happiness pays no regard to his marriage vows. Children of every shade of
complexion play with her own fair babies, and too well she knows that they
are born unto him of his own household. Jealousy and hatred enter the
flowery home, and it is ravaged of its loveliness.

Southern women often marry a man knowing that he is the father of many
little slaves. They do not trouble themselves about it. They regard such
children as property, as marketable as the pigs on the plantation; and it
is seldom that they do not make them aware of this by passing them into the
slave-trader's hands as soon as possible, and thus getting them out of
their sight. I am glad to say there are some honorable exceptions.

I have myself known two southern wives who exhorted their husbands to free
those slaves towards whom they stood in a "parental relation;" and their
request was granted. These husbands blushed before the superior nobleness
of their wives' natures. Though they had only counselled them to do that
which it was their duty to do, it commanded their respect, and rendered
their conduct more exemplary. Concealment was at an end, and confidence
took the place of distrust.

Though this bad institution deadens the moral sense, even in white women,
to a fearful extent, it is not altogether extinct. I have heard southern
ladies say of Mr. Such a one, "He not only thinks it no disgrace to be the
father of those little niggers, but he is not ashamed to call himself their
master. I declare, such things ought not to be tolerated in any decent
society!"

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

completion: Dr. Flint figures out that Linda can read. Sweet! Now he can write her letters demanding sex. Mrs. Flint realizes that something's up and isn't too happy about it. She argues with Dr. Flint. A lot. Dr. Flint ups the intrigue by insisting that his four-year-old daughter sleep in his room at night. How is this going to help him get Linda into his bed? Well, obvs she has to sleep in there, too, since it's not like he's going to get up at night to tend to the little girl. Mrs. Flint finally asks Linda straight out if there's anything hinky going on with her and the Dr. Linda spills about everything--the harassment, the demands, the creepy letters--and Mrs. Flint makes her sleep in a room nearby so she can keep an eye on things. This doesn't really make her any less jealous, though, and Linda is a little worried that Mrs. Flint is going to snap one day and kill her. By the way? Dr. Flint has eleven children with slave women, but no one thinks it's a big deal. Everyone does it. It's a win-win for the masters: sex and, if you're lucky, a new little piece of property as a bonus. Ew. So much ew.