As we were informed they had no plums for sale, Mary proposed filling our "buckets" with blackberries, as there were an abundance within a short distance, and asked Jane if she or Nan could not go and show us the way. "I'll go an' ask Missus Agnes," replied Nan, who soon returned with the word that Jane might go, as she wanted to make another batch of jam. "But she says we must get dinner for Mary and her aunt first." A small tablecloth was placed over one end of the table, and wheat bread, butter, honey, and a cream-pitcher of sweet milk was brought down for us. Not a child of the nine little ones playing in the kitchen asked for a taste of anything during or after our meal. All that was left was taken up stairs, and we were invited to call on Mrs. Agnes, who received us cordially. She was teaching Jane's oldest daughter, of seven years, to sew. After a few minutes chat with the mistress, we left for blackberries.

When out of sight, I told Jane I was the one who wrote a letter for her husband, Felix White, to her, and directed it to Samuel Barkshire, who told me he read it to her, but did not dare take it from his house, but took the braid of his hair tied with blue ribbon, sent in the letter. She looked at me in amazement for a moment, when she burst into a flood of tears. As soon as she could command her feelings she said her master had told her that he had heard from Felix, and that he was married again, and was riding around with his new wife mighty happy. When I gave her the errand from her husband she was again convulsed with weeping. Said she, "I would gladly work day and night, until my fingers and toes are without a nail, and willingly see my children work in the same way, could we only be with Felix." Poor heartbroken woman, she sighed like a sobbing child. But two of her children were out a few miles with one of the Stevens married children, to be gone two months, and she sent a request to her husband to come on the sly to assist in bringing their children away after the return of the absent ones, so that all might go together. I assisted her in picking berries, as she had spent so much of her time in talking and weeping her mistress might complain. I gave her a little memento from her husband, and left the poor heartstricken, crushed spirit.

The daughter and grandchildren of the master withheld them from going to their natural protector, yet he was called one of the best of slave-holders. Here was a woman and sister whose widowhood was more desolate than even death had made my own. And her poor children were worse than fatherless. I returned to my home and anxious children and friends.

But the grieved husband felt confident his intimate friend William Allen, who would have left for freedom long ago but for his wife and child, would assist Jane and the children could he know from him how many warm friends there were in the North to assist them. His friends, as well as himself, were anxious to make another trial without the risk of his going into the lion's den. Means being provided, three mouths later found me again in Rising Sun. After a little waiting to see William Allen, I took a boat and went four miles below on the Kentucky side, and called at the house of his master to wait for a boat going up the river within a few hours.

As they were having a great excitement over counterfeiters, and were making great efforts to find the rogues, and looking upon every stranger with suspicion, I was believed by my host to be one of them in disguise. Within an hour after my arrival the sheriff and a deputy were brought into an adjoining room. The lady of the house appeared excited. Her little girl inquired who those strange gentlemen were; she replied the sheriff and his deputy. I looked up from the paper I was busily reading, and entered into conversation with the lady of the house, when I overhead one man say, "I don't think there is anything wrong about that woman." This remark led me to suppose I might be the object of the undertone conversation among the gentlemen in the adjoining room. Soon after the three gentlemen came into the room, with whom I passed the usual "good afternoon." One, whom I took to be the sheriff, made a few remarks over fine weather, etc., and all three returned to their room. Said one, in a low voice, "I tell you that woman is all right; she's no counterfeiter." My excited hostess became calm, and quite social, and made excuses for having to look after the cooking of her turkey, as she allowed her cook to spend this Sabbath with her husband in visiting one of their friends. "And I always burn and blister my hands whenever I make an attempt at cooking. But my cook is so faithful I thought I would let her go today."

As I gave up the idea of seeing William Allen, I was about to go to the wharf-boat and wait there for the five o'clock boat. But she urged me to take dinner with them, as I would have plenty of time. After dinner they directed me across a pasture-field that would shorten the half-mile. Just out of sight of the house I met William Allen, with his wife and little girl of ten years. As they were so well described by John—or Felix, as he was here known—I recognized them, and gave the message from their friend, from whom they rejoiced to hear. He said he longed to be free, and thought two weeks from that day he could go over to Samuel Barkshire's to see me. During this time he would deliver the message to Jane. At present, he said, it would be very difficult crossing, as there was great excitement over men that passed a lot of counterfeit money in that neighborhood, and they were watching for them. I told him it was not safe for us to talk longer there, as they were slaves, and I was not free to be seen talking with them, and gave them the parting hand, informing them that many prayers of Christian people of the North were daily ascending for the deliverance of the slave. "May God grant the answer!" was the heartfelt reply.

During the two weeks Mary Scott was introduced, who had recently bought herself, with her free husband's aid. She related to me the sad condition of her sister, Rachel Beach, who was the slave of Mr. Ray, the brother of Wright Ray, of Madison, Indiana, the noted negro catcher. She was the kept mistress of her master, who held her and her five children, who were his own flesh and blood, as his property. After her sister Rachel's religious experience, she was much distressed over the life she was compelled to lead with her master. She had often wept with her weeping sister. When she thought of escaping, she could not leave her five little children to her own sad fate. As I was informed that Mary Scott was a reliable Christian woman, I gave her a plan, and names of persons and places of safety, with a charge not to stop over the second night—if possible, to avoid it—at the first place named; for it was too near her master's brother, Wright Ray, as he would make great efforts to retake them.

This plan was adopted. But they were kept two days at Luther Donald's station, which brought them into great difficulty. He was so well known as the slave's friend it was unsafe to secrete fugitives on his own premises; and he placed them in an out-house of one of his friends. On the second night of their flight, when they were to be taken to the next station, Wright Ray was on their track, and entered the neighborhood at dark twilight, filling it with excitement on the part of both friends and foes. The cry of a child brought a neighbor to their hiding-place, who told her she was unsafe; but he would take her and the children to his barn, where they would be perfectly secure. Soon after her new friend left her she felt in great danger, and when her children were asleep in their bed of stalls she ventured to place herself by the road-side. Here she heard horses coming, and listened to hear the voice of their riders, to see if she could recognize her first friends, as they had told her they were going to take them to another place of safety that night; but, to her grief, she heard the voice of Wright Ray, with his posse. Filled with fear of capture, she groped her way still farther back in the dark. After her pursuers passed she heard two men coming, in low conversation. She prayed for direction, and felt impressed, as she said, to tell these men her trouble. They proved to be her friends, who missed them as they went to take their suppers. As Ray and his company were known to be in town, they knew not but they were captured. Runners were sent to the usual resorts of slave-hunters, to see if any clew could be learned of the fate of the missing family.

"O, how I prayed God to deliver me in this my great distress!" she said, in relating her flight in my interview with her in Canada. She led her two friends to the barn, from whence her sleeping children were removed; but by the time they reached the road they saw the lantern, and heard rustling of stalks by her pursuers. As her new friend was a well-known friend to slave-hunters, she and her children were still in great danger. She was dressed in men's clothing, and her girls dressed like boys, and they were taken out in different directions. Rachel and the youngest child her guide took to a Quaker neighborhood, while two men took each two girls on their horses and took different roads to other places of safety; but no two of the three parties knew of the others' destination. Two days of distressing anxiety were passed before a word reached the mother from her children. Not knowing but they were back to their old Kentucky home, she could neither eat nor sleep for weeping and praying over the probable loss of her children. But her joy could not find expression when two of them were brought to her. At first sight of her darlings, she cried out, "Glory to God! he has sent me two more. But where, O, where are the other two?" The two men who brought these in their close carriage could give no tidings, as they had heard nothing from them since leaving Donald Station. Rachel continued weeping for her children because they were not. On the following day they were heard from, and that they would be brought on the following day, P. M.

A number of the neighbors were invited to witness the meeting. Among them was a strong pro-slavery man and his family, who had often said the abolitionists might as well come to his barn and steal his horse or wheat as to keep slave-holders out of their slave property; yet he was naturally a sympathetic man. This Quaker abolitionist knew it would do him good to witness the anticipated scene. The knowledge of the prospective arrival of the children was carefully kept from the mother until she saw them, coming through the gate, when she cried aloud, as she sank on the floor, "Glory; hallelujah to the Lamb! You sent me all." She sobbed as she clasped them to her bosom, continuing, in an ecstasy, "Bless the Lord forever! He is so good to poor me." The little girls threw their arms around their mother's neck, and burst into a loud cry for joy. "But the weeping was not confined to them," said our Quaker sister, who was present. "There was not a dry eye in that house; and our pro-slavery neighbor cried as hard as any of us."

After the excitement died away a little, said one, "Now, we must adopt a plan to take this family on to Canada."

The pro-slavery man was the first to say, "I'll take my team, and take them where they'll be safe, if I have to take them all the way."

Another said, "It is cold weather, and we see these children have bare feet; and we must see about getting them stockings and shoes and warm clothing."

And the little daughter of him who had so generously offered his services in aiding this family beyond the reach, of danger sat down on the carpet and commenced taking off hers, saying, "She can have mine."

"But, Lotty, what will you do?" said the mother.

"O, papa can get me some more."

"Yes, papa will get you some more," said her father, wiping his eyes; "and your shoes and stockings will just fit that little girl." And the mother could hardly keep her from leaving them. But she told her to wear them home and put others on, then bring them back.

Said our informant, "I will warrant that man will hereafter become a stockholder."

But the rescue of the Beach family cost Luther Donald his farm. He was sued and found guilty of harboring runaway slaves and assisting them to escape. But not one sentence of truthful evidence was brought against him in court; although he did aid the Beach family when a stay of three minutes longer in their dangerous hiding-place would have secured their return to a life of degradation. Friends of the fugitive made up the loss in part, and the God of the oppressed blessed him still more abundantly. He was diligent in business, serving the Lord.

While rejoicing over the safe arrival of the Beach family in Canada, heavy tidings reached me from home. In a letter I was informed of the illness of my eldest son. Before the boat arrived that was to bear me homeward a second letter came with the sad intelligence of the death of my first-born. Oh, how my poor heart was wrung with anxiety to learn the state of his mind as he left the shores of time. Why did not the writer relieve me by giving the information I most needed? And yet I was advised to remain until the weather became more mild. I had a severe cough that followed an attack of pneumonia, and physicians had advised me to spend the Winter in a milder climate. But this bereavement seemed impelling me to return to my afflicted children. But more than all other considerations was to learn the state of that dear child's mind as he was about leaving the land of the dying for the spirit world of the living. He had been a living Christian, but during the year past had become more inactive, and in a conversation on the subject a few days previous to my leaving, he expressed regrets in not being more faithful. He urged me to take this trip, yet I could not but regret leaving home. "Oh my son, my son Harvey would to God I had died for thee!" In this distress, bordering upon agony of soul, I walked my room to and fro, praying for an evidence of his condition. In the conversation above alluded to he expressed a sincere desire to return.

Said he, "I am too much like the prodigal, too far away from my Savior." How vividly did his words come before me! Oh, how these words ran through my mind in this hour of sore trial. Is this the Isaac, I dwelt upon as I was leaving my home, that I may be called to sacrifice? I had in mind my son Daniel, who was fearful I would meet trouble from slave-holders, as he remarked to his brother Harvey, "Mother is a stranger to fear, though she might be in great danger."

"That fact, seems to me, secures her safety," replied Harvey.

As I overheard this conversation I shrank from the trial of leaving my home circle, in which death had made such inroads, and for the time being doubted whether I was called upon to make the sacrifice. But prayer was now constant for an evidence of my son's condition, whether prepared for exchange of worlds. He who spake peace to the troubled sea granted the answer of peace, with an assurance that my prayer was answered, and that in his own good time he would make it manifest.

I took the boat for Cincinnati, and on the morning after my arrival at the home of my valued friends, Levi Coffin and wife, I awoke with a comforting dream, which but for the circumstances I would not record. I find in the written Word of divine truth that God, at sundry times, made himself known to his faithful servants in dreams. And he is the same in all ages, in answering their petitions and meeting their wants. In the dream I thought I was living in the basement of a beautiful mansion. Being rather dark, damp, and cool, I looked for some means of warming my apartments, when I discovered the windows conveyed beautiful rays of sunlight sufficient to dry and warm apartments designed for only a temporary residence, as my future home was to be in the splendid apartments above, which I was not to be permitted to enter until the work assigned me in the basement was done. While busily engaged in sweeping my room, and arranging my work, I saw my son Harvey, descending from the upper portion of this limitless mansion, which I thought was now his home. I hastened to the door to meet him. As the thought struck me that he had been a slave, I cried out, "My son Harvey, art thou free?"

"Oh yes, mother, I am free; and I knew your anxiety, and I came on purpose to tell you that I went to my Master and asked if he would grant my pardon? And he looked upon me and saw me in my blood as I plowed in the field, and he said I should be free and live."

"Oh, what a relief is this glad news," I replied.

"I knew you desired me to go for my freedom long ago, but I did not know that my liberty would be so easily granted—just for asking. I am now free, indeed."

This message delivered, he ascended to his glorious home above. I awoke with the words of this message as clearly impressed upon my mind as if vocally spoken. I opened the Bible at the head of my bed, and the first words that met my eye were these: "I saw Ephraim cast out in the open field; I saw him in his blood, and I said live; and he shall live." With promises given by him with whom there is no variableness or shadow of turning, my heart was filled with praise and thanksgiving for the Comforter who grants peace such as the world knows not of. Very soon a letter came with the detailed account of the last hours of my son Harvey, in which he left a bright evidence of his preparation for the future life. He sent for Rev. John Patchin, of Raisin Institute, of whom he requested prayer; at the close of which he followed in fervent prayer for himself and loved ones. Then brother Patchin inquired if perfect peace was his at this hour? "It is," he answered; "I am ready to go," and he soon fell asleep in Jesus.

I remained a few weeks longer; but the close search for counterfeiters made it difficult for William Allen to cross.

The request was repeated by John White's wife for him to come for them. I returned home with the consciousness of having done all that I could in delivering the messages as requested. The husband and father could not feel reconciled to give up his family to a life of slavery, and went for them, and brought them a few miles on the Indiana side, above Rising Sun. They secreted themselves during the day in the woods, and with the aid of his friend and Solomon Stevens's slave, previously alluded to, who was also attempting to escape with the family, he made a raft upon which they were about to cross a creek to reach the team on the opposite side. Suddenly six armed men pounced upon them, and captured the family, with Solomon. To save John from the hazardous attempt to defend his family, his friend held him back in the thicket, knowing the effort must fail. As he was not allowed to move he sank back in despair in the arms of his friend. He had risked his own life and liberty in his attempt to rescue them. He learned that George W. Brazier swore he would chop him into inches if he ever got possession of him again. After his unsuccessful effort in Michigan he offered six hundred dollars for his head, dead or alive. Benjamin Stevens also offered six hundred dollars reward for his daughter and his five grandchildren, with Solomon. He afterwards sold them all for the very low price of one thousand dollars, with the proviso that they were not to be sold apart.

But poor Jane was not left long to grieve over her disappointed hopes. She died of cholera. We heard she went rejoicing in that hope that reaches beyond the vale. They were taken to Lexington, Kentucky, but the grieved husband and father again made his way northward. He was two weeks in reaching a settlement that was said to be friendly to fugitive slaves. Forty miles distant from his old Kentucky home he assumed the name of James Armstrong. The family upon whom he ventured to call appeared very kind, and the man told him he would take him the next day to a Quaker settlement, but he suspected he was reported to Wright Ray and posse, who came into the house and bound him. Placing him on one of their horses, they took him through fields and back roads until they crossed the Ohio river, and lodged him in the Woodford jail, a short distance from the river, nearly opposite Madison, Indiana. Wright Ray had no idea of having in his possession John White, who had so recently eluded his grasp in his unsuccessful trip with Brazier in Michigan. He found among his papers in which were advertisements of escaped slaves, Henry Armstrong advertised as belonging to the widow Armstrong, of Maysville, Kentucky. With her Wright Ray had an interview, hoping to arrange for the reward, which she refused to give, for he had been away so long, he would be of little use, as Henry was willed free at her death. But she told him if he could get enough from him to pay him for his trouble, he might do so. Consequently he made him an offer to release him for four hundred dollars, and encouraged him to write to his friends in Michigan to aid him to that amount. He wrote to a son-in-law of Mr. Watkins, so as not to mention a name of persons the men had to do with in Michigan, and the letter was brought to us. We all understood the writer to be our friend John White.

A few friends were consulted as to the measures to be adopted. It was proposed that I should go to Cincinnati, and there make such arrangements as the friends might think proper. As they proposed to bear my expenses, I said, "If you send me, I shall go to-morrow morning."

"But," replied the bearer of the letter, "as it is the Sabbath, I suppose I should hesitate."

"It was lawful on the Sabbath to lift a sheep out of the ditch in the days of Moses, and is not a man better than a sheep?"

"I can not answer you. All I have to say is, follow the dictates of your own conscience."

I took the stage at Toledo, and in three days I was consulting the vigilance committee in Levi Coffin's council chamber. As it would not do for me to transact business with Wright Ray, Micajah White, nephew of Catherine Coffin, offered to go as soon as the money was obtained. Levi Coffin introduced me to Dr. Judkins, of whom I hired the money, but hoped to lessen the amount if possible, in the arrangement with Wright Ray. I urged on the nephew the necessity of taking the first boat for Madison, as every hour endangered the safety of John White. Whatever was done for him must be done quickly. Wright Ray was found very willing to accept three hundred and fifty dollars, which was placed in the hands of the clerk of the boat until his prisoner was delivered to his friends in Cincinnati, when Micajah White agreed to see the money paid to Wright Ray. This was done, and within three weeks from the time I left home I returned with John White. The day after John's release Brazier appeared at the jail, having heard that he was there. But he was too late.

A few months after John White's release from Woodford jail George W. Brazier went to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, with a gang of slaves for sale, and suddenly died of cholera, just before the time fixed for his return. It was said he intended to make a second effort to capture John White, or to arrest me with United States warrant. Time rolled on, and John F. White married a young woman in Canada, his home a number of years. After the late war he removed to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to educate his children. When we last heard of his first children, his oldest daughter was married to Solomon, the ex-slave of Benjamin Stevens. We rejoice that brighter days are dawning. Ethiopia is stretching out her hands to God.



CHAPTER V.

THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY.

As my married children had charge of the farm, and the younger ones were in school, and well provided for, I spent a few months in mission work and nursing the sick. My dear friends, Levi and Catherine Coffin, had given me a very cordial invitation to make their house my home whenever I was in Cincinnati. Soon after my arrival, at early dawn, nine slaves crossed the river, and were conducted to one of our friends on Walnut Hills for safety, until arrangements could be made to forward them to Victoria's domain. I called on them to see what was needed for their Northern march, and found them filled with fear lest they should be overtaken. As there was a prospect before them of being taken down the river, they concluded to "paddle their own canoe." They had with them their five little folks, that seemed as full of fear as were their trembling parents. A little girl of five years raised the window-shade to look out. When her mother discovered her she exclaimed, in a half-smothered voice, "Why, Em! you'll have us all kotched, if you don't mind;" and the little thing dropped behind a chair like a frightened young partridge hiding under a leaf at the mother's alarm of danger. While making our plans, we were greatly relieved, to find that the well known Quaker conductor, William Beard, was in the city, with a load of produce from his farm. This covered market-wagon was a safe car, that had borne many hundreds to his own depot, and was now ready for more valuable freight before the city should be filled with slave-hunters. But few weeks elapsed before we learned of the safe arrival of these two families that we fitted for their journey to Canada.

One of our vigilance committee came early one morning to inform us that there were two young men just arrived, who were secreted in the basement of Zion Baptist Church (colored). As their home was only twenty-five miles from the river, it was necessary to make all possible speed in removing them before Kentucky slave-hunters should block our track. I took their measures, to procure for each a Summer suit, and went to our store of new and second-hand clothing, at Levi Coffin's, where anti-slavery women met tri-monthly, to spend a day in making and repairing clothing for fugitive slaves. In early evening I took a large market-basket, with a suit for each, and had them conducted to a safer hiding-place, until a way opened for them to go to a Friends' settlement, about eighty miles distant, where George chose to remain and work a few months. But James would not risk his liberty by tarrying, and censured George for running such a risk. "You needn't think your new name's gwine to save you when ole massa comes"

But little did James understand the deep-hidden reason that kept his friend George behind. He worked faithfully nearly a year, kept the suit I gave him for his Sunday suit, and used his old Kentucky suit for his work, patching them himself, until patch upon patch nearly covered the old brown jeans of his plantation wear. When warm weather again returned, without revealing his design of going back to his master in Kentucky, for he knew his abolition friends would discourage his project, he took the eighty dollars he had earned since he left his master, and wore the suit of clothes he brought away, and in the darkness of night went to his wife's cabin. Here he gave a full history of the kind friends who had paid good wages for his work, and said he was going to take all to his master, and tell him he was sick of freedom; "and you mus' be mighty mad," he went on, "'case I come back; and say, 'If he's a mind to make sich a fool of his self, as to be so jubus, 'case I talked leetle while wid Jake, long time ago, as to run off an' leave me, he may go. He needn't think I'll take 'im back; I won't have nothin' to say to 'im, never!' Ad' I'll quarrel 'bout you too; an' when all ov 'em is done fussin' 'bout me comin' back, I'll steal to you in a dark night, an' lay a plan to meet on Lickin' River; an' we'll take a skiff an' muffle oars till we get to the Ohio; an' I knows jus' whar to go in any dark night, an' we 'll be free together. I didn't tell Jim I's gwine to make massa b'leve all my lies to get you; for I tell you, Liz, I ain't got whole freedom without you."

Before eight o'clock A. M. George stood before his master, with his old name and old plantation suit, presenting him with the eighty dollars he had earned for his master since he had left his home, that he never wanted to leave again. For he had found "abolitioners the greates' rascals I ever seen. I wants no more ov' em. They tried hard to git me to Canada; but I got all I wants of Canada, An' I tell you, Massa Carpenter, all I wants is one good stiddy home. I don't want this money; it's yourn."

His master was well pleased, and told all his neighbors how happy his Tom was to get back again, and gave all the money he had earned since he had been gone. It was a long time before neighboring planters had the confidence in Tom that his master had, and they told him that Tom should never step his foot on their plantations; but he told them all that he had perfect confidence in Tom's honesty. "He came back perfectly disgusted with abolitionists; he said they will work a fellow half to death for low wages. And he even patched his old suit, himself, that he wore off. And I have found the reason why he left. He and Liz had a quarrel, and now he don't care a fig about her; and I heard yesterday that her master says he'll shoot him if he dares to come on his plantation. But he needn't worry; for you couldn't hire Tom to go near Liz."

Tom's master told him all the planters were afraid of him, and said he would play a trick on him yet.

"I'll stay at home, then, and won't even go out to meetin's, till all ov 'em will see I means what I says."

"That's right, Tom; they don't know you like I do. Bat I told them 't would do all the niggers good just to hear your story about the meanness of abolitionists. You know, Tom, that was just what I told you, that they pretended to be your friends, but they were your worst enemies."

"Yes, massa, I al'us bleved you; and if Liz hadn't cut up the way she did I never'd tried 'em."

All things went on smoothly with Tom. He was never more trusty, diligent, and faithful in all that pertained to his master's interest. Three months still found him contented and happy, and the constant praise he received from his master to his neighbors began to inspire them with sufficient confidence to permit him to attend their meetings occasionally, though he did not appear anxious to enjoy that privilege until his master proposed his going, and then he was careful to attend only day meetings. Neighboring white people often talked with him about his Northern trip, and all got the story he had told his master, until Tom became quite a pet missionary, as his reports went far and near, among both whites and blacks. After Lizzie's master became quite satisfied with her hatred toward Tom, he allowed the hound, which he kept over two months to watch for Tom, to go back to the keeper. Though Tom and Lizzie lived eight miles apart, they had a secret dispatch-bearer, by whom they reported to each other; but visits were very few and far between.

One day, in her "clarin-up time," Lizzie came across a bundle containing a Sunday suit, placed in her cabin when Tom left for the North, which she took occasion to have a good quarrel over. Taking them into her mistress, the master being present, she said, "Missus, that'll I do wid dese ole close Tom lef, when he get mad an' run'd off to spite me; now I'll burn 'em up or giv' 'em to de pigs for nes', I ain't gwine to hav' 'em in my way any longer."

"Oh, don't burn 'em up, can't you send 'im word to come and get 'em?"

"I sends 'im no word, if he never gets 'em; I'd heap better giv' 'em to de hogs."

Turning to another house servant, her mistress said, "Dil, you tell Page's Jim when he goes to that big meeting your people are going to have next week, to tell Tom to come and take his truck away, or Liz will pitch 'em in the fire for 'im."

But there was no hurry manifest, after he got the word. Tom's master told him he had better go and get his clothes or Liz might destroy them. Said our George, "One Saturday evenin' I went to have my las' quarrel with Lizzie. I called her bad names, an' she flung back mean names, an' twitted me with runnin' away to make her feel bad, when she didn't care a picayune for me; an' I tole her I never wanted to see her face agin, an' we almos' cum to blows."

A few months after this there was a holiday, and Tom was so faithful, his master gave him permission to visit his aunt, six miles distant in an opposite direction from Lizzie's home, and she too got permission to visit her friends five miles away, but not towards Tom's master. The plan laid in his midnight visit was to start after sundown, and go until dark in the direction of the place each had their permission to go, and then go for Licking River; and she was to go up the river, while he was to go down, until they met. He was to secure the first skiff with oars he could find to aid them down the river with all possible speed to the Ohio. They succeeded in making good time after they met, until day dawn overtook them, when they hid the skiff under a clump of bushes, and the oars they took the precaution to hide some distance away in case the skiff was discovered and taken away. They secreted themselves still further in the woods, but not so far but they could watch their tiny craft through the thicket. Much to their discomfiture a number of boys found their skiff, and had a long hunt for the oars, but not succeeding, furnished themselves with poles and pushed out of sight to the great relief of the temporary owners, so near being discovered during the hunt for the oars. At ten o'clock, when all was still, they crept out of their hiding-place, took their oars, and hunted two hours before they found another skiff. Though smaller and harder to manage than the one they lost, yet they reached the Ohio just at sunrise. Two men on the opposite side of Licking River hallooed, "Where are you going?"

"To market, sir."

"What have you got?"

"Butter an' eggs, sir."

As he saw them in the skiff and pushing toward them, he expected every moment to be overhauled, but he pulled with all his might for the opposite shore, and did not dare look back until they had reached the middle of the river, when, to their great relief, the two men had given up the chase and turned back, and had almost reached the place of their starting. He said Lizzie trembled so hard that the coat over her shook, so great was her fear. Said Lizzie, "I reckon the owner of the coat shook as hard as I did when you was pullin' for life. I specs you sent fear clare down into them paddles you's sweattin' over;" and they had a good laugh over fright and success.

With George there was no fear after entering the basement of Zion Baptist Church, his old hiding-place. As soon as the report came to us that a man and his wife had just arrived, I called to learn their condition and needs, and asked the woman who had charge of the basement to tell them a friend would call to see them, as new-comers were always so timid. A voice from the adjoining room was heard to say, "Come right in, Mrs. Haviland, we are not afraid of you;" and as the fugitive clasped my hand in both of his, I exclaimed, "Where have you seen me?"

"Don't you mind Jim and George you giv' a basket full of close to las' Summer? You giv' me the linen pants an' blue checked gingham coat and straw hat, an' you giv' Jim thin pants and coat and palm-leaf hat; and don't you mind we went out in a market-wagon to a Quaker settlement?"

"Yes, but how came you here again?"

"It was for this little woman I went back." Then he went over his managing process, as above related.

As I was soon to go to my home in Michigan, it was proposed by our vigilance committee that this couple, with Sarah, who made her escape over a year previously, should go with me. Sarah was to be sold away from her little boy of three years for a fancy girl, as she was a beautiful octoroon and attractive in person. She knew full well the fate that awaited her, and succeeded in escaping. She was an excellent house servant, and highly respected by all who made her acquaintance for her sterling Christian character and general intelligence. She had lived in a quiet Christian family, who gave her good wages, but she did not dare to risk her liberty within one hundred miles of her former home.

A few days after the arrival of George and wife a mulatto woman and her daughter of sixteen, bound South from Virginia, left a steamer and joined our company. While waiting for a certain canal-boat, the owner and captain being friendly to our work, another young man joined us. These we received at different points to avoid suspicion. Before we reached the third bridge we were overtaken by Levi Coffin with another young man, whom he had instructed implicitly to regard all the lessons I might give him. I gave them all a charge to say nothing of going farther than Toledo, Ohio, and talk of no farther back than Cincinnati.

While on our way George pointed at a wire, and told his wife it was a telegraph-wire, at which she dodged back, and for a moment seemed as badly frightened as though her master had been in sight. It was a lucky thing for us that no stranger happened to be in sight, as her fright would have betrayed them. Even an assurance from George that the wires could do no harm, could hardly satisfy her, until he appealed to me to confirm his statement, that it was the operators at each end of the wires that gave information.

The day before we reached Toledo one of the drivers left, and the steersman employed our boy William, with the consent of the captain. I told George to tell William I wanted to see him at the expiration of the time set for him to drive. He came into the cabin, while the other passengers were on deck, and told me all the hands seemed very clever, and the steersman told him he would find a good place for him to work in Toledo, and that he would see that he had good wages. He asked him various questions, that led him to disclose his starting point, Vicksburg, Mississippi. As he was so very friendly he answered all his queries, even to his master's name. This I had charged him not to give. As George and the other colored man saw the steersman and another man employed on the boat so very intimate, and careful to keep William with them, they began to fear for their own safety. There came up a sudden shower during William's time to drive, and he got thoroughly drenched; and as he had no change of garments, the steersman and the other boys of the boat furnished him out of their own wardrobe. It had now become difficult for me to secure an interview with William, on account of his close friends, and I became as fearful of the telegraph wires as was Mary, over whom we had a little sport.

But William began to fear all was not right, and regretted having told this man of his condition, and made an errand on deck, as he saw me sitting alone. He told me all he had said to the steersman. I told him to appear very careless, and say nothing, but to appear as if he was going with the steersman, as he had suggested. As we should be in Toledo in three hours, I would go into the city, and the women and George would follow me to a place of safety. Then I would return for my shawl, that I should leave on the boat. By that time, the passengers would all have left, and he and the other young man must remain about the boat. Then I would watch the opportunity, and when I went out, I should turn short corners, but give them time to keep me in sight. Accordingly, I returned for my shawl, but made no haste to leave until those close friends entered a saloon; then was our time; I gave them the wink and left for a place of safety.

After I had put one and two in a place, my next work was to solicit money to pay our fare to Canada, on a boat that was to leave at 9 A. M. the next day. Here were six fares to pay to Detroit, as Sarah had sufficient to pay her own. The friends in Cincinnati had paid their fare to Toledo. It was now nearly night, and I had but little time; but I succeeded by nine o'clock the next morning, leaving a colored man to conduct them to the boat; with hardly five minutes to spare I reached the boat, with my living freight.

Once out in the lake we felt quite secure. Yet there was a possibility of a telegram being sent to William's master, and danger of being overtaken by officers in Detroit. Knowing of their anxiety to see Canada, I waited until we were near enough to see carriages and persons on the road on the other side. When I said to George's wife "There is Canada." "It ain't, is it?" "It is, certainly. It is where no slave-owner can claim his slave." She ran to her husband to tell the good news. But neither he nor the balance of them believed her, and all came running to me. "That ain't Canada, is it?" Being assured that the land of freedom was in full view, with tears of joy they gazed upon their "House of Refuge," and within forty minutes we were there. And to see them leap for joy was rich pay for all my care in their behalf. George and Jake had both armed themselves with deadly weapons, in case of an attempt to capture them, resolving on liberty or death. I left each with fifty cents and returned to my own sweet home.

I found the large building unfinished. As the first buildings were temporary, they were unsuitable for students to occupy another Winter, which would be the eleventh Winter our school had been in successful operation. Brother Patchin, our principal, was called to another field as pastor and teacher, and would go if the new building was not ready for use by the following academic year. While these probabilities were under consideration, brother J. F. Dolbeare was taken from us, after a short illness. As he was an important trustee, and an active Christian worker, his loss was severely felt. We had a few months previously met with a similar loss in the death of another trustee, our valued friend and brother, Elijah Brownell, a minister of the Society of Friends. Surely dark clouds again overhung our favorite institution, in which many of our students were taught in the school of Christ, before they came to us, and many out of the hundreds who had enjoyed the privileges of our school, we had good reasons for believing, yielded their young hearts to the loving Savior's invitation while with us. With the undying interests of the youth so near my heart, it was a trial to have our school suspended a year; but what could I do? I must keep up the ten per cent interest on three hundred dollars of my indebtedness, and could not contract five hundred dollars more to finish the institution building erected on the acre of ground I had given for that object. It was enclosed, and a portion of the floors laid, and doors and windows cased. This had cost over one thousand dollars for a building thirty by fifty-six feet.

As the farm was still carried on by my married children, I concluded to return to Cincinnati and engage in nursing the sick during the cold season, as the cough to which I was subject was returning. All things considered, the conclusion was reached to suspend Raisin Institute one year at least. An Oberlin scholarship was presented me for my daughter Laura Jane, who decided to take a gentleman's collegiate course. Not only my financial pressure seemed to direct toward that more southern field, but the cause of those who were thirsting for liberty, and were almost daily leaving boats or crossing the river, was also a strong incentive to occupy a post near the Southern end of the road whose Northern terminus was in Queen Victoria's dominions.

Many of my friends thought me presuming to venture so near those who had threatened my life repeatedly, and in the hand-bills of the Tennesseans (report said) there was offered $3,000 reward for my head. Thomas K. Chester stated in a letter that he had sent them to a number of the Southern States, to let them know what sort of sisters they had in the North. But J. F. Dolbeare, on the night before his death, called me to his bedside, and, taking my hand in his, said, "Sister Haviland, you have passed through close and trying places in your work, and your anti-slavery mission is not yet finished. Your trials are not over. Greater dangers are for you to pass through—I see it. O, may the Lord prepare you for the work he has for you to accomplish! He has sustained you thus far. He will grant you his protecting arm. I know it." I have often had occasion to remember the words I listened to in that solemn hour, during thirty years that have since passed.

A slave-owner from New Orleans, with his wife, three children, and their nurse, Maria, were bound for Cincinnati. When at Louisville, he was told if he was going to spend the Summer in Cincinnati he'd be sure to lose his servant-girl, "as that city is cursed with free negroes and abolitionists." At this unpleasant information, Champlin and his wife concluded to make their temporary home in Covington, instead of Cincinnati, to the great disappointment of Maria, as she and her husband had been over two years in saving all their little silver pieces, until the amount was one hundred dollars, which was to be used in taking her to Canada.

As this "Northern trip" had been calculated two or three years before, and as they went to no place without their faithful nurse, the slave couple also made their plans. Her husband told her, as she would have a good opportunity to secure her freedom, he would manage to secrete himself on some through boat, and meet her in Canada; and he could go with less money than she could, and insisted upon her taking all they had saved. But after Maria found they were going to hire rooms and board in a hotel in Covington, she went to the trunk that contained her clothes and the children's, and to her great disappointment her hundred dollars, that she had so securely tied in a little rag and rolled in her garments, was taken out by her mistress, who never pretended to go to her trunk for any thing, having no care whatever of her children's wardrobe. But she must hide her feelings by putting on a cheerful face, though she felt as though all her hopes of freedom, of which she had so fondly dreamed, were blasted forever.

She found her task, as usual, was to keep the wardrobe of her mistress and the children in order, and care for the children day and night. A few days elapsed, and she asked her mistress if she would please give her money to purchase herself a pair of shoes, as she heard they were cheaper here than at home. She said she would either get her shoes or give her the money in a few days; but neither shoes nor money came. Two and three weeks passed, and Maria ventured to repeat her request; but the reply was, "Your shoes are good enough for a while yet."

While her master and mistress were over the river, she frequently took the children to the river, to amuse them in looking at boats and in picking up pebbles on the bank, when her longing look was noticed by a white man, who ventured to ask her if she would like to go across the river. She told him, if she did, she had no money to give to any one who would take her. After learning that her master's residence was in New Orleans, he told her, if she would never let any one know that he had ever said or done any thing about helping her, let what would happen, he would take her over without any thing, in the night, whenever she could get away; but if it was ever known there it would ruin him. She promised; and as no one was near, and the three children playing at a little distance, he pointed her to a large root on the bank, under which she could hide, and there wait until she heard a low whistle near the root, when she could come out and step into a skiff without saying a word, and he would muffle the oars so as not to be heard, and take her to a colored family he knew over the river, where she would be safe until they would send her on to Canada.

"But how can I go on, when I's got no money?"

"They know of a way to send such people as you without money. You'll get with those over there who will see you safe; never fear."

"I never can tell you," she said, in relating her story, "how strange I felt about sich good news as this, and wondered if it could be true. I jus' trimbled like a popple leaf all the evenin'. Master and missus was over in the city to a lecture on Fernology, and didn't get back till twelve o'clock. I kep' the chillen awake later'n common, so they'd sleep sounder. Then I tied my clothes up in a tight bundle, an' had my shoes an' hat whar I'd lay han's on 'em, an' put out the light. I was snorin', when missus looked in an' said, 'All's asleep—all right;' an' I waited till the clock struck one, an' all still. I crep' sof'ly out on the street, and down to the root, an' waited for a whistle. The clock struck two. O, how long! Will that man come? Chillen may cry, an' missus fin' me gone. Had I better wait till it's three o'clock? May be he can't come. He said, if any thing happen he couldn't come to-night, I mus' go back, an' try another night. An' 'bout as I began to think I better go back come the whistle. I stepped in, an' we went over; but the clock struck three before we got half across, an' he was mighty fear'd he couldn't get back afore daybreak."

News reached us during the day that a woman crossed the river early, and was so near it as to be dangerous for a hiding-place; and it fell to my lot to see her in a safe place as soon as the darkness of night would shield us from being detected by Champlin and his aids, who were already seen at street corners. I took a black Quaker bonnet and a drab shawl and a plain dress-skirt in a market-basket, with which to disguise our fugitive.

I found her in a dark room, where I fixed her up for a walk; and she told me of her loss of the hundred dollars, but I told her all would be well without it. I instructed her to take my arm as we went, and take good care to limp all the way, for we should pass plenty of Kentuckians. Thickly veiled, we walked half a mile, turning short corners to elude watchers, if any, from our starting-point. As we went up Central Avenue to Longworth, we passed through a crowd, one of whom said:

"I'm going to line my pockets to-night. Thar's five hundred dollars reward out."

Said another, in a low tone, "When did she cross?"

"Last night some time, they say."

My Quaker sister, limping at my side, was trembling, I sensibly felt, as she hung upon my arm, as we listened to these remarks from her pursuers. I took her to a very intelligent colored family on Longworth Street, who were well known to us as true friends.

Although I had passed her pursuers without fear, yet when Levi Coffin informed me that Ruffin, the greatest slave-hunter in the city, had just moved next door to Burgess, where I left Maria, my fears were almost equal to Maria's. "Laura, thou hast left thy fugitive with a good family, but in a poor place," said our venerable friend. "But wait until to-morrow evening, when thou hadst better give her another move, as I know they will use all possible care." The following evening Levi and friend Hughes were to be on Central Avenue near Longworth Street, and as I came out with my Quaker woman, they were to walk half a block ahead and turn on Ninth Street to his house, and if sister Catherine's sign appeared on the balcony of the second story, we were to ascend the outside flight of steps, and take her up to the attic in the fourth story.

Champlin had doubled the reward, and was raving with rage over the loss of their nurse. He said he would have her if he had to "set one foot in hell after her," cursing and swearing in a perfect foam; and said a thousand dollars should be doubled but what he would have her. As the streets were too well lighted, to give her the appearance of a white person through the veil, I called for a saucer of flour, with which I thoroughly powdered her face. Before her veil was adjusted she happened to look up and saw herself in the large mirror before her, and burst into a laugh over her white face and Quaker bonnet. I gave her a shake as I placed my hands over her shoulders: "Don't laugh loud, for your liberty's sake. Remember the next door neighbor would get his thousand dollars reward from Champlin, if he could know you are here." "I won't look at that glass ag'in, I looks so quare."

I took her on the front walk, and following our previous plans, at the invitation of the white cloth on the balustrade, we soon found ourselves in the attic. She remained here two weeks, not daring to move in any direction, as the wealthy New Orleans planter's biped bloodhounds were seen and heard from in almost every direction through the city.

As there was in this case an unusual excitement, the editor of the Cincinnati Commercial inserted a little note in his paper, of the escape of the New Orleans nurse from her owners, who were boarding at White Hall Hotel in Covington; and that the mistress had taken one hundred dollars from the nurse previous to their arrival at their destination. The day following this notice Champlin came to the Commercial office and demanded the authority the editor had for charging his wife with stealing from their servant. For whether it was he or any one else, it would prove a dear job to vilify his wife like this, for he'd have their life or $3,000; and swore nothing short would settle it. He told the editor he would give him till ten o'clock the next morning, when he should come prepared for the settlement (referring to his pistols, which he knew how to use). At once Levi Coffin received a call from the editor for advice, as he was his informant. During this interview, Catherine came into our room, saying, "Laura, they are in a tangle with that New Orleans slave-holder, and they want thee to help straighten it." Going in, I was introduced to the editor, and main proprietor of the Commercial, and they related the difficulty.

"Now," said Levi, "this young man has invested in this firm all he is worth, and Champlin will probably ruin his business if he fails to give his authority for stating Maria's loss of her hundred dollars; and as I gave him these facts, in case he gives my name as authority, he will then come upon me, and make trouble, as Champlin seemed determined upon vengeance."

After a little reflection over these statements and threats I told them I did not see but I came next, as I told Levi these facts, which I took from Maria and the family where she was first secreted. And as I had no property in Ohio, and the little I owned in Michigan I had arranged to keep from slave-holders, I would stand in the gap and our young friend might refer to me as authority, if compelled to give it, rather than lose his life, or property even.

Said Levi, "This is liable to terminate in a serious affair. It would lay thee liable to imprisonment if he is so disposed, and thy children in Michigan would feel very sad over such an event."

I replied that I did not fear of remaining long in prison, neither did I believe he was going to be permitted to put me there, but at all events I was fully prepared to allow my name to be given. With this conclusion our young friend left us, saying that if he could manage that exasperated man without naming me, he would do so. We were all anxiously waiting to see the result of the fearful meeting at the hour of ten the following day. Champlin was there at the hour, with the stern query, "Are you ready, sir, to give me your authority, or abide the consequences?"

"I am, sir. The colored family where she first stopped informed us."

"Do you take a nigger's testimony?"

"Certainly I do. They are respectable and honest, though poor."

After pouring forth a volley of oaths, and saying he wouldn't stoop so low as to notice what a nigger would say, for they were all a pack of liars, he left the office, to the great relief both of the editor and ourselves. Very soon he came to us with the pleasing report, how those pistols, so full of powder, flashed in the pan.

But the slave-hunters were still so numerous, it was thought best to dress her up for another walk, and I took her to a family near Fourteenth Street, and wrote a letter in Maria's name to her master, dated it ahead, and from Windsor, Canada West, and sent it enclosed in a letter to a friend at that place, with directions to mail it to the master at the date I had given. Maria informed her master Champlin that Canada was not the cold barren country he had always told her it was, for they raised great fields of corn, and potatoes, peas and beans, and everything she saw in Kentucky; and that she had found the best of friends ever since she left home, and signed her name.

In less than two weeks Kitty Darun's niece came in great haste to inform us that "Champlin had got poor Maria, and Aunt Kitty is nearly crying her eyes out over the sad news that a colored man brought over last night."

"That is all a mistake."

"Oh, no, it's no mistake, for that colored man worked near White Hall yesterday, and he said the report was just flying."

I hushed her loud words, and whispered, "I can take you to Maria in ten minutes, I know just where she is."

"Are you sure, and may I go tell Aunt Kitty?"

"Go and whisper it, for there are but few friends who know she is still in the city, because of the close search made for her, that is still kept up."

The next day she came to us with another story, "That he didn't get Maria, but got a letter from her in Canada. And that was the current report."

I told her, "I understood that too, and would tell her all within a few weeks."

The result of this letter was a withdrawal of all the hired hunters within twenty-four hours, and during three days' quiet two young men came from a few miles distant across the river, who got the privilege of a holiday, and of spending it nearly ten miles farther from the river than was their home. As they left the night before, they would have until the next morning before being missed.

As Cazy (one of our vigilance committee) came before sunrise to inform us of the new arrival, Catharine Coffin came to my bed-room and gave me a call: "Come, Laura, here are more runaways; Cazy is here and they want thee." In less than five minutes there were four of us to decide on the plan of securing the newcomers and the one on our hands. "What shall we do? Our funds are out, we haven't a dime in our treasury," said Cozy.

"We must get enough to take then; two young men and Maria out as far as the Stubbs settlement to-night," I replied; "for you see all is quiet now over Maria, and by to-morrow the city will fill up again with slave-hunters."

"That is what I told Cazy before thou came in; but he says he has a job on his hands he can not leave," said Levi.

"Where Is Hughes?"

"I don't believe I could get him to leave his work to see to it; but may be he'll go for you," wild Cazy.

"I'll try." And throwing on my shawl and bonnet, called on Hughes, and told him he must go and take Maria and two young men who had just arrived this morning.

"But what can we do without money?"

"I'll get it to-day. What amount is wanting?"

"It will take eight dollars to hire a close carriage and team to go thirty miles to-night, and I must be back to my work by eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

"I'll have that ready before night."

"Then I'll call at Uncle Levis's at noon, and see whether you are sure of success in getting the money; then I will call at the livery on my return to my work and engage the carriage and team, to be ready by seven and a half o'clock this evening."

When he called at noon I had four dollars in money and a traveling suit for Maria, and knew just where I could get the balance. Now for the plan of starting. I told him he must manage the two men and I would manage for Maria. "But there are two toll-gates that are closely watched for colored people, and I want you to go with us past those gates, as two white persons in front would pass the load; not seeing any colored people, they would make no inquiries. As Catherine's health was poor, and cholera was raging in the city, she was not willing I should remain away over night, and Levi secured William Beckley to follow us a little distance behind until we had passed those gates, when I was to return with him. The carriage, with our company, was to be driven up Central Avenue as far as the orphan asylum, and halt for Maria and myself; and as he passed the street she was on, Hughes was to take out his white pocket handkerchief and wipe his face, while William Fuller, at whose house Maria was secreted, was to walk on the street at the time appointed to watch for the signal; when discovered, as he turned toward the house, we were to step out on the street, and walk the half block where our carriage was in waiting."

But in this we found it necessary to adopt my old rule of being carelessly careful, as there were Kentuckians in their rented houses each side of William Fuller's, and they were overheard to say three days before, that they believed they had "niggers hid at Fuller's, for the blinds in the second story hadn't been opened in two weeks." The weather being warm, and the rising of the full moon, and their next door neighbors sitting on their front porches, all combined to bring us into full view. As we were watching for the moment to start Maria took up her bundle of clothes; but I told her the least appearance, aside from common callers, would create suspicion, and we must send them after her. "But they's all I got, an' I will never see 'em ag'in," said Maria, sorrowfully.

"But your liberty is of more value than a cart load of clothes."

"Oh, yes, I knows it; but I can't even change."

"Hand them to me," and they were opened and tightly rolled into the shape of a six months' baby in a trice; and, as I rolled it in a shawl, I said, "I'll carry the baby myself." The watchful wife says, "William is turning back, and I will walk to the corner with you." As we reached the gate, the neighbors in full view, sister Fuller's little girl called, "Mamma, I want to see the baby; I didn't know that woman had a baby." The frightened mother tried to hush her in a smothered voice, that I feared would betray her excitement. "Let her go with us, mother," said I. "But auntie hasn't time now to let little sis see the baby; wait till next time we call, because we are late, and our folks will be waiting for us." And as we leisurely walked along, sister Fuller invited us to come another time to make a longer call.

After turning the corner, our sister and little girl left us, and we quickened our pace to the carriage we saw in waiting. Friend Hughes stood by the hitching-post, but looked wild with excitement when he saw me turn to the carriage, as he knew there was no baby aboard; and as he had hitched in a darker place than near the entrance, he did not recognize us. But as I gave my baby a toss in the carriage, saying, "This is part of our company; take care of my baby," he recognized my voice. "O, yes; this is one of your tricks." Soon we were seated, and on our way. We passed the two fearful gates with a sharp look by each keeper, and half a mile beyond I proposed to return; but friend Hughes said there was a short piece of woods ahead to pass through, then the coast would be clear the balance of the way, and he would rather I would go through the woods with them. Just before entering the grove we heard the loud talking, singing, and laughing of ten or a dozen men we were going to meet.

As this boisterous company appeared before us, Hughes turned to the two men behind us, and said, "Are your pistols ready?"

"Yes, sah;" and each took from his own pocket a six-shooter.

"Boys, if those men attempt to take our horses by the bits, and I say, Fire! will you do it?"

"Yes, sah."

Said I, "Hughes, be careful, be careful. Your excitement will betray us if you are not very careful."

"We don't know what rabble we are going to meet, and I propose to be ready fur 'em."

"There is nothing known of this company, and I know we are safe."

"I don't know it; and if they make the first move to stop us, be ready, boys."

"All ready."

There were two six-shooters behind me, and one in the hand of Hughes, that I feared much more than all the slave-holders in Kentucky.

But we were soon relieved by the remark of one, as we were passing, "It was well we stopped that bent from falling, or't would have killed Smith as dead as a hammer." We found by this that they had been to the raising of a building, and a number of them were more than half drunk.

After going a mile or two farther, and our excitement was over, I took leave of our company, with a charge to keep quiet and all would be well, and returned to Levi Coffin's by twelve o'clock. The following morning we received a good report from our conductor, Hughes, of the safe delivery of this valuable freight in the Quaker settlement depot, where they were forwarded to Canada.



CHAPTER VI.

FUGITIVE SLAVES ASSISTED.

The exciting intelligence reached us that Clara and her three little ones were about to be captured by slave-holders in the city, on Pearl Street. I called on her at once, and found the house was surrounded the night before by strangers, who were followed to a hotel, and on the record the name of her master's son was found. Poor woman! She had passed through great suffering in making her escape with her two children; a third was born in Cincinnati—yet it too must share the anticipated fate of its mother. She had always been a house-servant, but found the death of her master was about to make great changes, he being deeply in debt. By the aid of a chambermaid she was secreted on a boat, and kept the two children drugged with opiates until she feared they would never come to life. But after her arrival, under the care of a skillful physician, they survived. She had found good friends among her own people and Church two years. I found her weeping, with the two youngest in her arms, the oldest sitting on a stool at her feet. With fast-falling tears she kissed her babes. "O ma's precious darlings, how can I spare you!" I told her if her master did not come for her until it was dark enough to conceal her, arrangements were made to come for her with a close carriage, to take them out of the city to a place of safety.

"I reckon you can't save us," she sobbed.

I told her we would pray the Lord, who knew all her deep sorrow, to open the way for us.

"Yes, I cried mightily to him to help me out o' that dark land back yonder, and it 'peared like he did bring me out; but if I had stuck closer to him I reckon he'd kep' me from this hard trial;" and fresh tears freely flowed.

With my hands on her shoulders, my tears mingled with hers. In broken sentences, she referred to the separation of her husband when he was sold and taken down the river.

I left her, with a heavy heart, yet strong hope that her young master (as she called him) would be defeated.

At twilight, I called to assist in getting them ready to jump into the carriage that our friend William Fuller would drive to the door within fifteen minutes; and being ready, we were in the carriage turning the first corner within a minute, and left them in charge of an underground railway agent, who took them on his train as soon as their clothing and pocket-money were forwarded to them, to the great relief of many anxious hearts.

A little past nine o'clock, her master and his posse surrounded the house, and lay in wait until the stillness of the midnight hour was thought most favorable to pounce upon their prey and hurry them to the river, where they had a boat in waiting for them. Then their force was increased, and an entrance demanded. The owner of the house (a colored man) refused admittance without legal authority, although threats of breaking down the door or windows were made; but they were resisted with returning threats of shooting the first man that dared to enter without proper authority. As they were expecting an attack, the women had left their home for the night. The watch was kept around the house until morning approached, when the marshal, with his official papers, was brought to claim Clara and three children. But to their great disappointment, in searching the house, no Clara or children were there. In great rage her master left, swearing vengeance upon him who had kept them in suspense all night when he had spirited them away, for he knew he had harbored his property in his house; but all the reply he received was, "Prove it, if you wish." They got no track of them until they heard from them in Canada.

A fugitive by the name of Jack secreted himself on a large steamer from the lower Mississippi, and left it on landing in Cincinnati. Being so far from his old home, he hired himself as a barber, in which business he was very successful about two years, when his master learned of his whereabouts. He made the acquaintance of a free colored man by the name of Robert Russel, who was an idle, loafish mulatto, sometimes working at little jobs in Cincinnati, and also in Covington. In the latter place he fell in with the slave-holder, who was watching for an opportunity to secure the aid of some one who would induce Jack to come to the river, where he would hurry him onto the ferry, and get him on the Kentucky side, when he could easily return him to the far South. As he found Robert Russel a man of no principle, he gave him ten dollars if he would decoy Jack to the wharf of Walnut Street landing about noon, when men were generally at dinner. He succeeded, when the master with his Kentucky friends slipped hand-cuffs on poor Jack, and took him on the ferry for a thief. The more Jack protested, denying the charge, the louder they cried thief! thief! Some of his colored friends consulted their favorite lawyer, John Jolliffe, about arresting Jack's master for kidnapping, as he had taken him illegally, but they were told they could do nothing with him in Kentucky. They were compelled to leave their friend to his fate.

But the Judas who betrayed Jack ought to be brought to justice; but how could they do it? As I was at that time teaching a school of colored girls, in the basement of Zion Baptist Church, a number of colored men came to consult with me. I told them as Robert Russel was a renegade he was as liable to serve one side of the river as the other, and would as readily bring a slave to the Ohio side for ten dollars, as to decoy him back into the hands of his master for that money. They said Robert did not dare come into Cincinnati, fearing that justice would be dealt out in tar and feathers by the colored people. They learned soon after be came to the city that he ran away from Ripley to avoid being arrested for stealing. I advised them not to take the law of tar and feathers, as they had indicated, in their own hands; but to spoil the petting he was getting from the slave- holders across the river, by warning them against Robert Russel, for he would as readily play the rogue one side as the other; and this they could do in a little printed card that might be dropped on the sidewalk through a few streets in Covington, and they would run him out of their town in a hurry. This idea pleased them, and they wished me to draft the card, and they would print and circulate it. I told them I would take my noon recess to prepare it, and at 4 o'clock my school would be out, and they might come for it. I gave it as follows:

Slave-Holders of Kentucky! BEWARE OF THE ROGUE, ROBERT RUSSEL!

Who absconded from Ripley, Ohio, to evade the strong arm of the law he richly deserved for misdemeanors in that town. This man is a light mulatto, and betrayed one of his race for ten dollars, in Cincinnati, bringing him into life-long trouble. He will as readily take ten dollars from any of your slaves to bring them to Cincinnati, and again take ten dollars to return them to you, as he has no higher purpose to serve than paltry self. A LOVER OF RIGHT.

This was printed on a placard of ten by twelve inches. They procured two hundred for distribution, but found it more difficult to get a distributor than they anticipated. I told one of them to go to Levi Coffin's and inform him and his wife where I was going after my school was dismissed, and that I would distribute them through Covington, but to let no one else know of it, except their committee who secured the printing, as it would produce increased excitement. I went a mile from the river before commencing my work, and left one or two in every yard, when no eye seemed directed toward me, I dropped them by the street side until I reached the ferry that returned me to my anxious friends in Cincinnati, just as the sun dropped behind the Western hills.

The following day report gave an account of the evening's excitement in Covington. A company of slave-holders met to consult over this placard, and the conclusion was reached to give Bob Russel until nine o'clock the following morning to leave the State or take the consequences. Two slaves had left them within a couple of months, and they charged him with taking them over the river. Some of the more excitable were for hauling him out of bed at the close of their meeting (ten o'clock), and dealing summary vengeance for their recent losses, but as he pledged himself to leave their State the next morning never to return, they left him to his own uncomfortable reflections.

A party consisting of four, from New Orleans, came to Cincinnati to spend the Summer, and made their home at a hotel. It was soon ascertained by the colored people that their little nurse girl of about nine years of age, was a slave, and as the master and mistress had brought her there, she was by the laws of Ohio free. They took the opportunity to coax her away and place her among their white friends, who they knew would take good care of her. Very soon there was great inquiry for Lavina. They said she was just a little pet they brought with them to play with and mind the baby, and they knew she was stolen from them against her will; but that if they could get sight at her, she would run to them, unless she was forcibly held back by some mean person. Diligent search was made among the colored people whom they suspected, but no clew could be found of her whereabouts. They were then advised to visit some prominent abolitionists, where they were satisfied she had been taken. So close to Elizabeth Coleman's were they watching, that she felt unsafe, fearing they might come in and find her alone with her little pet fugitive, so she took her to Samuel Reynold's by night.

The search continued. Samuel met the master on the street in front of his house, but had left orders to dress Lavina in his little boy's suit; and holding the master in conversation awhile, he said he would call for Jim, to bring them a glass and pitcher of water, having already told his wife to give Jim a few necessary instructions hew to appear very smart and active. As she came out to give them drink, Samuel gave the master and his two friends a few lessons in Ohio law, informing him that all slaves brought into the State by their owners were free. The master contended that it would be very cruel to keep Lavina from her mother (who belonged to him), and he knew if he could be allowed to see her it would be sufficient to convince them of her attachment to him, and promised to leave the child to her own choice. "But," said Samuel, "Lavina is on our underground railroad." This was as new to the New Orleans slave-holder as were the Ohio laws he had been explaining. After discussing the right and wrong of his claim, Samuel called to his wife to send Jim with a pitcher of water; and out came the little fellow. "Pour a glass of water for this gentleman, Jim;" and their heated discussion continued. The master took the glass from Jim, who looked him full in the face, with one hand in his pocket, while Samuel was serving the other two gentlemen with a glass of water. The women in the house were filled with fear, as they deemed Samuel rather imprudent. But Jim returned with pitcher and glass, and the master and his friends went back to the hotel none the wiser, either of Lavina's whereabouts or of the operation of this new kind of railroad. Lavina was well cared for, and her master and mistress returned to New Orleans with a new experience, minus a nurse girl.

Another fugitive, by the name of Zack, came across the river from Virginia into Ohio. He had lain in the woods by day, and traveled by the North Star at night, when it was clear, but in rainy or cloudy weather he found he was as liable to go South as North. There had been much rain to impede his progress, and he suffered much from hunger. He had advanced only a few miles from the river, when he found a family of true friends, who replenished his clothing, and was preparing food for his journey, when his master, with eight other men, found out where he was, and came with officers to search the house and take their prey. They came in the night and demanded entrance. "Wife, what shall we do? There are men under every window."

"Let them search the two lower rooms first, and while you go with them you tell Zack to slip into my room while you are with them, and I'll see to him."

"But I tell you he can't be got out of this house without being caught."

"Go on; I know that." And he left her and gave the frightened man his orders. But before he reached her room she rolled up the feather-bed and drew the straw mattress to the front side of the bedstead, and told Zack to jump in. Her oder obeyed, she threw back the feather-bed, and before the master and officer entered her room she was occupying the front side of the bed. The clothes-press, wardrobe, and under the bed were all closely scrutinized. The husband, pale with excitement, was expecting, in every place they searched, that poor Zack would be found. But they all left satisfied that he was not in that house, though so very sure they had found the right place. The noble woman said he shook with fear, so as to make the bed tremble during the search, knowing but too well his sad fate if he should again fall into the hands of his master. Every necessary measure was taken to hasten his progress to Canada.

In December, 1852, Calvin Fairbanks, who had served a term of three years in the Kentucky penitentiary for aiding slaves to escape, called at Levi Coffin's and informed me of a letter he had received, giving information that an interesting slave woman in Louisville, Kentucky, could cross the river, if a friend would meet her at Jeffersonville, Indiana, and take her to a place of safety; and he proposed to be the conductor. I advised him, by all means, not to go so near Kentucky, as he was so well known through that State. He said he expected we would oppose him. I advised him to consult with Dr. Brisbane, as Levi was absent. But he chose to keep the matter quiet, and went on his dangerous expedition. I was called away to College Hill as nurse, and in three weeks, when I returned to Levi's, he called me into the store, saying, "We have a letter for thee to read; somebody is in trouble, and Samuel Lewis, Dr. Brisbane and myself have been trying to find out who it is, but can make out nothing by the letter. The signature is of stars, that he says is the number of letters in the name, but we can make nothing of it;" and he handed me the letter, dated from Louisville jail.

As soon as I counted the six stars in the first name, I said, "Levi, it is Calvin Fairbanks! Read out the last line of stars, and we'll find Fairbanks."

At this point Dr. Brisbane entered the store.

"Doctor," said Levi, "Laura has found our riddle; she says it is Calvin Fairbanks."

Both were astonished, not knowing he was down the river. I told them of his call in Levi's absence, and of his errand.

"Poor man, how he will suffer, for they will soon find him out, and they are so very bitter against him, I fear he will die in their penitentiary, for they will have no mercy on him," said the doctor.

"He sends us an appeal for help, but I see no way we can render him assistance," responded Levi.

A few weeks later a colored man, who had been mistaken for a slave, was released from that jail. He came to us telling of the suffering the prisoners endured, having no bed but a pile of filthy straw in their cells; and that Calvin requested him to see his friends, and tell us he must perish unless a quilt and flannel underclothing were furnished him; and he also needed a little pocket money. No one dared to take these articles to him, for only two weeks previously a man by the name of Conklin had brought the wife and four children of an escaped slave into Indiana, and was captured in the night. All were taken to the river, and the poor woman and her children returned to their owner, without her meeting the husband and father, who had sent for them. Conklin was bound with ropes and thrown into the river, where he was found a few days after. Four weeks before Williams, from Massachusetts, followed two little mulatto girls who were stolen from their free-born parents by a peddler, and found them near Baltimore, Maryland. As soon as his errand was made known a baud of ruffians lynched him.

These two cases of murder, without the semblance of law, had produced much excitement in the North, and now the Fairbanks case was increasing the exasperation of the South. But here was a suffering brother in prison. A few days of earnest prayer determined me to go to Louisville jail with a trunk of bed clothes and under flannels. I looked for strong opposition from my friends, but to my surprise when I proposed the plan to my friends Levi and Catherine Coffin, they favored my project. Catherine did her full share in furnishing a trunk, a thick comfortable and pillow; others soon brought a change of flannels; and as Levi met friends and made known my project of going to Louisville, the mites were brought to the amount of fourteen dollars for Calvin, and enough to bear my expenses. Levi saw Captain Barker, who possessed an interest in the line of packets running to Louisville, and he offered half fare, and promised to send for me in time for the Ben Franklin, No. 2, to leave for Louisville the next day at 2 P. M.

Dr. Brisbane, on returning from an absence of a few days, told Levi not to allow so rash a move, and said that I must not go to Louisville in this excitement, for it was dangerous in the extreme; and he referred to Conklin's fate, that was just as likely to be mine. This so discouraged Levi, that he said, "It may be we have been too fast in giving thee words of encouragement." My reply was, "I find no geographical lines drawn by our Savior in visiting the sick and in prison."

Here was a suffering brother, who had fallen among thieves, and I felt it my duty to go to his relief. There seemed also a clear answer to prayer that I should be protected; and if time would allow me to call on Dr. Brisbane before I left for the boat, I would do so, as I desired to see him.

"If thou art going, I advise thee not to call on the doctor, as I know how he feels about thy going, and all thy reasons will not satisfy him in the least."

I told him if the doctor or any one else would go, I should feel easy to give it up, but otherwise I could not.

During this conversation Melancthon Henry came in, as he said, "with his mite" of three silver dollars for brother Fairbanks. He said, "You are going into the lion's den, and my prayer is that you may be as wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove. I know the venom of the serpent is there in power, but God will give his children the wisdom without the poison." Melancthon was a son of Patrick Henry, who had emancipated him with his slave mother. He was a member of the Wesleyan Methodist Church, to which I was at that time attached.

Soon after Captain Barker sent for me, and told me to refer Colonel Buckner to him in presenting my note of introduction, as he was favorably acquainted with the colonel and he should mention me as one of his friends.

Arrived at Louisville about day-dawn, I took a hack, and ordered the hackman to place the trunk on the porch of the front entrance of the jailor's residence. As the colonel's wife answered the door-bell, I inquired for Colonel Buckner. She stepped back to call him, when in an undertone I heard, "Who is it?" "I don't know; she came in the hack and is genteelly dressed, and I think came from the boat."

He "genteelly" met me, took Captain Barker's letter of introduction, and then introduced me to his wife and daughter, and to his wife's sister from Boston, who was there on a visit with her daughter, making quite a lively social circle. My errand was immediately made known, and the colonel excused himself for overhauling the trunk to take its contents to Calvin at once, as it was in the line of his duty as keeper of the prison to examine every thing brought in for prisoners; not that he expected to find anything improper for Fairbanks to receive. I told him I designed returning to Cincinnati on the same boat I came on, and it was going out at 4 P. M.

"Why go so soon?" he asked.

I replied, "My errand here is accomplished, when I see that these things are delivered to Calvin Fairbanks; and as I have a little pocket change, sent by his friends in Cincinnati, I would like to see Calvin, as I shall write his mother after my return."

"I will see if the sheriff thinks it best. There was a great excitement in the city when Fairbanks was arrested and brought here, and Shotwell, the injured man who lost his servant Tamor and her child, is very much enraged, and being a man of wealth and influence here, I dare not take you in to see Fairbanks on my own responsibility; but I'll see the sheriff, and if he says you can see him it is all right."

With a little note from me he took the trunk of things to Calvin, and brought back a receipt. As he handed it to me he said, "I suppose you will recognize his handwriting, so you'll know it's from him?"

I replied that I had seen a note of his writing, but was not familiarly acquainted with it, but was perfectly satisfied with the receipt.

He said he had been to see the sheriff, but he was absent, and would not return for two or three days, "and I think you had better wait," he continued, "and see him, as you can remain with us; it shall not cost you a cent."

I told him my friends in Cincinnati would be at the wharf to meet me the following morning; and as I had nothing further to accomplish, being satisfied that the things and money had been received by Calvin Fairbanks, I felt free to return. But he urged still harder.

"It will be too bad for you to return without seeing him, as you are the only friend that has called to see him since he has been here; and I know he wants to see you, for he asked if you were not coming in to see him, and I told him I was waiting to see the sheriff; and I think you had better wait till the boat makes another trip, as your stay here is as free as air, and we would like you to stop over; then you can see the sheriff, and I reckon he will not object to your going in to see Fairbanks, and yet I dare not take you in without his approval."

I at length consented. They were all very polite, and I rested as sweetly that night as if in my own room at Levi Coffin's, or in my own Michigan home. The next day the colonel was very free to talk of the false ideas of Northern people about slavery; spoke of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler's work on slavery, that I took from their center table; said his wife's Boston friends sent it her, but "it was nothing but a pack of lies."

I told him that she lived and died neighbor to me, and I esteemed her as a noble woman.

"But she never lived in the South, and had no right to judge of their condition without the knowledge of it."

I was introduced to a young man who he said had been suffering a few days' imprisonment under false charges, but on the examination, had that day, was found not guilty. As the family withdrew from the parlor, this young man seemed very anxious to deliver a secret message from Fairbanks to me; he said he had made a confidant of him, and told him to request me to see to forwarding Tamor's trunk of valuable clothing to a place of safety. He then told me the mark on the trunk, and the place in Louisville where it was waiting to be forwarded. I said that I had told the colonel I had no idea of Tamor's whereabouts, as I had supposed she was taken with Fairbanks until informed to the contrary; and that I had no business here whatever, aside from bringing a few articles for his present relief.

After being absent awhile, he returned with a note purporting to be from Calvin, inquiring whether I had made the acquaintance of persons therein named. I told the bearer I had not, and if he saw Calvin he could tell him so. He urged me to send Fairbanks a note, as the colonel or any one else should know nothing of it; but I refused, becoming satisfied that he was more of a dispatch-bearer for the colonel than for Calvin Fairbanks. I learned afterwards that this was true, and that he was released for the purpose of getting hold of additional evidence with which to convict him, and perhaps convict myself also.

In the evening a gentleman of their city made a call on the family, and to him I was introduced. He spent an hour or two in conversation with myself and the others. The jailer, Colonel Buckner, told me just before I left that their city papers—Louisville Courier and Louisville Commercial—inserted a notice to the effect that "Delia Webster, from Cincinnati, is here, and is quartered for a few days in the city." This little notice created much excitement; and as the gentleman alluded to knew Delia Webster personally, the colonel brought him in to make my acquaintance and report accordingly. As he passed out of the parlor, he told the colonel he might rest assured that lady was not Delia Webster, and they had nothing to fear from this Cincinnati lady, and he should set the editors right. All this excitement was carefully kept from me, as they wished to keep me as long as they possibly could, hoping to glean some additional evidence against Fairbanks, although the jailer told me they had sufficient evidence to convict Fairbanks for a term of twenty-five or thirty years at least, as this was the second offense, and he had no doubt but that he had been guilty of many others. The papers next day came out with a correction, "that it was not Delia Webster, but Mrs. Haviland, from Cincinnati; and, as abolitionists generally went in pairs, she had better keep a lookout, or she, too, would find an apartment in Colonel Buckner's castle."

Delia Webster was arrested near the time of Calvin Fairbanks's first arrest, and for the same offense, and sentenced to the same penitentiary, but in six weeks was pardoned.

The colonel was disposed to spend much time in discussing the merits, or rather demerits, of abolition principles, which seemed to be a new theme for this Methodist class-leader and jailor. He said:

"I want to convince you that you abolitioners are all wrong, for you go against colonization, and you can't deny it; and if there was ever a heaven-born institution it is colonization."

"Do you claim that God has conferred the prerogative to a man or set of men to draw a line, and say to you or me. 'You shall go the other side of that line, never to return?'".

"O no, that is a different thing. We belong to a different race."

"Whatever privilege you claim for yourself or I claim for myself, I claim for every other human being in the universe, of whatever nation or color. If the colored people choose to go to Africa. I have no word to say against their removal; it is their right and their privilege to go. And if they wish to go to any other part of our world they have the same right with me to go."

"O no, not to Canada; for you have no idea of the trouble it makes us. We expend thousands of dollars in preventing our slaves from going there."

"That is the defect in your policy. It is the existence of your system of slavery that makes you all this trouble." "As I told you of Miss Chandler, so it is with you, because you never lived in a slave State, and know nothing of their contented and happy condition. They have no care; if they are sick the doctor is sent for, and they are as tenderly cared for as our own children, and their doctor's bills are paid. I know if you would live here a few months you'd see these things very differently. You would see our slaves marching out to their work, singing their songs and hymns as merrily as if they'd never had a troubled thought in their heads. Here's my wife, born and raised in Massachusetts, and now she thinks as much of our institution of slavery as any of us who are raised here."

"If your slaves are so happy and contented, why do they make you so much trouble in their effort to reach Canada?"

"O, there's free niggers enough to be stirring up the devil in their heads; for their notions are not fit to mingle with our servants. And there's the good the colonization of these free negroes is doing. I know of one man that manumitted two of his slaves on purpose to have them go to Africa as missionaries; and there is the design of Providence in bringing those heathen negroes here to learn the Gospel plan by Christ, to save the dark and benighted heathen of their own country. We have reports from the two missionaries that I told you were set free for that object, and their master sent them off to school a year or more to fit them for their work."

"But why not give them all an opportunity of educacation, to enable them to read the Bible and books and papers. That would improve the race at home; and instead of sending them off, as you say, they would be preachers here among their people."

"I tell you that wouldn't amount to any thing, as there are but few that can learn any thing but work, and that they are made for. Their thick skulls show that they can't learn books; and if you knew as much about them as I do you'd see it too, but you are such an abolitioner you won't see it."