This brings up one of my Southern reminiscences, which I will here briefly relate.  I was somewhat acquainted with a slave named Luke, who belonged to a wealthy man in our vicinity.  His master died, leaving a son and daughter heirs to his large fortune.  In the division of the slaves, Luke was included in the son’s portion.  This young man became a prey to the vices he went to the north, to complete his education, he carried his vices with him.  He was brought home, deprived of the use of his limbs, by excessive dissipation.  Luke was appointed to wait upon his bed-ridden master, whose despotic habits were greatly increased by exasperation at his own helplessness.  He kept a cowhide beside him, and, for the most trivial occurrence, he would order his attendant to bare his back, and kneel beside the couch, while he whipped him till his strength was exhausted.  Some days he was not allowed to wear any thing but his shirt, in order to be in readiness to be flogged.  A day seldom passed without his receiving more or less blows.  If the slightest resistance was offered, the town constable was sent for to execute the punishment, and Luke learned from experience how much more the constable’s strong arm was to be dreaded than the comparatively feeble one of his master.  The arm of his tyrant grew weaker, and was finally palsied; and then the constable’s services were in constant requisition.  The fact that he was entirely dependent on Luke’s care, and was obliged to be tended like an infant, instead of inspiring any gratitude or compassion towards his poor slave, seemed only to increase his irritability and cruelty.  As he lay there on his bed, a mere degraded wreck of manhood, he took into his head the strangest freaks of despotism; and if Luke hesitated to submit to his orders, the constable was immediately sent for.  Some of these freaks were of a nature too filthy to be repeated.  When I fled from the house of bondage, I left poor Luke still chained to the bedside of this cruel and disgusting wretch.

One day, when I had been requested to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, I was hurrying through back streets, as usual, when I saw a young man approaching, whose face was familiar to me.  As he came nearer, I recognized Luke.  I always rejoiced to see or hear of any one who had escaped from the black pit; I was peculiarly glad to see him on Northern soil, though I no longer called it free soil.  I well remembered what a desolate feeling it was to be alone among strangers, and I went up to him and greeted him cordially.  At first, he did not know me; but when I mentioned my name, he remembered all about me.  I told him of the Fugitive Slave Law, and asked him if he did not know that New York was a city of kidnappers.

He replied, “De risk ain’t so bad for me, as ’tis fur you.  ’Cause I runned away from de speculator, and you runned away from de massa.  Dem speculators vont spen dar money to come here fur a runaway, if dey ain’t sartin sure to put dar hans right on him.  An I tell you I’s tuk good car ’bout dat.  I had too hard times down dar, to let ’em ketch dis nigger.”