"Were you a slave?"
"Yes'm," and the old man gave a long sigh.
"Would you mind telling us about it? Ben and I never saw a person before from the South."
"Never did? There's a heap on 'em, wud 'jes like ter see ye. Long time awaitin', but de promise ov de Massa mus' be true," and again a thoughtful look came over his dusky face. "I don't mind tellin' ye a little if I ken. I was a slave in Carlina, an' I had a good massa, Miss; a fus-rate man, but he done tuk sick an' died, an' then—wh-e-ew," and he gave a long, low whistle, "thar cum sich a time thar; de ole woman she done no nuthin' 'bout de biznis, an' de big son he sell all de niggers an' get all de money, an' dars whar my trubbel begin. De nex' massa had de debbil fur his father, sure; nothin' go rite; made me go an' marry, fus thing, an' to a gal I didn't like, nohow. Little niggers come along, an' I done bes' I cud by 'em, but what cud I do? Nothin' at all; an' fus thing I knew—he'd done gone an' sold ebery one ob dat family, and den he mus' hab me marry agin. Dis secon' marriage was better'n that; fur I did like de gal mighty well. 'Pears like we's gwine to take sum comfort, and when we'd had de meetins to our cabin, oh! how we did jes pray fur dat freedom we hear'm tell 'bout—pray mos' too loud, for dat old Mas'r Sumner tink we's alltogeder too happy, an' den, he up and sold dat pretty gal ob ourn, what was jes risin' uv her fourth year, Miss, an' as pretty as could be. Dis broke my wife's heart, an' den he sold one more to a trader; and not long fur de wife an' two last' chilun was gone. Den I jes swore rite up, Miss—rite into dat Masr's face an' eyes—'I'm neber gwine to hab no more chilun,' an' he says to me, 'Matt, you got to do jes as I say,' an' I swear agin, an' he cuss and swear, an' then, I got sich a floggin'—Miss, but I didn't keer, an' I would never done as dat man sed, an' I 'spected to die, but a New Orleans trader cum dat way, an' I was sold, and Mas'r Sumner said, de las' thing, 'You'll get killed now, Matt.' 'All right, Mas'r,' I sed, 'de Lord is a waitin' an' He's a good fren, too,' an' off I went. Dar we wur in a pen in New Orleans, waitin' fur we didn't know what, an' on come a fever an' dat trader know he's got to die. Den, to make peace wid de Lord at the las't jump he done giv us all freedom, an' money to git us into dat great city ov New York; an' mine lasted me clean up to Misse Hungerford's door (Aunt Phebe), an' las' night, when I see dat nice room over thar an' that good fire, oh! my," and the old man buried his face in his hands and wept like a child, then looking up, he said, "Ef I cud only ahad my chilun in thar; 'pears de Lord Himself might ahelped me a minnit sooner—but dey is gone, all done gone, an' 'taint no use."
"You may meet them again, Mr. Jones; I hope we shall know each other there in that better country, and if we do you'll surely know and find them."
"Oh! Miss, that's the bery thing, it takes a load right off yere, when I think about it," and he laid his hand on his heart, "but I'd better be shufflin' off home, an' I'll tell you a heap more sometime," and as he went through the yard, I heard him singing "dat New Je-ru-sa-lem," prolonging the last word, as if it was too musical to lose.
I told it all to Clara, and she said:
"Oh! Emily, is he not one of God's children, and is it not true that all have that within which points to better things? How could the soul of this poor negro stay within his body if it were not for this hope that covers his troubles, and, like a lantern-light, throws a gleam into the path which lies before? I hope he will live now in comfort and die in peace. He must have been sent to you. Next time let me listen to his story." And she did, for the next evening we walked together over to his home, and spent two hours pleasantly enough.
Clara could not rest until sure of just how he could get along there, and finally made an arrangement with Aunt Peg to give him his meals when he should be there. The voice of the old man—he looked more than sixty years, but said his age was fifty, I think he did not know—quivered with emotion, as he said:
"Thank yer, mam, thank yer kindly, I'll tote a load forty miles for ye any day, and I kin tote pretty 'harbaneous' loads too."