During my late incarceration in Baltimore prison, four men2 came to obtain a runaway slave. He was brought out of his cell to confront his master, but pretended not to know him— did not know that he had ever seen him before—could not recollect his name. Of course the master was exceedingly irritated. “Don't you remember,” said he, “when I gave you, not long since, thirty-nine lashes under the apple-tree? Another time, when I gave you a sound flogging in the barn? Another time, when you were scourged for giving me the lie, by saying that the horse was in a good condition?” “Yes,” replied the slave, whose memory was thus quickened, “I do recollect. You have beaten me cruelly without a cause; you have not given me enough to eat and drink; and I don't want to go back again. I wish you to sell me to another master—I had rather even go to Georgia than to return home.” “I'll let you know, you villain,” said the master, “that my wishes, and not yours, are to be consulted. I'll learn you how to run away again.” The other men advised him to take the black home, and cut him up in inch pieces for his impudence, obstinacy, and desertion—swearing
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