James Redpath, The Roving Editor: or, Talks with Slaves in the Southern States.

“Massa, you needn't knock dar: open it.”

I turned round and saw — let me see (I am a judge of the price of colored Christians now)--say “ a ‘leven hundred dollar nigger” --standing between me and the fence, with his hat in his hand, and a very obsequious face on his shoulders.

“Look'e here, old boy,” I said, suiting my language to my company — the way to get into favor with it--“what d'ye take me for: a woman?”

“Oh-eh-eh! Oh! No, no, no, no, massa! Oh! No!” said the chattel timorously.

“ You don't, eh? Then put your hat on as quick as <*> mice. Never lift your hat to any one but a lady, and never do that if your wool isn't all fixed slick.”

The slave at once dismissed his dismal expression of countenance, and grinned rather than laughed aloud:

“Ah! massa! he! he! he! you isn't a slave; you kin do as you like; but ah can't do dat,” said Sambo.

“Are you a married man?”

“Oh, yes! massa; ah was married, but ah didn't like my old woman, and ah lives wid anoder now.”

“ Is your wife living?”

“Yes, oh, Yes, massa.”

“ You believe in the sovereignty of the individual — eh? old boy?”

“Dusseno, massa, what dat am,” rejoined the black.

（Stephen Pearl Andrews! do you hear that? Here is a colored personator of your doctrine of individual sovereignty, who “dusseno what dat mean, massa” Stephen. Enlighten him, pray!)