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

“Was your mother ever sold?”

“ No, sah, my mother neber was sold; she was raised dere and died dere.”

“ How many children had she?”

“ I can't say ‘xactly,” replied the slave, “let me count jist how many she had.”

He commenced with his thumb to count the number of his brothers and sisters on his fingers.

“ Maria,” he said, “dat's my sister dat I got a letter from home, the other day; Alice — shes dead — dat's two; Lea — I never seen her — she's dead — dat's three; I've had three sisters. Wash, dat's one; Hannibal, dat's two; Major and Jackson, dat's — let me, me — aint it four, sah?”

“ Yes.”

“Den, I've dree sisters and four broders — dat's — dat's a ”----

He could not finish the sentence. The intricate problem was beyond his arithmetical ken.

“Yes,” he continued, in reply to my questions, “sometimes slaves has got two names, and sometimes only one. My fader belonged to a widow woman, named Lucy Roberts. I knowed him as well as I know dat candle.”

This conversation occurred in a house occupied partly by colored people, during candle light.

“Dat's how I came to be called Roberts,” he said, “he took her name. After I left Roberts I belonged to Richardson. I was about six years old when I went to Mr. Richardson. I was a present from Roberts to him; dat's how I came to belong to him. I stayed wid him till ‘bout two years since — not quite two years; it's not two years till May. Den I was sold to dis ole man, my boss now.”