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

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[63] to sell her, and that she would have no objection — in point of fact, rather the reverse — to become my property, I bade the pretty, lively female slave farewell. She, like nearly all her class, was evidently the mistress of a white man. Evangelizing institution!

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The good ‘un and nice ole Gal.

I was leaning on the outside of the fence of a garden, a few miles from Charleston, in which an old man of color was working.

“ Then you've had — how many masters in all?” I asked.

“ Five, massa, al'degeder,” said the slave, touching his cap politely, as he had done a dozen times at least during the preceding three or four minutes.

“ Never mind touching your hat,” I said. “How many children have you had?”

“I's had eight by my firs' wife, and five by de second, and five by dis ole woman.”

He pointed to a negress who had just entered the garden. Her wool was grey, but she appeared to be twenty years, at least, her husband's junior. I saluted her.

“You ever been married more than once?”

“Oh! Yes, massa,” said the silver-grey woolly-head. “I's bin married once before.”

“ Had any children?”

“Yes, massa,” she said, “I's had five by dis ole man, and seven by de last un.”

“You are both Christians?” I asked.

“Yes, massa,” she said, “we goes to de church; we's not members ob de church, kase we's colored people, and dey won't let us be.”