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

One day I visited the prisons of New Orleans. At one of them — a mere lock-up, if I remember rightly, for I have forgotten its name and exact location — the jailer, or an officer in the room where the records are kept, told me, in the course of a conversation, that there was “an old nigger inside,” whose case, as he pathetically said in his rough way, was “rather too d — d bad.” I asked to be permitted to see him. I was conducted up dark and filthy stairs, through a dark and dirty passage, and accompanied to the door of a perfectly dark cell — having an iron grating in its door.

“ There,” said the officer; “you call him; he's in there. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

I went up to the grating and looked in. The odor of the cell was revolting. The stench could not have been more sickening if the foul contents of a privy had been emptied there. I drew back in disgust.

Again I approached the door, and, seeing no one, called aloud to the invisible inmate of the cell.

A very old negro came up to the door and put his face against the grating. His wool was silvery; his face was deeply furrowed; his eyes were filmy with disease and age. I never before saw so very frail and venerable a negro.

He told me his story. He had belonged to the lawyer who denounced the doctrine of a Higher Law; had been sold, with all the other slaves on his country estate, or on one of his plantations; had been purchased by a person who had hired him out to the Mississippi steamers as a deck hand; and then was put up, at a public auction, with some other negroes, who comprised one “lot.” He was very sick and could not work. His new purchaser at first