“What did you bring that negro back here for?” said he.

“We have come to try to buy his wife and child; for we can find no one who is willing to buy him alone; and we will either buy or sell so that the family may be together,” said they.

While this conversation was going on, my poor bereaved wife, who never expected to see me again in this life, spied me and came rushing to me through the crowd, throwing her arms about my neck exclaiming in the most sympathetic tones, “Oh! my dear husband!  I never expected to see you again!” The poor woman was bathed with tears of sorrow and grief.  But no sooner had she reached me, than the Deacon peremptorily commanded her to go to her work.  This she did not obey, but prayed that her master would not separate us again, as she was there alone, far from friends and relations whom she should never meet again.  And now to take away her husband, her last and only true friend, would be like taking her life!

But such appeals made no impression on the unfeeling Deacon’s heart.  While he was storming with abusive language, and even using the gory lash with hellish vengeance to separate husband and wife, I could see the sympathetic teardrop, stealing its way down the cheek of the profligate and black-leg, whose object it now was to bind up the broken heart of a wife, and restore to the arms of a bereaved husband, his companion.

They were disgusted at the conduct of Whitfield and cried out shame, even in his presence.  They told him that they would give a thousand dollars for my wife and child, or any thing in reason.  But no! he would sooner see me to the devil than indulge or gratify me after my having run away from him; and if they did not remove me from his presence very soon, he said he should make them suffer for it.

But all this, and even the gory lash had yet failed to break the grasp of poor Malinda, whose prospect of connubial, social, and future happiness was all at stake.  When the dear woman saw there was no help for us, and that we should soon be separated forever, in the name of Deacon Whitfield, and American slavery to meet no more as husband and wife, parent and child—­the last and loudest appeal was made on our knees.  We appealed to the God of justice and to the sacred ties of humanity; but this was all in vain.  The louder we prayed the harder he whipped, amid the most heart-rending shrieks from the poor slave mother and child, as little Frances stood by, sobbing at the abuse inflicted on her mother.

“Oh! how shall I give my husband the parting hand never to meet again?  This will surely break my heart,” were her parting words.