ne occasion I had a
fight with a little colored boy of my own age and I need not say got the
worst of it. My grandfather, who came up betimes and separated us, said,
"he has blackened your eye and he shall black your boots," thereafter
making me a deed to the lad. We grew up together in the greatest amity
and in due time I gave him his freedom, and again to drop into the
vernacular--"that was the only nigger I ever owned." I should add that
in the "War of Sections" he fell in battle bravely fighting for the
freedom of his race.

It is truth to say that I cannot recall the time when I was not
passionately opposed to slavery, a crank on the subject of personal
liberty, if I am a crank about anything.

IV

In those days a less attractive place than the city of Washington could
hardly be imagined. It was scattered over an ill-paved and half-filled
oblong extending east and west from the Capitol to the White House,
and north and south from the line of the Maryland hills to the Potomac
River. One does not wonder that the early Britishers, led by Tom Moore,
made game of it, for it was both unpromising and unsightly.

Private carriages were not numerous. Hackney coaches had to be
especially ordered. The only public conveyance was a rickety old omnibus
which, making hourly trips, plied its lazy journey between the Navy Yard
and Georgetown. There was a livery stable--Kimball's--having "stalls,"
as the sleeping apartments above came to be called, thus literally
serving man and beast. These stalls often lodged very distinguished
people. Kimball, the proprietor, a New Hampshire Democrat of imposing
appearance, was one of the last Washingtonians to wear knee breeches and
a ruffled shirt. He was a great admirer of my father and his place was a
resort of my childhood.

One day in the early April of 1852 I was humped in a chair upon one side
of the open entrance reading a book--Mr. Kimball seated on the other
side reading a newspaper--when there came down the street a tall,
greasy-looking person, who as he approached said: "Kimball, I have
another letter here from Frank."

"Well, what does Frank say?"

Then the letter was produced, read and discussed.

It was all about the coming National Democratic Convention and its
prospective nominee for President of the United States, "Frank" seeming
to be a principal. To me it sounded very queer. But I took it all in,
and as soon as I reached home I put it up to my father:

"How