to a post, until their toes barely touched the ground,
and whipped with a cowhide until the blood dripped from their backs. A
boy named Jack, particularly, I have seen served in this way more than
once. When I was quite a child, I recollect it grieved me very much to
see one _tied up_ to be whipped, and I used to intercede with tears in
their behalf, and mingle my cries with theirs, and feel almost willing
to take part of the punishment; I have been severely rebuked by my
father for this kind of sympathy. Yet, such is the hardening nature of
such scenes, that from this kind of commiseration for the suffering
slave, I became so blunted that I could not only witness their stripes
with composure, but _myself_ inflict them, and that without remorse.
One case I have often looked back to with sorrow and contrition,
particularly since I have been convinced that "negroes are men." When
I was perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, I undertook to correct
a young fellow named Ned, for some supposed offence; I think it was
leaving a bridle out of its proper place; he being larger and stronger
than myself took hold of my arms and held me, in order to prevent my
striking him; this I considered the height of insolence, and cried for
help, when my father and mother both came running to my rescue. My
father stripped and tied him, and took him into the orchard, where
switches were plenty, and directed me to whip him; when one switch
wore out he supplied me with others. After I had whipped him a while,
he fell on his knees to implore forgiveness, and I kicked him in the
face; my father said, "don't kick him, but whip him;" this I did until
his back was literally covered with _welts_. I know I have repented,
and trust I have obtained pardon for these things.

My father owned a woman, (we used to call aunt Grace,) she was
purchased in Old Virginia. She has told me that her old master, in his
_will_, gave her her freedom, but at his death, his sons had sold her
to my father: when he bought her she manifested some unwillingness to
go with him, when she was put in irons and taken by force. This was
before I was born; but I remember to have seen the irons, and was told
that was what they had been used for. Aunt Grace is still living, and
must be between seventy and eighty years of age; she has, for the last
forty years, been an exemplary Christian. When I was a youth I took
some pains to learn her to read; this is now a great consolation to