My life had its beginning in the midst of the most miserable,
desolate, and discouraging surroundings. This was so, however, not
because my owners were especially cruel, for they were not, as
compared with many others. I was born in a typical log cabin, about
fourteen by sixteen feet square. In this cabin I lived with my mother
and a brother and sister till after the Civil War, when we were all
declared free.
Of my ancestry I know almost nothing. In the slave quarters, and
even later, I heard whispered conversations among the coloured people
of the tortures which the slaves, including, no doubt, my ancestors on
my mother's side, suffered in the middle passage of the slave ship
while being conveyed from Africa to America. I have been unsuccessful
in securing any information that would throw any accurate light upon
the history of my family beyond my mother. She, I remember, had a
half-brother and a half-sister. In the days of slavery not very much
attention was given to family history and family records -- that is,
black family records. My mother, I suppose, attracted the attention
of a purchaser who was afterward my owner and hers. Her addition to
the slave family attracted about as much attention as the purchase of
a new horse or cow. Of my father I know even less than of my mother.
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