Now do not doubt me--I mean that very gentleman, whose polished manners and irreproachable appearance might have led you to suppose him descended from a long line of illustrious ancestors.

Yes--he was the offspring of a mulatto field-hand by her master.

He who was now clothed in fine linen, had once rejoiced in a tow shirt that scarcely covered his nakedness, and had sustained life on a peck of corn a week, receiving the while kicks and curses from a tyrannical overseer.
The death of his master had brought him to the auction-block, from which, both he and his mother were sold to separate owners.

There they took their last embrace of each other--the mother tearless, but heart-broken--the boy with all the wildest manifestations of grief.
His purchaser was a cotton broker from New Orleans, a warm-hearted, kind old man, who took a fancy to the boy's looks, and pitied him for his unfortunate separation from his mother.

After paying for his new purchase, he drew him aside, and said, in a kind tone, "Come, my little man, stop crying; my boys never cry.