As we left the plantation, as far as we could see and hear, the Deacon was still laying on the gory lash, trying to prevent poor Malinda from weeping over the loss of her departed husband, who was then, by the hellish laws of slavery, to her, theoretically and practically dead.

One of the black-legs exclaimed that hell was full of just such Deacon's as Whitfield.

This occurred in December, 1840.

I have never seen Malinda, since that period.

I never expect to see her again.
The sportsmen to whom I was sold, showed their sympathy for me not only by word but by deeds.