might break up his family arrangements. His
wife had three small children, one of them a babe, and the
proposed arrangements would leave her without assistance. He
told me he was not a man to be driven; and I answered that we
were well matched on that point, it would, however, be better
for us both to ascertain coolly how far we could agree. He began
by saying that he did not feel bound to sell the family, in
consequence of what he had written to G. Smith; for he had only
said that he might be induced to take four thousand dollars for
them. After some preliminaries, he proposed that I should have a
conversation with Sam; for he did not think he could be
prevailed upon to leave him. I assured him I should do no such
thing, until he and I had settled the question of dollars and
cents. I had no idea of presenting the cup of freedom to Sam's
lips, and then having it dashed to the ground. 'I do not
believe,' said I, 'that there is a man on these grounds whom I
could not induce to go with me from slavery; but if Sam has
objections, let me talk with his wife.'

"'No, that will not do,' replied he; 'she would go with you.'
'Yes,' said I, 'let me talk to your women of a mother's right to
herself and her offspring, and then see how many of them you
would find willing to remain in bondage!'

"After various pros and cons, we concluded a bargain, subject of
course to the parties being _willing_ to leave the 'patriarchal
institution.' Three thousand five hundred dollars were to be
paid, and both of us together were to have an opportunity of
conversing with Sam and his wife. The master probably felt so
confident that his slave would not leave him, that he had not
patience to wait the promised interview; for he popped the
delicate question to him alone. Sam had been informed of the
whole progress of the affair, from the time of G. Smith's first
letter; and he answered promptly that he would go so that before
I met him, that _difficult_ part of the business had 'ended in
smoke.'

"S. Worthington's disappointment was the greater because I had
told him that I had felt like one of old: 'If the woman will not
be _willing_ to follow thee, then thou shalt be clear from
this;' that I could go back with a quiet mind; and that the
consciences of my friends in Peterboro' would doubtless be