I was born and raised in Augusta county, Virginia; my father was an elder in the Presbyterian Church, and was “owner” of about twenty slaves; he was what was generally termed a “good master.”  His slaves were generally tolerably well fed and clothed, and not over worked, they were sometimes permitted to attend church, and called in to family worship; few of them, however, availed themselves of these privileges.  On some occasions I have seen him whip them severely, particularly for the crime of trying to obtain their liberty, or for what was called, “running away.”  For this they were scourged more severely than for any thing else.  After they have been retaken, I have seen them stripped naked and suspended by the hands, sometimes to a tree, sometimes 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.