Burch had purchased him a few days before， and hadplaced him there until such time as he was ready to sendhim to the New-Orleans market. From him I learned forthe first time that I was in William’s Slave Pen， a placeI had never heard of previously. He described to me theuses for which it was designed. I repeated to him theparticulars of my unhappy story， but he could only giveme the consolation of his sympathy. He also advised meto be silent henceforth on the subject of my freedom，for， knowing the character of Burch， he assured me thatit would only be attended with renewed whip-ping. Thenext eldest was named John Williams. He was raised inVirginia， not far from Washington. Burch had taken himin payment of a debt， and he constantly entertained thehope that his master would redeem him—a hope that wassubsequently realized. The lad was a sprightly child， thatanswered to the name of Randall. Most of the time he wasplaying about the yard， but occasionally would cry， callingfor his mother， and wondering when she would come. Hismother’s absence seemed to be the great and only grief inhis little heart. He was too young to realize his condition，and when the memory of his mother was not in his mind，he amused us with his pleasant pranks.
At night， Ray， Williams， and the boy， slept in the loftof the shed， while I was locked in the cell. Finally wewere each provided with blankets， such as are used uponhorses—the only bedding I was allowed to have for twelveyears afterwards. Ray and Williams asked me manyquestions about New-York—how colored people weretreated there； how they could have homes and familiesof their own， with none to disturb and oppress them；and Ray， especially， sighed continually for freedom. Suchconversations， however， were not in the hearing of Burch，or the keeper Radburn. Aspirations such as these wouldhave brought down the lash upon our backs.
It is necessary in this narrative， in order to presenta full and truthful statement of all the principal eventsin the history of my life， and to portray the institutionof Slavery as I have seen and known it， to speak of wellknownplaces， and of many persons who are yet living.
I am， and always was， an entire stranger in Washingtonand its vicinity—aside from Burch and Radburn， knowingno man there， except as I have heard of them through myenslaved companions. What I am about to say， if false，can be easily contradicted.
I remained in Williams’ slave pen about two weeks.
The night previous to my departure a woman was broughtin， weeping bitterly， and leading by the hand a little child.
They were Randall’s mother and half-sister. On meetingthem he was overjoyed， clinging to her dress， kissing thechild， and exhibiting every demonstration of delight.
The mother also clasped him in her arms， embraced himtenderly， and gazed at him fondly through her tears，calling him by many an endearing name.
Emily， the child， was seven or eight years old， of lightcomplexion， and with a face of admirable beauty. Her hairfell in curls around her neck， while the style and richnessof her dress， and the neatness of her whole appearanceindicated she had been brought up in the midst ofwealth. She was a sweet child indeed. The woman alsowas arrayed in silk， with rings upon her fingers， andgolden ornaments suspended from her ears. Her air andmanners， the correctness and propriety of her language—all showed evidently， that she had sometime stood abovethe common level of a slave. She seemed to be amazedat finding herself in such a place as that. It was plainly asudden and unexpected turn of fortune that had broughther there. Filling the air with her complaining she washustled， with the children and myself， into the cell.
Language can convey but an inadequate impression ofthe lamentations to which she gave incessant utterance.
