and store up in Lincoln County, near Hustonville. Newton used to do
the hauling for my father with a large wagon and six-mule team. He
would often do the buying for the store and take measurements of
grain, and my father trusted him implicitly. Once a friend of my father
said to him, as Newton was passing along the street with his team:
"George, I'll give you seventeen hundred dollars for that negro." My
father said: "If you would fill that wagon-bed full of gold, you could
not get him." A few weeks after that Newton died. I remember seeing
my father in the room weeping, and remember the chorus of the song
the negroes sang on that occasion: "Let us sit down and chat with the
angels."

The husband of aunt Eliza was "uncle Josh," a small Guinea negro, as
black as coal and very peculiar. I always stood in awe of him, as all
the children did. I remember one expression of his was: "Get out of
the way, or I'll knock you into a cocked hat." The reason I had to
sleep with aunt Eliza, Betsy, my nurse, was only ten years older than
I was. Betsy was a girl given by my grandfather Campbell to my
mother when my father and mother were married. My mother was
a widow when she married my father. She had married Will Caldwell,
a son of Capt. Caldwell, who died in Sangamon County, Ill.,
he had freed his negroes and moved there from Kentucky. Will Caldwell
died after three years, leaving my mother with two children. Both of
them died at my grandfather Campbell's in Mercer county, Kentucky, before
she married my father.

I was about four years old when my grandmother Moore died. She
lived on a farm in Garrard County, about two miles from my father. She
used to ride a mare called "Kit." Whenever we would see grandma
coming up the avenue, the whole lot of children, white and black, ran