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THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 MICAJAH ANDERSON 
 
 OF EDGECOMBE COUNTY. 
 
 ■^-■^^•^ 
 
 BY HIIVISELF 
 
 -♦-•^^-♦- 
 
 IJ'ritteji from Dictation, 
 
 BY BENJAJIIN JOHNSON,' COLORED. 
 
 Ilk 
 
 OF LOGS BO RO TOWNSHIP 
 
 "\ Tarboro. N. C.: 
 
 J'ro/i/ )\'ni, <^l . JfeartKr"*- "Prinihif/ and 'PtihiishtHfy Moufc, Jfahi -sfveef. 
 
 1870. . 
 
.f 
 
 4 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 MicAJAH Anderson 
 
 OF EDGECOMBE COUNTY. 
 
 4 tm ¥ 
 
 BY HIMSELF 
 
 -^ am ¥ 
 
 Written from Dictation^ 
 
 BY BENJAMIN JOHNSON, COLORED, 
 
 Of LOGSBORO TOWNSHIP. 
 
 -♦■«^♦- 
 
 Tarboro, N. C.: 
 
 JTrom )f'M, i^i, mat'ne't IPt'inihif/ ami ihibUehing Mouse, Main 6tt'eei, . 
 
 1870. '^ 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 -4--^^-*- 
 
 This book is written and published in the sixty-seventh year of my 
 age. 
 
 In giving the main facts and incidents relative to my last wife, I do 
 so in a spirit of regret, rather than with a feeling of malice; and while 
 I cannot hope to remove or lessen the great sorrow which has overtaken 
 me in my old age, I trust that what I say in this book is enough to 
 vindicate me in the eyes of the world, and justify my conduct before 
 men. 
 
 The Lord has spared me to this time of life, and for his goodness and 
 mercy to me, I feel that it is my duty to give to the world some record 
 of a life that has not been without incident, as it has also been full of 
 trial and tribulation, but not without the great blessing of much 
 pleasure, and a share of worldly prosperity to reward my many days of 
 honest toil. Affection has been mine too, for I have known the love of 
 two faithful wives and twelve children. 
 
 I have long felt that I was called to come out from the world and 
 
 believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and I now feel that I am commanded 
 
 to do this work, and I should never be content to live, or die satisfied if 
 
 I did not perform it to the best of my ability. 
 
 L So in a spirit of Christian love I enter upon this task, dedicating my 
 
 ^work to all such as fear the Lord and love one another. 
 
 V MICAJAH ANDERSON. 
 
 n3 
 
 Edgecombe County, N. C, June, 1870. 
 
• THLE T^IFE 
 
 OF 
 
 MICAJAH ANDERSON. 
 
 -^ WAS born in Edfi;e combe county, 
 October, 1803, of very poor and 
 ->)-• humble parents. Indeed, I sup- 
 pose I came into the world as poor as 
 any one who ever lived in it. My 
 first recollection of my mother (my 
 father died when I was quite young) 
 was that she was toiling day and night 
 for the support of myself and broth- 
 ers and sisters, of which there were 
 two girls older, and two boys and a 
 girl younger than myself ; and the 
 first work I ever did was on the spin- 
 ning-wheel, assisting my mother, 
 "when I could not have been more than 
 five or six years old. 
 
 One day, when I was about six 
 
 or seven years old, my mother went 
 
 out to carry home some work she 
 
 had done for a neighbor, leaving me 
 
 at home with my baby brother, who 
 
 was just able to sit alone. We were 
 
 k living in a log house with a dirt floor, 
 
 ^and a few boards across the joists 
 
 ^■diich was called a loft. We were 
 
 ^Both crying of hunger, as we had 
 
 I often cried before, when I heard a 
 
 voice, which seemed to come throuo^h 
 
 the opening of the loft, saying : — 
 
 *'Watch the world and strive, and 
 
 you shall live !" Startled by this 
 
 unexpected voice in so strange a 
 
 place, I looked up to see if there was 
 
 not somebody in the loft, but finding 
 no one, my young heart became filled 
 with wonder, and as young as I was 
 I thought it must be the voice of the 
 Lord God, and I hushed my baby 
 brother — and from that day I bore 
 my lot uncomplainingly, and became 
 a dutiful child, working faithfully 
 for my mother until I was twenty- 
 one years old, a period of unceasing 
 toil with me, but not remarkable for 
 any incident worthy of mention 
 here. 
 
 On the twenty-first day of Octo- 
 ber, one thousand eight hundred and 
 twenty-four, I became twenty- one 
 years of age, and on the night of the 
 twenty- fifth, following, I was mar- 
 ried to my first wife, Nancy Newsom. 
 
 At this time I had not so much as 
 a bed of my own, nor anything to live 
 on only as I earned it, but we both 
 want to vfork, and we lived in love, 
 peace and prosperity seventeen 
 years, three months and ten days, 
 when it was God's will to part us. 
 My earthly substance at her death 
 was, I suppose, about two thousand 
 five hundred dollars, that we had 
 together accumulated. 
 
 About two years before the death 
 of my wife, I was brought to see my 
 lost condition, and to know that 
 
6 
 
 THE LIFE OF MICAJAII AXBERSOK 
 
 where God and Christ was, I could 
 notgo. This disturbed me so I could 
 take no rest, and I thought I would 
 try and pray, but it appeared to me 
 that the more I tried to pray the 
 worse I got, and in September that 
 mv wife died in January, following, 
 I lay down one night but could 
 not close my eyes in sleep for fear 
 that I should never wake again. I 
 was living at the Avington place on 
 Fishing Creek, and on the occasion 
 here alluded to, my wife was sitting 
 up before the fire. Pretty soon after 
 laying down I heard music like a 
 fiddle playing up stairs, and I 
 thou'^ht some one asked me who 
 is that playing the fiddle, and I re- 
 plied that it was James Avington, 
 and immediately I saw a flame of fire 
 in the east, and as I saw it I jumped 
 up out of bed and ran to shut the 
 door to keep the fire out of the house. 
 As I was going I saw four men com- 
 ing down stairs but I did not know 
 any of them except James Avington, 
 and I had never had any ac- 
 quaintance with him. xis I reached 
 the door my wife rose from the fire 
 place, and laying hold of me, asked 
 what was the matter with me, I re- 
 plied nothing. She answered : "Yes 
 there is, and has been for some 
 time, and I want you to tell me what 
 it is." But I insisted that there vras 
 nothing:, and went and laid down 
 a<yain. I never did tell her what I 
 saw and felt that night, and she 
 died and left me here in that way, 
 and it seemed to me that after her 
 death I was worse, for I was as 
 
 much concerned about her poor soul 
 as my own, and as anxious to know 
 what had become of her, as I was to 
 know what would become of me. 
 
 About ten days after her death I 
 was taken down sick, and it was 
 thought that I would die also, and I 
 felt that if I did, my soul would be 
 forever lost, and it appeared to me 
 that I could not live but for the 
 beautiful hymns I heard, the sweet- 
 est sounds I had ever listened to, 
 and which gave me hope that there 
 was still some promise for me some 
 time or other, and so I recovered 
 
 from mv sickness. 
 1/ 
 
 About the middle of Julv of the 
 same year I retired one night pray- 
 ing to Almighty God to show me 
 whether my wife was saved or not, 
 and I was carried into a place about 
 a half acre in size and as round as a 
 drum, and 1 appeared to be shut up 
 in this dark place with no chance of 
 escape, and I looked and beheld my 
 wife in a beautiful place, seeming 
 to me the most happy state of exis- 
 tence that I ever saw with my eyes, 
 and I struggled hard to make my 
 way to her, and I thought I got 
 near enough to speak to her, and I 
 said "Nancy, I want to lay my hand 
 on your pretty head ;" but she an- 
 swered, "you can't do that, 'Cajah,' 
 and in reply to my question why" 
 not, she said it was because of some 
 of my misconduct to her when living. 
 Immediately a door leading into 
 this beautiful place was opened and 
 I was taken in, and turning to my 
 ricfht 1 went straight to her, and 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAn ANDERSON. 
 
 laid my hand on her head, and this 
 was the happiest moment I ever ex- 
 perienced in my life, and I thought 
 and hoped that it would last me al- 
 ways. But since that time it has 
 been shown to me that I was not to 
 live that life while in this sinful and 
 wicked world, and I became so de- 
 sirous of living that life, I prayed 
 to the Lord both night and day that 
 I micjht so live here as to live that 
 life hereafter. 
 
 One day I was going from where 
 I live to the plantation, and there 
 came a voice to me saying that I 
 had never done the first good deed 
 in my life. This was a most dis- 
 tressing time to me, and I begged 
 and prayed Almighty God, there, to 
 show me the right way and to help 
 me do what was right. I was going 
 on from my house about a month 
 and a half aftervrards, and another 
 voice seemed to come to me that 
 what had been done for me I did 
 not do myself, and that I need not 
 expect to live in this world as though 
 I was in the world above, for I could 
 not ; and I then felt, that I was and 
 profess now to be, an old hard-shell 
 Baptist at heart ; but as St. Paul 
 says : ''The things that I would do, I 
 not, and the things that 1 would 
 't do, that I do, then it is no more I 
 tffat do it, but sin that is in the 
 flesh." 
 
 I do not want any one to think or 
 say that I write this to hurt the 
 feelings of the church, or the feelings 
 of anyone, but I do this to shov/ the 
 world the life that I have spent,. 
 
 how I lived two years, five months 
 and seventeen days, up to the time 
 I married Harriet Faithful, my se- 
 cond wife. 
 
 When I was married the second 
 time, I carried my wife home, and 
 she took hold of the same end of 
 the rope that my first wife had 
 turned loose by death, and we lived 
 together twenty years, five months 
 and seventeen days, and we throve 
 as fast as two house pigs put up to 
 fatten. 
 
 In her lifetime we often talked 
 together about our future state, and 
 I would ask her if she was willing 
 for me to ofi'er to the church, and 
 she always said she was, and she 
 would be glad if it was the will of 
 God that she might go with me, 
 and that was the reason that I never 
 offered in her lifetime, for I lived in 
 hopes that she would come sometime, 
 but she died and never did. 
 
 At the death of my second wife I 
 suppose I was worth twenty thou- 
 sand dollars in money and other 
 property. I make this statement to 
 show what she and I did in her life- 
 time, and in the time of her life we 
 were, including ourselves, twenty- 
 seven in family. She was the 
 mother of nine children, seven boys 
 and two girls, and eight of them 
 were living at her death, which 
 with four left by my first wife, made 
 twelve living children to me — eight 
 sons and four daughters. Now I 
 have five livino; sons and four daugh- 
 tors, but am only four in family. I 
 
8 
 
 TEE LIFE OF MICAJAU ANDEESOK 
 
 they are gone out from mc to fill 
 their places in the world. I tried 
 to raise them to knovr' how to get 
 their living hj the "sweat of their 
 brow," according to the laws of 
 their maker, for this is the way I 
 got my living, for no man or woman 
 has ever left me a cent, and I feel 
 quite certain none never will. I 
 have enough to last me as long as I 
 shall live, and I can truly say that 
 all I have or ever had given to me 
 was a gift from Almighty God, 
 *'from whom all blessings flow." 
 
 Four months after the death of 
 v>my second wife, I married her own 
 cousin, widow of Edward Fountain 
 — maiden name Mary Eliza Pittman. 
 She had one child, a girl, named 
 Mary Williford Fountain. It is now 
 six years since I last married, and 
 althou2:h I have been married three 
 times, I have had but two wives, for 
 the last woman I married' never has 
 been any wife to me at all. She 
 was the worst enemy, and most bit- 
 ter foe to me I have ever had in all 
 the days of my life. She is a mem- 
 ber of the Old School Baptist 
 Church, and belongs to the church 
 at Williams' meeting house. 
 
 I had been acquainted with her 
 for several years, knew her as a 
 member of the church and regarded 
 her as a christian woman, so I went 
 to see her. thinkinn; that she would 
 make a good wife to me, and I told 
 her that I had loved her as a chris- 
 tian and felt that I vrould love her 
 as a wife. We were married, and 
 on our way home she said there was 
 
 j one request she had to make, that I 
 never would prevent her from going 
 
 ' to preaching. I assured her that I 
 
 I never would, and that it was the 
 very last thing I could think of do- 
 ing ; further told her that I hoped 
 it would not be long before I should 
 go into the church with her. She 
 Seemed satisfied, and expressed the 
 
 I hope that I might soon become a 
 
 [ member. 
 
 I On the morning of the sixth day 
 I after we were married, I went into 
 ! the garden to prepare a place for 
 ; bedding potatoes, which I selected, 
 I and by the time we had got it ready 
 breakfast was announced, after fin- 
 ishing which I remarked to her that 
 i I had put some eating potatoes in 
 { the hill with the plantings, and 
 wanted her and the children to come 
 i into the garden and pick them out 
 ; and take care of them. With her 
 little girl and my two little daugh- 
 ters she came after a w^hile, but had 
 not been there long before I had 
 occasion to scold the boj's at work, 
 both white and black, for playing 
 around the bed and idling their 
 time; when she flew into a nassion 
 i and said if there was to be a fuss on 
 
 ['the plantation about work, she would 
 I leave, but I paid no attention to whj 
 I she said, and went on to comph 
 my work. 
 
 When she first came to my houso^ 
 
 she told my two little girls that si 
 
 vras going to learn them to card and 
 
 spin. But she had no time to do 
 
 1 so, and I did not expect her to do 
 
 ! it, but her daughter was old enough 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAU ANDERSON. 
 
 and larire cnou^li to learn them ; 
 but she would neither work herself 
 or show the others how, nor her 
 mother never tried to make her do 
 anything. One day I reminded my 
 wife that she had promised to teach 
 my girls how to work, and she re- 
 plied in a violent fit of anger that 
 she would when she got a chance ; 
 and so for a month, and better,things 
 went on, and I named to her again 
 that I thought she was going to put 
 the children to work, and that I 
 could not stand their idleness any 
 longer. She then affirmed that the 
 children should not have her cards 
 to abuse and wear out, and I told 
 her there were some cards in the 
 press, I thought, and if there was 
 not, why 1 would get some, and then 
 she took the cards and set my oldg 
 esu daughter to spinning and her's 
 to cardinn;. When she first becran 
 I suppose she carded about one 
 ounce a day, and from that she got 
 down to a quill a day, and from that 
 to nothing. 
 
 Finding that my wife would do 
 nothing for the instruction of my 
 little girls, but en the contrary en- 
 couraged her daughter to idleness, 
 thereby laying a bad example 
 for my children whom I was anxious 
 should be raised to habits of. indus- 
 try I one evenino;, weisrhed me 
 out two ounces of cotton and that 
 night carded it myself. The next 
 
 \ 
 
 morning I took the rolls to the 
 wheel, fixed one on, and called my 
 little girl to come and let me learn 
 her how to spin. She began to cry, 
 
 but I hushed her, and then her step- 
 mother fell into one of her violent 
 fits of anger, and said that the child 
 would not be put on in this way if her 
 mother had lived, that putting her 
 to work this way would not have 
 been thought of in her life time. I 
 ' reasoned with her calmly that she 
 ought not to set such examples be- 
 : fore the children, that she knew 
 ^ they ought to be at work, and that 
 I their mother had several months ago 
 I spoken to William Weeks for a lit- 
 I t]e wheel for them, which was done 
 at her death. But she would not 
 hear to reason, became more vio- 
 lent and declared that I was only 
 pursuing this course to make little 
 of her before the children and the 
 servants on the place. I told her I 
 did it that mv children mi^ht be 
 taught to work, and that as no one 
 else would I must teach them my- 
 self. With that her dauorhter de- 
 
 o 
 
 clared she would not work, that 
 there were negroob enough on the 
 plantation to do all the work ; 
 and her mother ripped out that 
 she should not work, that she did 
 not come there to work but to live 
 a fine lady, and she intended that 
 she should be raised one. 
 
 From anything I may say in this 
 
 book of another, the reader must 
 
 I not infer that I claim perfection for 
 
 I myself. On the contrary, it must 
 
 i be remembered that I have been a. 
 
 bad man — as far from perfection as 
 
 it was possible for most men to be, 
 
 and I could not consent to speak of 
 
 I the faults of another, without mak- 
 
10 
 
 THE LIFE OF 21LCAJAU AXBEllHON. 
 
 ing full acknowledgments of my 
 own short-comings. And I also 
 make the further acknowledgement, 
 that in the differences and difficul- 
 ties between my last wife and my- 
 self, I was often as much in fault as 
 she was, but I desired to do right, 
 and tried to live in peace and har- 
 mony Avith her, and would have 
 done so, had she been as ready to 
 overlook my faults as I was to ac- 
 knowledge them ; as ready to own 
 herself in the wrong, as I was to for- 
 give her. 
 
 And I owe it to the sacred mem- 
 ory of my two first companions to 
 say here that, my conduct, often in 
 their life-time, was enough to have 
 tried a saint, and but for their kind 
 and forgiving natures, under the 
 severest trials and provocations, I 
 must have fallen, long ago, beneath 
 the weight of wrongs wrought by 
 my own hands ; and in recognizing 
 the sorrow that has overtaken 
 me in my old age, the hand of God 
 laid upon me for the offences of my 
 earlier years, wdth an humble and 
 contrite spirit, I acknowledge His 
 great goodness. His perfect justice 
 and loving kindness to the way- 
 ward sinner, among whom, as St. 
 Paul says, " I am chief. " 
 
 God grant the tears of grief that 
 water eyes already dimmed by years, 
 that flow from a heart withered by 
 time and bowed beneath a load of 
 sorrow, may atone for misspent 
 years ; and may my afflictions final- 
 ly prove my salvation ; for the Lord 
 is good, and " hath no pleasure in 
 
 the death of him that dies. " And 
 when our pilgrimage on earth is 
 ended, may we, who have been so 
 rudely separated on earth, so un- 
 happily mated in this life, meet in 
 Heaven to share the joys of eternal 
 life; and may they who have been 
 so ready to magnify the differences, 
 and widen the breach between my- 
 self and her whom I solemnly vowed 
 to love, honor and protect, find that 
 forgiveness in Heaven which I shall 
 leave them here. For, " with malice 
 for none and charity for all, " I 
 shall leave this world, cherishing 
 for mankind feelings of the most 
 perfect love and friendship. 
 
 The next night I weighed me out 
 some more cotton, and went in one 
 of the rooms of the house to card it, 
 leavincr her in the other room. Pat- 
 
 o 
 
 rick Lawrence was there that night, 
 and heard everything that passed 
 between us. Eliza began to talk in 
 great wrath, and said, among other 
 things, that she did not intend to re- 
 main with me any longer, for what I 
 was then doing w^as only to make 
 little of her ; that the work I was 
 about would not pay for the wear- 
 ing out of my breeches. I told her 
 that if I wore out my breeches, they^ 
 cost her nothing; and I kept oi 
 until I had carded upwards of five^ 
 pounds of cotton, and by this time 
 the oldest of the tv>-o girls had 
 learned how, and I then told her 
 she must learn her sister to card and 
 spin, which she did, keeping their 
 woric separate, which I locked up to 
 show how much each one did. In 
 
THE LIFE OF MIC AJAR ANDERSON. 
 
 11 
 
 the meantime, Eliza's daughter was | and when he was killed in the war, 
 doing nothing but idling about, | he had by both of his wives seven 
 studying to make mischief between ' children, and five of these, with 
 her mother, myself and the rest of their grandmother, Mrs. Pittman, I 
 
 the family. I have known this 
 daughter to misplace some article of 
 
 settled on my premises to take care 
 of. The house in which Mrs. Pitt- 
 
 her own or her mother's, thimble or i man and her and my grandchildren 
 scissors, for instance, and declare, in I lived, was about one hundred and 
 the most innocent yet earnest manner fifty yards from my residence, and 
 that they were lost, or that some , there Eliza spent most of her time, 
 mem^ber of the family had had them, : preferring the company of her step- 
 and after pretending to look every- ; mother to mine. If anyone came to 
 where in the most anxious manner ■ visit at my house, Eliza would take 
 imaginable, and after making all the | them to Mrs. Pittman's, hardly al- 
 disturbance she could in this way, I lowing them to spend any time at 
 she would find the missing article, all with me, and if she did not re- 
 when she and her mother would ' main away all night, she would re- 
 both declare that some one about [ turn home at a late hour, going to 
 the house was always interfering ■ bed as softly as she could ; never 
 with their work, hiding their things j speaking to me if she could help it. 
 and trying to tease the life out of | On the morninc; succeedino; these 
 ^^^^'^' I visits, she would rise early, with 
 
 When I would be called off from one of her fits of passion on her, 
 home, to town for instance, this girl and you might hear her tongue all 
 was busy the live long day to invent I over the plantation. She has been 
 some story to tell her mother ! heard in one of these outbreaks of 
 against my return, and the moment anger at Mrs. Lane's which is more 
 she would see me coming home, she than a quarter of a mile from my 
 would run to her mother saying, j house, and she scandalized the 
 " mother, papa is drunk ; papa is ! neighborhood, and alarmed every 
 
 drunk. 
 
 moth 
 
 er. 
 
 body with the tormenting noise of 
 
 ^ They would then take themselves I her fiery tongue. 
 
 Both off to old aunt Polly Pittman's, \ \ have tried to talk to her, and 
 
 ^ho was Eliza's step-mother, widow j prevail on her to control her tem- 
 
 of her father, and there they would 
 generally remain all night, telling 
 everybody they saw, that I was at 
 home dead drunk. 
 
 My son, Micajah, first married a 
 daughter of this Mrs. Pittman, but 
 she died, and he was married again, 
 
 per; that my feelings were hurt to 
 the shedding of tears by such con- 
 duct, and that I could not stand it; 
 and when I would attempt to rea- 
 son with her thus, she would place 
 her hands on her hips and walk ofi', 
 uttering no word but " pshaw, 
 
12 
 
 TEi: LIFE OF MICAJAJI AXDEBSOX. 
 
 pshaw; " and instead of trying to 
 improve, she seemed to get many 
 times worse. 
 
 At my meals I had no peace, she 
 was forever flinging out some sharp 
 words at meal time, to wound mv 
 feelings, make me mad, and keep 
 me away from the table. When, 
 on occasions of this kind I reproved 
 her, the best I knew how, and vrith 
 as little show of anger as possible, 
 she would turn her back on me, 
 lean her head on her arms up 
 against the mantel piece, and speak 
 not a word as long as I remained in 
 the house, but the moment I was 
 gone, she would begin to scold and 
 quarrel after me. 
 
 One day after dinner, I took a 
 seat near the kitchen door, and her 
 daughter came and sprung on the 
 kitchen door and slammed the milk 
 house door four times. One of my 
 grand-daughters came and did the 
 same thing, when I remarked to 
 them, it was a pity they could not 
 break it down, and then the door 
 would be already open, for I had 
 never seen a door opened and shut 
 so much in my life. Eliza hearing 
 me, came to the door and said she 
 could never send to look for any- 
 thing without a fuss ; and I repb'ed 
 that she did not stay at home long 
 enough to look for anything. — 
 Whereupon, she flew up and said 
 if she had ever eaten any stolen 
 meat, she had eaten it at my house. 
 I jumped up, angry myself now, 
 and went into the kitchen, and 
 asked her if she had ever eaten any 
 
 stolen meat, or anvthinc: else stolen 
 at my house. She said she had 
 not, and the reason she spoke as 
 she did, was because some one had 
 said that two very larse hojrs I had 
 were stolen. Had she intimated 
 again that I had stolen anything, I 
 will confess here, that I should have 
 struck her, though I did not tlireaten 
 anything of the kind on the occasion. 
 After this, it was four weeks that we 
 never spoke to each other, and I 
 never intended to speak again un- 
 less she asked my pardon. 
 
 This was about the second week 
 in iSTovember, and she and her 
 daufjhter be^ran to carrv her thini^s 
 to Betsey Pittman's, unknown to 
 me, but I found out what they were 
 doing, but did not let them know 
 that I suspected anything of the 
 kind. One morning early, after a 
 cold rain the niofht before, she 
 started off with a turn, barefooted. 
 After going about a quarter of a 
 mile, she came back, and went into 
 the kitchen, shivering with cold and 
 took a seat before the fire. The 
 cook told her that she would kill 
 herself; and she replied she did not 
 care if she did. In about five min- 
 utes r>fter she had thus spoken, they 
 had to take her up and put her to 
 bed. I was sent for to come to the 
 house, that Eliza was dying, and I 
 opened my mouth to tell the boy 
 not to go for the doctor, but let her 
 die, but my conscience rebuked me, 
 and I felt that I ought to return 
 good for evil, and I sent for the 
 doctor in great haste. In the mean- 
 
 i 
 
THi: Life of micajaji axijFIison'. 
 
 13 
 
 time, I went to her and found that 
 she was as cold as ice, and the only 
 way I could discover she had any 
 life in her, was bj placing my hand 
 on her heart. I had some hot 
 
 As soon MS she got up again, 
 Charlotte Pittman asked her if she 
 was going to leave. She said she 
 was not ; that I had asked her to 
 forgive me, and she had done so, 
 
 bricks placed around her, and get- and I had forgiven her. But this 
 
 ting some brandy, opened her mouth did not last long. The first out- 
 
 and gave her about half of a large | break after our reconciliation was 
 
 glass full. She remained speech- j about «oap. 
 
 less and insensible for some time 
 
 longer, when I gave her some more 
 
 of the brandy, and in a little while 
 
 she began to revive, and by the 
 
 time the doctor got there she could 
 
 talk. 
 
 o 
 
 The doctor advised me to con- 
 
 When I first carried her home, I 
 had a barrel, holding some thirty- 
 two or three gallons, that had been, 
 as was my custom once a year, 
 filled with soap made at home. — 
 But by lending and giving as she 
 did, the soap was out before it should 
 
 tinue giving her stimulants, and \ have been half gone, and then she 
 left some medicine for her. I was \ informed me of the fact by telling 
 just as attentive as I knew how to j me that I must get some concen- 
 be, and she felt it, for in helping , trated lye. I told her that I never 
 her to turn over one day, she threw i had bought any soap or concen- 
 
 her arms around my neck, and 
 begged m^e to forgive her. I told 
 her I should forgive her, but I could 
 
 trated lye, and never should ; and 
 if the soap had been properly taken 
 care of, there would be plenty still 
 
 \ 
 
 not forget her; and I asked hereon hand. She declared that our 
 why she said what she did the last ; clothes might drop off us then, for 
 time we had spoken, and she re- ! she would not wash any more until 
 plied that she did not believe that I I got some soap or some concen- 
 had stolen anything, but that she trated lye. But she managed to 
 said so because she was angry at wash through the balance of the 
 having heard that I accused her of year, when I had ashes prepared 
 stealing from me. I assured her j for another year's supply of soap, 
 that I never had thought of such a ■ Now, my wife began to worry me 
 
 thing, for what was mine was hers, 
 and it would be impossible for her 
 to steal from herself. I then begged 
 her not to let anything so unplea- 
 sant take place between us again. 
 She said it should not, but from 
 that day we would live as a dutiful 
 and loving man and wife should. 
 
 by the mcinner in which she man- 
 aged the table. When anything 
 was cooked she would select the 
 most choice pieces of whatever was 
 prepared, and lock it up in the milk 
 house, and neither I or my little 
 girls could get anything out of there, 
 but her daughter could go when 
 
14 
 
 TEE LIFE OF MICAJAH AXDEBSOX, 
 
 and as often as she pleased, but if i must never use any rails of mine 
 mine came round they were driven j again that came on his land, even if 
 off, and told that there was nothing the water should carry off every 
 
 for them. Visitors were treated to 
 the best from the milk house or 
 dairy, but me and my children were 
 refused everything but such as we 
 could get. 
 
 None of the negroes were fed 
 from the kitchen but the cook, and 
 she was given or took just what she 
 wanted. She had a son living 
 about a mile from my house, named 
 Lewis Hines, the same that was 
 hung in Tarboro last January for 
 committing a rape on a young lady 
 in the county. He came to my 
 
 rail he had on his plantation. 
 
 My wife, Eliza, was Kcdding 
 Pittman's own aunt, and when I 
 happened to mention that Redding 
 had taken my rails and left me with- 
 out any, and I thought it very 
 mean in him, she bursted out that 
 it would never have been done, had 
 I been a man of my word ; and 
 when I asked what she meant, she 
 replied that I did not let Redding 
 have that land as I promised.. I 
 admitted that I did not let him have 
 the land, because he did not come 
 
 house almost every night with his ; up to his promise, and he did not 
 tin bucket to be filled with provi- \ come to me about it afterwards as a 
 
 sions, and when his mother did not 
 have anything to give him, he would 
 corae up to the yard fence, and 
 Eliza would go out to him and tak- 
 ing his bucket to the milk house, 
 fill and return it to him. I after- 
 wards learned that the year, before 
 he lived so near me, lie used to come 
 
 man should. He approached me on 
 the streets of Tarboro, in company 
 with his cousin Joseph Pittman, but 
 I did not consider that he had com- 
 plied with the contract, nor did I be- 
 lieve he would, so I refused to have 
 anything to do further in the mat- 
 ter, for which he abused me very 
 with his bucket from Mr. David i much. 
 
 BuUuck's, but at the time all this | WhenEliza found that I would 
 was going on I had no idea of such j not let Redding have the land, she 
 a thing. I began to kick up a great dust. — 
 
 During a heavy freshet in the ; She said her first husband was a i 
 creek, considerable of my fence was | sm.art man, and a man of his word, " 
 washed away, and the rails were and so was her father. She went 
 carried on the land of Betsey Pitt- on in this way at great length, until 
 
 I ordered her to shut up, and went 
 and laid down, as it was getting late 
 in the night, but she kept on in her 
 usual style for sometime. After 
 awhile she came to bed, but had 
 scarcely laid down, before she 
 
 man, and her son. Redding, took 
 my rails out of his field, and used 
 them on his own fence. I knew the 
 rails when I saw them, for they 
 were new ones. I saw him about 
 the matter, and told him that he 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAIi A XI) ER 8 OX. 
 
 15 
 
 opened on me again bj saying she 
 and hers, had never stole a pocket 
 handkerchief, and I said to her, in 
 great anger, I admit, that if she did 
 not stop going on in that way, I 
 should certainly punish her, and as 
 I moved on the bed, she jumped 
 out, declaring that I had struck her. 
 I asked her then if she, ever knew 
 me or mine to steal a handkerchief, 
 and she replied it had been done ; 
 and upon further questioning, she 
 said that one of my little girls had 
 stolen Betsey Pittman's handker- 
 chief. 
 
 Upon inquiry, I ascertained that 
 my little girl had found a handker- 
 chief belonging to some one, and 
 put it in a pocket of one of her 
 dresses that hung up in her room; 
 that she told her step-mother about 
 it, and Betsey Pittman afterwards 
 claimed it. 
 
 Some time before this, I discov- 
 ered that some one had been going 
 in my chest, and I could not account 
 for it, as I had the keys in my 
 pocket. I then counted my money, 
 which I kept in there. One Satur- 
 day morning, I returned from feed- 
 ing my hcgs, and found Eliza and 
 her daughter gone to preaching at 
 William's meeting house, and going 
 to my chest found it unlocked, and 
 taking out my pocketbook, I found 
 that one five dollar note was miss- 
 ing. I could not think how this 
 was, for I always carried the keys 
 in my pocket, and it occurred tome 
 that there were a great many small 
 keys about the house, and that some 
 
 of the children had got one that 
 fitted to the lock, bui I could find 
 no key anywhere that would open 
 the chest. I remembered that Eliza 
 had lately been to the store and got 
 a new trunk, and I went to the 
 trunk and with my chest key, un- 
 locked it. I locked the trunk again, 
 and said nothing about my discov- 
 ery. I thought I vrould hold the 
 knowled2;e I had o;ained over Eliza 
 as a sort of check to her conduct, if 
 I found it necessary to mention it, 
 but I wished to keep the matter a, 
 secret, never to go beyond us two. 
 So when she began to accuse my 
 child of stealing, I asked her who it 
 was that went into my chest and 
 took out five dollars of my money. 
 She stoutly denied any knowledge , 
 of the circumstance, and affirmed 
 that it was neither she nor hers. I 
 told her that I was not so sure about 
 that, and here the matter ended for 
 that night ; and I indulged the hope 
 that I should have peace and quiet 
 at home thereafter. 
 
 But the next day, as I was box- 
 ing up some meat I had promised 
 Eider Robert Hart, Betsey Pitt- 
 man with Joe Pittman's wife, I 
 think, came to my house, and walked 
 into the kitchen where Eliza was. 
 I could not understand what Eliza 
 was saying in the conversation they 
 carried on, but I distinctly heard 
 Betsey say, " Lord, aunt Eliza, how 
 do you stand it ? " 
 
 Dinner was pretty soon an- 
 nounced, and I was called to go in, 
 but I did not go, for my heart and 
 
16 
 
 THE LIFE OF MICAJAJI AXLEESOK 
 
 stomach was full enough without line about the size of a man's fin- 
 eating dinner. ger, and she looked rather frighten- 
 After a little, Betsey and Joe's i ed, but I told her not to be scared, 
 wife came out in the yard where I ^oi" I ^^^ not mean to hurt a hair on 
 was, and asked me how I did. I j lier head. There was a pole resting 
 told them I did not do welL That 1 in some forks in the yard, and over 
 I was not so well in body, and my | this 1 threw the rope telling her to 
 mind was terribly upset, for her come where I wa?, but she would 
 aunt Eliza's conduct was such that | not, and I went to her, and holding 
 I should never bo able to live with 1 one end of the rope in my hands, 
 her ; that we should be bound to \ the other I dropped on the ground, 
 part. They both went back into j asking her as I did so to pick it up, 
 the kitchen where Elisa was, and \ ^vhich she did. Then 1 told her to 
 having finished my work, I took a pull, saying : *' You know, Eliza, 
 seat at the foot of an oak in the \ that if we put this rope over any- 
 yard. Soon after Betsey and her , thing and pull upon it, after awhile, 
 aunt Eliza came out to where I was, | it vriU wear in two and drop us 
 
 and Betsey said, '^ Mr. Anderson, 
 
 down. The end I have is the part 
 
 what are you going to do with aunt you ought to have hold of and pull 
 
 Eliza ? " I replied that I should ! ^ith me. " 
 
 try to live with her the balance of i She then told me she was coming 
 
 the year if I could, after which I ; for her things in the morning, and 
 
 should put her into a house off to j I promised her I would carry them 
 
 herself, or I proposed to do so. — ; for her, and the next morning she 
 
 Eliza spoke up and said she could came sure enough. 
 
 get her a place, and asked me if 1 1 ^^^^^,^ beginning to move, I said 
 
 would move her things. I answered 
 her that I would. Betsey Pittman 
 and Joe's wife, or whoever it was, 
 then went off home, and Eliza went 
 witb them. 
 
 to her that I wanted her trunk key 
 a moment, and she gave it to me. — - 
 I took it, and going with her to my 
 chest, I put the trunk key into my 
 
 lock, and unlocked it, the same a& 
 She remained away twelve or ! ^y own key, but it would not lock 
 thirteen days, when she returned again. I said, you see that, don't 
 and sent for me down in the plan- you. She said she knew it was not 
 tation. When I got to the house, | her child, for she never let her have 
 I found her sitting down between \ the key, which was not the truth, as 
 the two houses, and when I spoke , i knew, and she was well aware 
 to her she snapped me up, and ap- ! that I knew it too, for ever since 
 
 peared to be very mad, but said she 
 had got her a place. 
 
 I then went and got me a small 
 
 she had been at my house, the 
 daughter had keys and everything 
 else she wanted, and did as she 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAII AXDEF.SOJ'r, 
 
 17 
 
 pleased with everything, and went 
 when and where she pleased. For, 
 
 It seemed sinful to me then, to 
 bear malice, and I felt that I never 
 
 although not more than nine years could come to strike a woman, so I 
 old when I married Eliza, the made up my mind to go and see her 
 
 daun;hter had always been ahead of 
 the mother and had to be mistress 
 
 brother, for I could take no rest of 
 m}- life, under such a load of trouble. 
 
 she said so, and whatever she said 
 she must have, she had,- 
 
 and master of the plantation when I got ud to the door without beino- 
 
 seen hj anyone; and I thought they 
 all appeared frightened Avhen they 
 
 The morning I moved her to her ' saw me so suddenly at the door. 
 
 brother's, Wesley Pittnian, I sent I spoke to Mrs. Pittman, and asked 
 some support for her, »nd thought her to come out to me a moment, 
 
 I would continue to feed her, but a 
 second thought took me, that I 
 would be doing wrong to make my 
 
 motherless children work for another ! Elira 
 
 and not be afraid, for I did not 
 come there to hurt anyone, but to- 
 talk quietly and peacefully with 
 
 and she doing neither they or my- 
 self any good, and after she found 
 thai I y»'ould do nothins: more for 
 her, she boasted that she would 
 
 Vv'hen I looked in at the door 
 again, Elisa y,'as gone. I asked the 
 girls where she was, and they said 
 they did not know — that she had 
 
 make me do it, and she actually be- ! j'JSt that minute stepped out. Going 
 lieved she could compel me by law I to the other door, I saw Eliza going 
 
 to support her. I wrote her that I 
 should not give her any further sup- 
 plies so long as she remained away 
 from me ; that when she had eaten 
 what I had given her, she would 
 have eaten the last provisions of 
 mine she ever would, unless she 
 came home to live. 
 
 In the letter of reply, she stated 
 that she was entitled to a support 
 from me, and she w^ould make me 
 support her. This made me so mad 
 that I determined to go over to her 
 brothers and whip her, and I got as 
 
 down a lane, towards the woods. I 
 called after her to come back ; that 
 I did not v/ant to hurt a hair of her 
 head, but I had eome to talk with 
 her. She turned 'round and came- 
 back, and as she walked up to the 
 door, I called her hj name, and told 
 hei; never to turn her back on me 
 again; that when she did, she turned 
 her b:ick on the best friend she ever 
 had, except her poor old father. I 
 told her if she was what she pro- 
 fessed to be, and I what I had hope 
 to believe I was, I knew we could 
 
 far as my daughter's, Lucy Pitt- '^ive together, and I wanted her to- 
 man, who married another brother g^ »3fick home with me, and let u& 
 
 of Eliza's. Lucy persuaded me not 
 to go about her — to let her alone ; 
 and she knew quite as much about 
 Eliza and her child as I did. 
 
 try to live the way we ought to live 
 the fe\^ days we had on ecrth, in 
 peace and happiness, as man and 
 wife should. 
 
18 
 
 THE LIFE OF^ICAJAU AXLERSOX. 
 
 She answered that if she went ' had no time for such work, there 
 back, it would be the same case over \ ^vere children enough on the place 
 
 f +1.^ .i^,,-i 1. ,.1 r>,,^,,^v.f „o i to do it ; and you know I have often 
 asain, tor the devil had broujzht us ' ^ j 
 
 together ; and I said, on my part he 
 did not. Then she went on to say 
 
 told you if 3"ou could not churn, to 
 
 pour the milk in a trough for the 
 
 ^, ^ • ,1 11^. AA ' do^irs and thereby save bread, 
 
 that no woman in the world coind ° -^ 
 
 Buit me ; that I was always going I ^ S'-^i^ to her then let bygones be 
 on about her wastefalness. Then I ^Jgo^es, and now I want you to go 
 told her that if she would hear to ; ^^o^^ig ^^^ ^^T to listen to me, and 
 me, I would go to the smoke house j ^^^^^ things I tell you to go by, go 
 and barn myself, and then there ' ^7 ^^^^^' ^^'^ ^^^'s both see if we 
 would be no\vastefulness, and no : can't both do better hereafter, 
 room for any dissatisfaction on that i then left for home, saying what 
 
 score. She then charged that I had 
 ruined the character of her child. — 
 I reasoned that I had not — that if 
 
 day I would be there again, and I 
 wanted her brother to be at home. 
 I went at the appointed time, and 
 
 ruined at all, it had teen done be- j going with her brother and his wife 
 fore I had anything to do with her, j into the house where Eliza was I 
 for, assheknew, I daresn't speakto ' told her howd'ye, and asked her 
 or correct her in anything from the ! bow^ she came on. I told them all 
 day she came to my house; that if I I wanted to give them a history of 
 reproached her, she would fly into a \ my life, and what I had experienced, 
 passion, and thus she had always \ I hoped the Lord had done for my 
 upheld the child in everything, poor soul ; and I said pray for me 
 whether right or wrong. all of you ; and if you see any wrong 
 
 I said to her you have not treated | in what I have done, please let me 
 me with proper respect — not with i know it. I then gave in my experi- 
 the respect you have shown the ne- ence to them ; and after getting 
 
 groes on the plantation ; for you 
 know I don't drink sweet milk,*but 
 
 through, I asked them for the Lord's 
 sake, if you see any wrong in it, let 
 
 I love butter milk just as well as me knoAV it, and straighten me if I 
 
 anything I can get hold of, and I 
 have not had any this whole year 
 
 am wron-g. AYesley and his wife 
 both said they saw no wrong; and I 
 
 but twice, for instead of your churn- | said to Eliza, if you are what you 
 ing the milk, you gave it to Betty, profess to be, and I am what I pro- 
 and it was carried down among the fess to be, I know we can live to- 
 negroes, and what they could not ' gether, because we are both one, 
 drink was given to the hogs. She just like Christ Jesas ; and she 
 said she had no time to churn, was agreed to go back home again ; and 
 the reason she had never done any it seemed to me that I loved her ten 
 more of it. I said if you found you i times better than I ever had loved 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAII AXBEBSOy'. 
 
 19 
 
 her in my life. IVIj love fcr her 
 was so great I could not help kiss- 
 ing her on the spot. 
 
 I sent for her, and she came back 
 home, and I says to her, now, 
 Eliza, I want you to take my ad- 
 vice and not 2:0 to flvinor into those 
 pets, when I go to say anything to 
 }'0u or I speak to your child to cor- 
 rect her, for I don't do it out of any 
 harm to the child, but for her own 
 good, and your benefit, as well as 
 mine. 
 
 She spoke and said she would not, 
 and she knew she had done wrono-, 
 for she never suffered so much trou- 
 ble before in her life as she had 
 since she had left me. I told her 
 she had not suffered a grain more 
 than I, for I had been suffering a 
 long time before she left me. 
 
 And I said, now, Eliza, I'll tell 
 you what I wish you to do. I have 
 got a cook hired here for you. Let 
 her do your cooking, washing and 
 scouring, and you have nothing to 
 do but give out provisions and at- 
 tend to things about the house, for 
 cooking and washing is something 
 you never done for yourself or the 
 rest of the family, and I want you 
 to take your sewing and come and 
 sit with me under the oaks, where I 
 can see you and talk with you ; and 
 she said she would. I said to ber, I 
 hoped and trusted in the Almighty ! 
 God that it would never be the case 
 again that she would turn her back 
 on me, for to me it always seemed 
 the most sinful thing in the world \ 
 for a man and his wife to come to- 
 
 gether and then have to part, be- 
 cause they are then not only apart 
 in this Avorld but in the world to 
 come, for in the world to come, 
 where God and Christ is, they can- 
 not meet to dwell together. She 
 said to me it should never be the 
 case again ; and she took her chair 
 and went and sat under the oaks 
 with me every chance she could get. 
 And poor old aunt Polly Pittman, 
 she would come down there and sit 
 witii us and talk with us and hear 
 us talk, and she seemed to be just 
 as glad of our being together again, 
 and as happy with us as she could 
 be, for it seemed to me she loved to 
 hear us talk, I believe the poor 
 old woman was a christian woman, 
 and is, I hope, this day in Heaven 
 at rest. Just before she died, she 
 desired to hear preaching, and Jor- 
 dan Johnson, he came to my house 
 and preached, and that day she gave 
 in her experience to him and some 
 other members of the church who 
 were present. 
 
 Just before that time Eliza had 
 got into one of her tantrums, and the 
 old lady must have died very much 
 dissatisfied about it, from the con- 
 versation she had with me, for she 
 had heard the promises Eliza made 
 me, some of which I will repeat. 
 
 I told her that I would give her 
 the same chance that I had given 
 my two poor wives before her ; that 
 she might have all the butter she 
 made ; all the chickens she raised, 
 and all the tallow that came out of 
 the cattle we killed, except so much 
 
20 
 
 TRE LIFE OF MICAJJJI AXDEFSOX. 
 
 of each as was necessary for our own 
 family purposes. At the same time 
 I observed to her that, being a wo- 
 man, I supposed she had feeling 
 enough to give a portion of these 
 things to mj poor little children, 
 and she remarked that she would do 
 so, but that my grand-daughter being 
 older than they, she must be given 
 thus and so. But she couldn't 
 think for a moment that I had any 
 faith in her statement, for she was 
 perfectly aware that I knew my 
 grand-daughter would never get it, 
 for she had already given every- 
 thing to her own daughter. How- 
 ever, I told her that it was mj de- 
 sire to divide those things among all 
 the children equally, and not that 
 one should have all and the remain- 
 der get none ; and she faithfully 
 promised me that my wishes should 
 be carried out — that she was really 
 ■willing to do so, and that her own 
 views upon the point fully accoided 
 with my own. 
 
 But the sequel proved that she 
 falsified every promise she ever 
 made me, and for cause that will ex- 
 plain itself to the reader, I will now 
 refer to her • conduct immediately 
 after our marriage. Scon after 
 that event we commenced attending 
 church together. I went with her 
 four times, but she behaved so out- 
 rageously on these occasions that it 
 ■was no pleasure to me to accompany 
 her. It was no satisfaction to leave 
 home quarreling and return in the 
 same manner — I couldn't bear it — 
 so after awhile I quit going to 
 
 church with her. Some time after 
 this, I asked her which she had 
 rather do, " Take a cart and go to 
 meetin', or ride horseback ? " She 
 snapped me up and replied, that 
 she'd rather ride horseback ; so she 
 went in that manner twice, and then 
 took to ;2;oin;^ afoot with her dau<ih- 
 ter. On Friday nights she would 
 wash, arrange her clothes, &:c., and 
 on the following mornings, before I 
 could feed my ^rock and get back to 
 the house, she would be ofif and 
 gone. 
 
 Sometimes she would go off tear- 
 ing mad just after twelve o'clock on 
 Friday, and at these times she 
 would really appear as if she "was 
 crazy. Generally at such times no 
 one Avould say a word to her, but on 
 one occasion the cook asked her 
 what in the world she went off mad 
 in that way for, and came back 
 home so angry, and she replied to 
 the cook, that she belonged to the 
 church, and was obliged to do it. 
 
 One Sunday, she and Betsey 
 Pittman went to church together 
 (they went in the cart, I suppose, 
 for they caire back that way,) and 
 in the evenincr after thev returned, 
 I asked Betsey Pittman who 
 preached that day, and sho told me, 
 and then went on to tell me that 
 folks had been talking of me that 
 day. I enquired what they had 
 been talking about me for, and she 
 said it was because I gave Eliza no 
 better chance than I did to go to 
 church. I said, they may talk on, 
 I didn't care, for Eliza had as good 
 
TEE LIFE OF MICAJAR ANDERSON. 
 
 21 
 
 a chance to go to meeting as she did 
 tefore I married her. 
 
 I had heard before that the peo- 
 ple generally, as ^vell as her own 
 relations, were talking this thing, 
 ■wherefore it does seem to me that 
 cinyone not altogether blinded can 
 fiee through the whole business. 
 
 And now to the" great fortune 
 «he made by marrying me : After 
 tree's surrender, I was ordered to 
 go forward and take the oath of al- 
 Ipfriance, (I called it that day the 
 insokent oath, and a great many 
 found it such.) and I did so on ac- 
 count of the colored people. After 
 I had taken the oath, I went home 
 and into the house where Eliza 
 was and teld her that our negroes 
 were free, and that we had agreed 
 upon the price I should pay thera 
 for their labor. I told her that I 
 should like for mine to stay with 
 me as I had my crop planted, but if 
 they wanted lO leave they could do 
 so, as I could make enough to eat 
 without them. She then began to 
 rave and rant, and declared that 
 -when the negroes, and especially 
 Betty, the cook, left, she would 
 leave too. At this point I went 
 <iown to the field where the negroes 
 were, and told them they were all 
 free, but that if they would remain 
 with me, I would give them so much 
 (naming the different sums) and 
 they agreed to stay; and all did 
 stay but one. I then went back to 
 the house and hired the cook for 
 Eliza. On the next day one of my 
 white boys did something that he 
 
 ought not to have done, and I began 
 to chastise him for it, when Eliza 
 walked up with her hands on her 
 hips, and remarked that losing my 
 property would drive me distracted, 
 and that I had only brought her to 
 my house to make her a negro for 
 myself and my children. 
 
 I replied that I hoped it would 
 not drive her distracted before it 
 did me ; that as for myself, my pro- 
 perty was all paid for — paid for by 
 my honest industry, and not ac- 
 quired by cheating, stealing, robbing 
 or marriasjo. She then went on to 
 say that before she would remain at 
 my house and cook, and wash and 
 such, she would go to the poor 
 house and stay there, and die. 
 
 It was not long after I married 
 her before she began to lament her 
 fortune, and to express fears that 
 her daughter would lose all of her 
 thinscs that she brouojht with her, 
 but I told her to put her daughter's 
 things away — that I did not want 
 them. 
 
 All of Eliza's worldly goods, ex- 
 cept a "bofat," I carried home in two 
 carta, and could easily have carried 
 the *' bofat, " but Eliza said there 
 wasn't room for it in the -house. — 
 She talked and fretted so much 
 about the loss of her property, that 
 I went to Tarboro, saw John Nor- 
 ilee't, and got him to write me a 
 will, in which I gave her 50 acres 
 of land, with a house upon it (the 
 same in which I now live), and the 
 effects she had when I married her, 
 and one year's provisions. When 
 
9v) 
 
 THi: LIFE OF JIICAJAII ANDFLSON.. 
 
 She returned home from Wesley 
 Pittman's, her brother, I told her 
 what I had done, and she seemed 
 entirely satisfie(>^ and certainly 
 ought to have been, for the rent of 
 the land itself, would have been a 
 plenty of support for herself and 
 daughter — more than thcj had ever 
 had before in their lives. 
 
 When I married Eliza, her chi'd 
 was a county charge, and its mother 
 was receiving two dollars from the 
 county for its support. Of course I 
 meant to help her maintain her 
 child, and our neighbors all around 
 were contributing to its support, 
 although at that very time her child 
 was large enough to earn a liveli- 
 hood for itself. 
 
 When Eliza came back from her 
 brother's and made me such fair 
 promises, I began to go to meetin' 
 with her again, and went alone with 
 her four times. I never in all my 
 life had so much confidence in 
 Eliza as I did at this time, and it 
 was all owing to the many fair 
 promises she made me. I loved her 
 greatly and felt like I could eat her 
 up from affection, if I knew it 
 wouldn't hurt her. For the four 
 months following I had all the plea- 
 sure I ever saw with her. In this 
 time we went to hear Jordan Johnson 
 preach once, and I never heard a 
 sermon in my life before that did 
 me so much good. It lifted up my 
 faith and hope so much that I felt 
 like I had been changed from na- 
 ture to grace, and told Eliza so.- - 
 While I was telling her of it, Jor- 
 
 dan Johnson rode up, and coming 
 to my right, I told him he had done 
 me more good that day, than ever 
 before in his life, and he said he was 
 glad of it, and I told him 1 would 2!;o to 
 see him before raanv davs. That 
 was on Saturday. The following 
 morning I arose from bed, dressed, 
 went out and fed my stock, returned 
 and ate mv breakfast. I intended to 
 go to preaching that day, and see- 
 ing no preparations that way on 
 Eliza's part, I asked her if she 
 wasn't goinn; to meetin'. She re- 
 plied that she felt so sore and bad 
 that she couldn't go. I said, " Oh, 
 do go with me, Eliza ; after start- 
 ing, you will feel better, I hope ; 
 now you'd better come and go." — 
 She replied that as long as I wanted 
 her to go she would. So we both 
 went to meetin' tosrether. 
 
 On Monday morning she arose, 
 went into the kitchen and began to 
 fuss and rail. She said before she 
 would stay in such a mess as was 
 there (at my house) she would go 
 into the woods, and remain there 
 till she died, because I had only 
 brought her there to make a wait-, 
 ing-girl of her. 
 
 This language filled my heart so 
 full that I thought it would break. 
 Breakfast was now ready and I 
 went in to eat. As I sat down to 
 the table she was leaning over the 
 fire place, with her back to me. I 
 drank a cup of tea, but ate not a 
 mouthful. I then went out of the 
 house, and her tongue streightway 
 bec'an a^-ain. I now sot a chair 
 
THE LIFE OF mCAJAlI AXBFRSOX. 
 
 Z6 
 
 and went off in the yard about sixty 
 feet from tin kitchen and sat down. 
 While sitting there, I sai.l, "Lord, 
 is it possible that Eliza has begun 
 her old sinful wa^^s again. 0, Lord, 
 stand by me, and b'e with me, and 
 help me to stand the hard trials and 
 persecutions in this unfriendly 
 world. " Soon I went off to the 
 plantation, and remamed there, I 
 suppose, about two hours, when be- 
 cominfr very ^veak and weary I re- 
 turned to the house, took my chair 
 and aiiain sat down near where I 
 sat two hours before. [She was 
 still rantins:.! Eliza had a rooster 
 that she called "Pete," and the 
 very moment I sat down, that 
 rooster came to me, stared me in 
 the face and crowed. I shoo-ed 
 at him — he ran off a little wav, and 
 for awhile I thought nothing of it. 
 But soon he came back, stared at 
 me asiain, and becjan to walk arcund 
 me, and crowing all the time. — 
 While Pete w^as crow-crowing, Eliza 
 was ran-insr and rantins;. 
 
 One day in the kitchen she began 
 her railing, and said before she 
 would stay there, and cook and do, , 
 and do and cook for such a parcel 
 of hound-dogs as we, she would go 
 in the woods and live under a pine- 
 bark shelter, for if she stayed there 
 she knew she would die and go to 
 hell. A few days after this as she 
 was passing by me, I said to her, 
 " Eliza, the way 3'ou are going on 
 on this plantation surely will kill 
 me, for my poor heart must break 
 from trouble. " She made no re- 
 
 ply, but simply turned her back on 
 
 me, saying " pish, pish, " 
 
 In January I went to Whitaker's 
 
 turnout, leaving her at home in her 
 
 tantrums, and being greatly dis- 
 
 tiGssed in my mind, at the moment 
 
 of starting I took a pretty good 
 
 drink, and arriving at "Whitaker's I 
 
 took a little more. I drank too 
 
 much, I confess, but going back 
 
 home that evening I pestered, no 
 
 one, but after sitting up awhile, 
 
 went to bed. I had no sooner 
 
 struck the bed than Eliza said that 
 
 I her first husband was a smart man, 
 
 I and so, too, was her father, and that 
 
 ' she wouldn't stay there any longer. 
 
 I tokl her to go then ; and she threw 
 
 open the door and darted out. It 
 
 made me so angry that I arose from 
 
 the bed, put on my clothes, and put 
 
 out after her. On the way to aunt 
 
 Polly Pittman's, where I found her, 
 
 ^ I got me a cotton stalk, with which 
 
 ' I struck Eliza twice when I came 
 
 I up with her. As soon as I struck 
 
 I my wife she broke away, and I then 
 
 told her- to go home, but instead of 
 
 obeying my orders, what does she 
 
 do but goes to Betsey Pittman's. — 
 
 Now the folks over there had been 
 
 threatening pretty heavily what 
 
 they w^ere going to do if I didn't 
 
 mind, so there was a piece of iron 
 
 that we had for a fire-stick at our 
 
 house, so I just took that along 
 
 ' with me as 1 went out to seek Eliza 
 
 * 
 
 over at Betsey Pittman's, with the 
 
 determination that if anybody else 
 
 interfered in this (strictly family) 
 
 ' matter between me and my wife, I 
 
24 
 
 TUB LIFE OF MICAJAII AXLEnsOS 
 
 •would wear 'em out to a frazzle. I ' ried mo, she never sa\Y the time 
 didn't find her there, however, but when she didn't have shoes to put 
 if I had, would have punished her i on — shoes good enough to keep her 
 severely. She remained away sev- ! feet from the ground ; and what in 
 eral days, and I advertised her. — | the world she meant by leaving 
 The day after the advertisement ap- them off so much, I couldn't for 
 peared she returned home. While | inj li^'-' tell. Sometimes when I 
 she was absent, same mysterious | would tell Eliza she ought to put 
 power seemed to say to me that it j lier shoes on, she would reply that 
 was my duty to hold devotional ex- I she v/ould when cold weather came. 
 
 ercises in the presence and hearing 
 of my family every nip^ht, and upon 
 
 and maybe at that very time the 
 weather was as cold as it ever gets 
 
 Eliza's return home, the same power i to be. 
 
 told me that I should not only do I hired my daughter, Susan Den- 
 her no harm, but sboull pray for \ ton, to weave two webs of cloth that 
 her instead. I followed the advice ' ^1 little motherJess children had 
 of the mysterious power. spun (I think she told me there 
 
 One nio-ht as I sat before the fire 
 
 were forty-eight yards in tie two 
 
 she came in and sat down facing j pieces), and after she had finished it 
 me, and said to me that I was al- ' Eliza cut off eleven yards. Where 
 ways going down on my knees to the balance went, the reader can 
 pray, but as fo-r herself, she never i guess (?) after awhile. Eliza's 
 before heard anybody pray for any- } daughter then takes the cotton that 
 one except the elect. I .did not re- 1 old aunt Polly Pittman and my little 
 
 ply to her, and she jumped up and 
 ran out of the house. After this I 
 did not practice my devotions in her 
 presence. 
 
 motherless children had spun, and 
 wave her a web of cloth of eleven 
 yards. Next she takes ever so 
 much butter — I can't begin to say 
 
 My wife would go out barefooted i how much : over fifty pounds of tal- 
 and barelegged (her fi'ock tucked | low, and my children's cloth, and 
 away up above her knees) to milk | goes with them — the two lots of 
 the cows, a quarter of a mile from j cloth, butter, tallow and all — to 
 the house, and the neighbors seeinej Mr. Robert Austin's, to trade, 
 her in this unseemly condition, 
 would enquire why in the world she 
 went without shoes, and she would | such things as she wanted, and she 
 reply that she had no shoes— that | put oS" for some other store. She 
 I neither would give her any shoes | came back soon, however, and I 
 nor go to preaching with her. All asked her if she had done her busi 
 
 But she pretended that she couldn't 
 get there, for my little girls' cloth, 
 
 of which mas just as arrant a 1 — fib 
 as ever was told. After she mar- 
 
 ness, and she said she had. I en- 
 
 ' 4 
 
 quired how much she received for 
 
TEE LIFE OF MICAJAE ANDEBSOK 
 
 25 
 
 inv little girls' cloth, and she said 
 she got thirty cents a yard. Very 
 well. 
 
 I had, sometime before this, dis- 
 covered that my children and I were 
 getting very bare as to shirts, and I 
 told them that if they would spin 
 the cotton, I would buy a bunch of 
 warp, and we could all have shirts. 
 
 This day I bought a bunch of 
 cotton, and Eliza bought one, too. 
 When we returned home, the finery 
 Eliza's daughter had purchased had 
 to be shown aU around, of course. 
 Among the articles were two yards 
 of calico at fifteen cents a yard, two 
 Shaker bonnets at forty cents each, 
 and two belts at ten cents each^ 
 and these were the goods, wares 
 and merchandise, all told, that she 
 gave my little girls in exchange for 
 their eleven yards of cloth ; keep- 
 ing the entire proceeds of the other 
 cloth, butter, tallow, &c., for her- 
 self and her daughter. 
 
 The bunch of cotton she bouo;ht 
 that day she sent away, and where 
 her's went there went mine, and I 
 have not seen or heard of it to this 
 day. Two or three days from that 
 time, I asked Eliza if she supposed 
 that I was such a fool that I couldn't 
 see throuo;h her doinojs. I told her 
 that she had been robbing my poor 
 little children, and that she had 
 never been the woman to give them 
 even the wrappings of her finger in 
 all her life. Lady of the plantation, 
 and both master and mistress of the 
 premises, as she was, she bought for 
 herself a fine worsted dress, a very 
 
 fine hoop skirt (the one she had was 
 not big enough — it wouldn't spread 
 out enough for her), a pair of fine 
 shoes, and other gay riggin' to match 
 her dress. 
 
 Off the balance of the web of 
 cloth remaining, she would slip a 
 piece at a time, until she made way 
 with all of it, except enough for 
 three pairs of pants, and lining for 
 a coat and waistcoat. One piece of 
 it she took, she said, to make her 
 daughter a jacket, but afterwards 
 thought to make it for herself, but I 
 don't believe she did it, for I never 
 saw her have it on. 
 
 A great (?) legacy fell to Eliza 
 from her grandmother Pittman's es- 
 tate, of which her brother Wesley 
 was administrator. When Wesley 
 paid over to Eliza her full share of 
 the estate, he gave her the full sum 
 of two dollars. Well, when the 
 great legacy was received, Eliza 
 and her'n had to go to the store to 
 spend it. Among the things she 
 bought was a fine dress and a right 
 smart of other riggin', and all 
 of it with those two dollars. [Of 
 course she had been robbing Peter 
 to pay Paul — and you may guess 
 who Peter was.] 
 
 The legacy having all gone, they 
 took up another plan of operations. 
 My little girls were spinning cotton 
 for our shirts, as I have mentioned 
 before, and just as fast as they could 
 spin it, Eliza and her daughter 
 would slip it ofi" and make way with 
 it. In the meantime, my children 
 and I were getting almost naked, 
 
26 
 
 rUE LIFE' OF ?dICAJAU AXIJEESOX. 
 
 so much so that Eliza had to turn 
 in to mending our ragged garments. 
 While so employed, she Avas ever- 
 lastingly complaining that she had 
 to be m.ending and patching old 
 dirty rags all the time. Yes, she 
 said, it's patch and do, and do and 
 patch; cook and do, and do and 
 cook ; patch and cook, cook and 
 patch ; patch, cook — cook, patch — 
 patch — pacch ; and, she added, I 
 am not agoing to do it any longer, 
 for he just brought me here anyhow 
 to make a niircrer of me. 
 
 "CO 
 
 While my "svife was thus fuming, 
 her lady daughter would strut 
 around the house savino;, *' Me and 
 mother are agoing away after this 
 year ; after this here year, me and 
 mother are agoing away ; and I 
 don't know what in the world you 
 Avill all do then — that I don't. 
 
 "We will now enter upon the 
 chicken question for the purpose of 
 showing up her daughter's charac- 
 ter in that line. Liza and her girl 
 had their chicken coops three or 
 four steps from my meal house, and 
 jier j?irl she v/ould mix up vrater 
 and meal and throw in the coops — 
 and keep throwing in— until ihe 
 whole yard would be just as sour. — 
 And sometimes when the dough in 
 the chicken coop would be fully an 
 inch thick, she would go into the 
 house and te:l her mother that she 
 must go and feed the chickens for 
 she knew they were hungry. And 
 Liza would always tell her daugh- 
 ter to go and feed the chickens. I 
 ijtood this thin;:^ as lon^r as I could. 
 
 so one day, in a very friendly sort 
 of way, I told Liza there wasn't 
 any use in throwin2!; thinn;s away in 
 \ that sort of a style. I told lier 
 just to go and look in the coop and 
 see how much meal was wastinir. — 
 
 t o 
 
 ■ I told her we couldn't sret alonfj; 
 
 : and live, and things going on so. 
 
 She replied very snappishly that 
 
 I there was nothing in the coops but 
 
 I meal bran, and that I couldn't ex- 
 
 ! pect little chickens to eat meal bran, 
 
 \ for they couldn't stand it. I 
 
 couldn't stand this wasting of meal 
 
 in such a fashion, and I resolved 
 
 that I wouldn't. 
 
 But to the chicken question 
 
 acrain. When Liza first; came to 
 
 my house, she brought with her 
 
 I three hens, one ot which they called 
 
 j the ^' Old Blue Hen. " [Xow I 
 
 candidly believe that I had two 
 
 blue hens when Liza first came to 
 
 my house.] W^ell, her daughter 
 
 could set the old blue hen whenever 
 
 she pleased — provided she could 
 
 get eggs to put under her. ^Vhen the 
 
 old blue was sittin^f the dau";hter 
 
 would not let her come off her nest 
 
 j to be fed, but she would pile up the 
 
 ' feed around htr — as much bread, 
 
 : (fcc, as a man could eat. When she 
 
 ! would hatch, and come off her nest 
 
 I with her little chicks, her brood 
 
 would be^-in to increase in numbers 
 
 every day, and it happened in this 
 
 T^-ay. When any other hen on the 
 
 place would hatch, this daughter 
 
 would inform her mother of the 
 
 fact, and declare that this ether hen 
 
 was killing her chickens, and that 
 
 they ought to be taken away from 
 
THi: LIFE OF 3IICAJAJI AXDFRSOX. 
 
 Ti 
 
 1 5 J 
 
 her and put "with " old blue's 
 
 chicks, and — it was done. And 
 
 that's the -way Liza and her lady 
 
 daughter got all the chickens. 
 
 In the spring of '67, I asked mj 
 Tvife not to try to raise many chick- 
 ens, for corn was so high and scarce 
 that the fowl business wouldn't pay. 
 I was then paying seven and a half 
 and eight dollars a barrel for all the 
 corn consumed in my family, and of 
 course I wanted to live as savincrlv 
 as possible. But she continued to 
 let" the hens set and hatch chickens, 
 but not only that she trained them 
 to go into the meal-house, where 
 they would scratch and wallow in 
 the meal until it was not really fit 
 to be eaten. Besides the meal- 
 house got to smelling so badly that 
 it could be scented over the whole 
 yard ; indeed it smelled as badly as 
 carrion, from bad eggs and such. — 
 But enough on this point until we 
 reach '' Pete " again. I was so 
 much upset in mind about these 
 things that I went to Cotton's meet- 
 ing house on the following Sunday 
 to see William Bell, and get him to 
 talk to Liza. I told him I wished 
 him to come to my house on Friday 
 before the third Sunday in April, 
 but did not let him know what I 
 wanted with him. He promised to 
 come, and did so, but found my wife 
 so sick that he did not stay with 
 me that night ; and I did not see 
 him again until after Liza left me. 
 I saw him next at brother John's, 
 where I spoke to him about her 
 leaving me, and about her conduct 
 
 generally, and told him that it was 
 •on account of these matters that I 
 had desired to see him when I in- 
 vited him to my house. I wanted 
 him to remonstrate with her upon 
 j her behaviour, and thought that a 
 I round lecture from him might do 
 her fTOod. 
 
 The Friday before the third Sun- 
 day in April, my daughter had sent 
 me a mess of fresh fish, and on Sat- 
 urday morning, while my two little 
 girls were in the kitchen helping to 
 get breakfast, I saw Liza's ladv 
 daughter in the house, and I .told 
 her to go in the kitchen and assist 
 the girls in preparing breakfast, so 
 that they could get through quickly 
 and go to their work. I was sitting 
 on one side of the door at the time, 
 and jumping up she passed by me, 
 remarking as she passed that she 
 wasn't going to run her legs ofi" for 
 anybody. I quietly retorted that 
 there wasn't the least danger of her 
 losing her lower limbs in that way. 
 But she went on to the kitchen, and 
 placing some of the fish in the fry- 
 ing pan she put the pan on the fire, 
 and there let it remain until the fish 
 were completely burned up, and she 
 then threw them away. I told her 
 to put away two of the fish until her 
 mother was well enough to eat them. 
 
 Divers times Eliza would set her 
 lady daughter to mind what was 
 cooking, but instead of attending to 
 her business she would take her seat, 
 and sit still until everythino- was 
 burned up, and then whatever it 
 was, Eliza would carry it ofi' to the 
 
1^ 
 
 TEE LIFE OF JIICAJAH AXLEIiSOS 
 
 gardcD, throw it away, and then get and leave vou here. Upon this her 
 more. I frequently talked to them , daughter went oft', remained away 
 about such wastefulness, but they about four days, and then came 
 always replied that they didn't care ^ back. The morning after her re- 
 
 — they didn't have to provide for 
 our common wants. I never said 
 more to them, because I knew if I 
 did that it would only make matters 
 worse. 
 
 The following Sunday morning 
 — the morning after the fish were 
 burnt up — Eliza filled the dinner- 
 pot with water, placed it on the fire, 
 and then went out to milk the cows. 
 "When she returned to the house. 
 
 turn she came walking up to the 
 kitchen where her mother was, and 
 I asked her (I was sitting in the 
 door of my dwellingj if she had 
 come back t3 run her legs o^. She 
 made no repl}'. I then remarked 
 to her that it had been reported by 
 her mother, and her relatives gen- 
 erally, that I had not treated her 
 as a member of the family. Such 
 was the fact I said, but shall not be 
 
 her daughter met her at the door | so in future, and now, says I, if you 
 and informed her that some one had j don't go to work and behave your- 
 been taking her water from the pot. I self, I will give you one of the 
 
 . 1st whippings that ever a girl 
 
 My wife grew wrathy then, and said d — 
 sure enough somebody had taken wore. Her mother then began to 
 her water. She further said that I rail terribly, but I said nothing to 
 had just carried here there to make her — not a single word, 
 a waitin^l-frirlof her. I said nothing But I told Mary Williford, her 
 to this, but told her girl that she lady daughter, that if her mother 
 ouo^ht to have gone after water for j was to die that she had not a single 
 her poor old mother, instead of per- ! relative with whom she could find 
 mitting her poor old mother to do | a home, for they all knew her too 
 so. I told her that she had not only | well. That day, after our talk, she 
 not done as she ouo^ht to have done, j took to work, and spun about four 
 but that she was forever trying to \ ounces of cotton. She commenced 
 
 make a disturbance en the planta- 
 tion. 
 
 I further remarked to her that I 
 
 spinning again the next morning, 
 but left ofi" at twelve o'clock, and 
 went over to my son John's, who 
 
 was firmly resolved to put a stop to i married her cousin, and there she 
 such conduct. Hereupon Liza be- remained, I think, until the follow- 
 
 gan to storm and said to her daugh- 
 ter that she bad better go right off 
 and find another home for herself ; 
 that she knew she could do it, and 
 she wanted her to do it, for said 
 Liza, I should never die satisfied 
 
 ing morning, when she came back. 
 She brought with her a web of 
 cloth of fourteen yards, which she 
 was to weave for her cousin, and 
 she did weave it in just fourteen 
 days — I know for I took note of the 
 
Xni: LIFJE OF MICAJAII AXLERSOls 
 
 29 
 
 time. When she finished the web ' sheet she got for her own bed by 
 
 of cloth, Eliza took down the loom, 
 and removed it to a small house 
 
 weaving. She Avould never put a 
 mouthful of butter on the table un- 
 
 about an hundred yards distant i til it was so rank that vou could 
 from m}^ dwsHing. Upon getting | gcent it the moment you entered 
 into their new quarters, they got in the house. 
 
 fine humor, andbeirau to talk about 
 
 About twelve months before she 
 
 the lads and young men, and must i went away, she began to give me 
 
 have been greatly pleased with 
 their own remarks, for -I could hear 
 
 an allowance of butter. She would 
 pla?c a lump about the size of a 
 
 them laugh clear to m}^ house. But hen's egg by my plate. This rather 
 as soon as ever she went to the vexed m^e, and I asked her what in 
 kitchen her afriZ^'avatino; tonofue \ the name of common sense went 
 would begin. Once she said that I ' with all the butter, and she replied 
 was watching her lest she might ' that it all went to pay for washing 
 steal something, I replied that I the old dirty rags. But that wasn't 
 was not watching her particularly, : so, for aicer she went away the 
 at the same time reminded her that j same colored woman who had been 
 no honest woman would use such i wasliino; for us all the time, and who 
 lancruao-e to her husband, and that i used to belono; to me, told me that 
 I had seen enough of her to know I Eliza had never given her a thing in 
 that the charge of honesty was the ! the world for washing, except one 
 ver}^ last one to which she was lia^ I old frock. 
 
 ble. I will now endeavor to show ' Liza was forever annoying me by 
 up another trait in her character : ' talking about our nakedness, and I 
 Before the provisions were placed generally retorted that it was very 
 
 on the table at meal times, she 
 
 true that we were inclined that way, 
 
 would cut up all the meat, pick out I but she must remember that she 
 all the choice bits for herself and \ had never put anything on us. — 
 daughter, and send the refuse to I The clothes that my little girls wore 
 the tible for me and my little chil- i were made of cotton that they them- 
 dren. From the time that I talked ^ selves had carded and spun, — no 
 with Jordan Johnson until she went i thanks to Liza. As for her own 
 away /or good^ I never saw a whole lady daughter, Mary Williford, she 
 piece of meat on my table, and dur- never did a thing in the blessed 
 ing that time she never spoke cne world but stuff her insides, lie abed, 
 
 friendly word to me. 
 
 Liza staid with me about tour 
 
 lounge around and make fusses. 
 One day I went to Whitaker's 
 
 years and four months, and in that j turn-out, and coming back, I called 
 
 whole time she never got a rag of 
 bed clothes, if you except one little 
 
 at "Wesley Fountain's (whose own 
 aunt Eliza \ras, and her first bus- 
 
30 
 
 THE LIFE OF MlCAJAIt AKLF^RSON: 
 
 I 
 
 band was Wesley's cousin), to see : 
 hov,- he was &€.. and wliilc there he 
 told me that he would have to buy 
 meat for the next year, and tliat he 
 would have to buv it on time, as he 
 didn't have the cash to pay down 
 for it. He said he thought it would 
 be better to buy bacon as it "Was 
 cheaper than pork, and asked what 
 I thought o: it. I gave it as my 
 opinion that if he could get old meat 
 that was free of worms, he had bet- 
 ter do so,becanse it was the cheapest. 
 He didn't ask whether I had any to 
 sell, although I had let him have 
 seventy-five pounds the same year, 
 so I went home. But knowinir that 
 be had no one to help him, I felt 
 for his condition, and sent him word 
 by his sister Martha that I would 
 let him have all I could spare. So 
 the next day jNIartha and his sister 
 came with a cart, and said that Wes- 
 ley wanted me to send him all the 
 meat I could spare, and to let him 
 know my price for it. [I had al- 
 ready told him the price.] The next 
 morning, which was the last day of 
 November, they drove the cart up 
 ^0 my smoke-house door, and took 
 jon two hundred and fifty-four pounds 
 of bacon. I then made a calcula- 
 tion in my head, what the meat 
 would come to, and told Martha to 
 iell her brother to make me a note 
 for the amount as quick as ever he 
 could, and send it to me. In a few 
 days Patrick Lawrence came to my 
 house, and I got him to make a cal- 
 culation about the bacon, and to 
 enter the account in a book, in order 
 
 that there mis^ht be no mistake 
 about it. 
 
 On the first day of January, 
 Henry Fountain came to my house 
 
 and paid me for some meat tliat he 
 had bought of me, and paid me some 
 money also from his brother Wes- 
 ley for the seventy-five pounds that 
 he had got some time before. Ire- 
 quested Hezrj to say to Vv'esley 
 that I wanted him to fix up that 
 note and send it to me. About the 
 middle of January, lleddin;z Pitt^ 
 man came over to my house, and as 
 he walked up to the fire-place (I 
 was sitting on one siie of the room 
 and Liza on the other), he said :-^ 
 " Here, uncle Cnjah, is the note 
 that Wesley has sent you. " I sup- 
 pose he had the note in his hand, as 
 I never saw him take it from his 
 pocket ; at any rate, I did not take 
 it but told him to read over to mCj 
 and he did so. The note was for 
 one hundred and fifty-four pounds 
 of meat, only, and I told him I would 
 not receive it, because it was not 
 right. Then Liza, with her wicked, 
 deceitful, untruthful tongue, spoke 
 up and said, *' Lord, how I hate 
 that. " From the manner in which 
 she spoke, one who didn't know 
 her, would have thought that butter 
 wouldn't have melted in her mouth 
 at the time. And she went on to 
 say that it would kill poor Wesley, 
 as bad ofi" as he was. I said I didn't 
 know why it should kill him, as it 
 was merely a mistake on his part, or 
 that Martha misrht have made a mis- 
 take, and told him I sent him one 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAII ANDEllSOX 
 
 o 1 
 
 liundrcil and fiftj-fonr pounds, 
 Avlien it ou^lit to have hQentwo hun- 
 drcd and fift\^-four pounds; or that 
 
 and her ladv dau<]^hter were, and I 
 did not see her any more. Thus 
 the matter of the meat rested for 
 
 she mii^ht not have been present about a month, or six weeks. One 
 
 when the note Avas drawn. Liza re- I day I had to look up some old papers, 
 plied that ^Martha was not at all fn- i and I had engaged Hias Dickson 
 getful, but that I was mighty for- ! and my son Tom to assist me in 
 getful. I told her that I was not , finding them. They had examined 
 altogether so forgetful as she might all my papers, except some that 
 suppose ; that I knew my business, I were in a band-box, which had been 
 
 and knew, too, that there were two 
 hundred and fifty-four pounds of the 
 
 placed over the foot of the bed on 
 which Martha lay the night she 
 
 bacon. Here the bacon question ! staid with us, and taking that down 
 was dropped, and nothing more was I they began to examine it, and 
 said about it for a month. But one ; the first thing they found was' a 
 Monday evening Martha came over i note. Ilias Dickson was the first 
 to my house and brought it up again I to discover it, and as he did so he 
 in this way : When she first came I exclaimed, "Here is a note against 
 over she went to the kitchen, where j Wesley Fountain. " " A note 
 Liza and her lady daughter were, I against Wesley Fountain?" said L 
 and remaining in there awhile, all i Yes, he said it was against Wesley 
 three came in the house where I ; Fountain. I then requested him to 
 was. After the usual salutation, ' I'^a^ it over to me. He read it^and 
 she says to me, "Uncle Cajah, ! -t saw at once that it was the same- 
 aren't you mistaken about that mat- ; old note that had been presented to^ 
 ter (of the meat) ? " I told her I ; nie for the one hundred and fifty- 
 was not; that I remembered all i four pounds of bacon. And I re- 
 about it, just as well as if it had ; marked that I would not submit to 
 transpired only yesterday. Shede- j such injustice and rascality ; that I 
 clared that I was, but did not think ; would have justice or die in the at- 
 that I intended to do wron^. I . tempt to get it. I then took the 
 then asked Martha if she weighed i note and tore it up. Ilias and my 
 the meat when she reached home | son Tom soon left for their homes, 
 with it, and she said she did, but | when I went over to Redding Pitt- 
 had forgotten how many pounds man's to enquire of him how that 
 there were. Ithen remarked to her j note had been carried to Wesley 
 that I wished to be correct about it, Fountain's. He told me that he 
 but,underthecircumstances,couldn't j gave it to Henry Fountain. I then 
 see how I would be likely to realize I informed him how the note had been 
 my wish. Here she jumped up and ■ found in my possession, and gave it 
 ran out to the kitchen where Liza \ as my opinion that anybody who 
 
32 
 
 TUE LIFE OF 2IICAJAU AXLERSOX. 
 
 could be guilty of such a " trick *' 
 
 -was capable of anything dishonest 
 
 and villainous. I then started for 
 
 home. AVhen I arrived there Liza's 
 
 lying, deceitful tongue >vas wagging 
 away as usual, and coming out to- 
 wards me with her hands on her hips, 
 she squalled out and wanted to 
 know why I had not gone to her 
 about the note. I couldn't see why 
 1 ought to have gone to her about 
 thj matter, and so expressed myself. 
 She then said that Martha had given 
 her the note, telling her to give it to 
 me, and that she had put it in my 
 band-box, and then forgotten to in- 
 form me. I asked her if she wasn't 
 ashamed to tell me such a falsehood. 
 I then told her that the manner in 
 which she had endeavored to put 
 the note on me was worse than steal- 
 inor. I observed that if I cculd not 
 get what belonged to me I would ac- 
 cept nothing ; but that it was the 
 last time Wesley Fountain would 
 get anything from me. I now de- 
 termined to let the whole thing drop 
 — say nothing about it — in the hope 
 that Liza would do better, but in- 
 stead of improving she went 
 "beyan't" herself. She went around 
 among her folks telling them that I 
 was slanderino; her, and she charoied 
 her own mean acts upon me. When 
 she left me the last time, I resolved 
 to keep her sinful acts from the 
 world no lono-er. As soon as she 
 left me, I warranted Weslev for that 
 meat, and at the trial she appeared 
 as witness against me. The case 
 came up for trial at Tarboro, before 
 
 squire James IL }iL Jackson, colored. 
 After beinfij sworn, I bcfran to tell 
 something about the matter, but had 
 not proceeded far, when Liza dis- 
 puted my word. I had not known 
 before that she was present, but re- 
 coirnizini!: her well-known voice, I 
 said, " Liza, is this you; is it possi- 
 ble this is you ? " She opened her 
 mouth not at all. so I began to talk 
 to her, and asked her several ques- 
 tions pertinent to the case on trial. 
 She denied everything — things that 
 I knew to be facts — and losing all 
 patience with the wicked woman, I 
 called her, to her face, a dirty, lying 
 strumpet. 
 
 She said she could prove her 
 character, and was going to do it. 
 I said I thought she had already 
 proved it. After the trial she went 
 to Squire Jackson and desired to 
 make oath as to the weight of the 
 bacon, but the '' Squire " would not 
 permit her to do so. The case was 
 finally continued to Fountain's 
 house. When the tr'al came oif at 
 Fountain's, she was not present. — 
 She knew that 1 was pretty wrathy 
 on account of her course before 
 Squire Jackson, and thought it best 
 to leave before I arrived upon the 
 irround. And I reckon she acted 
 wisely in keeping out of my sight, 
 for her course about the meat had 
 made me so mad that I don't know 
 that I would not have beaten her 
 some. The fact was, she didn't 
 know any more about that meat 
 than one of my dogs, for when the 
 meat was weighed ati the smoke- 
 
THE LIFE OF AlICAJAR AXBEBSOK 
 
 33 
 
 house, she was ia the kitchen, Y>'hich 
 "ft-as twenty or tvrentj-five yards 
 (list an ti 
 
 Some time after this she had me 
 hound over to keep the peace, and 
 her reason for doing so v;a3, so she 
 said, that she was afraid I wouhl 
 kill her; that she had heard I said 
 if ever I caught her bv herself I 
 would beat her almost to death ; all 
 of which was false, of course, be- 
 cause if I had ever desired to take 
 the life of the poor creature, I could 
 very easily have done so on divers 
 occasions, (and once vrhen I drench- 
 ed her for some ailment,) for I kept 
 strychnine in my house for eighteen 
 years. 
 
 When I laid my hand on Liza at 
 the church, I did so with the reso- 
 lution of taking her home and giv- 
 ing her a genteel whipping at first, 
 .hen locking her up every night 
 and take her out by dav, and never 
 once permitting her to go out of my 
 sight until she got perfectly cool 
 and learned how to behave herself. 
 I killed three hogs that weighed 
 one thousand and seventv-five 
 pounds, and put all of them in 
 pickle except one shoulder and 
 the hams. I put them up in a 
 hogshead and barrel ; the barrel 
 was about the size of a brandy bar- 
 rel. One day I vrent in the barrel 
 to weigh out rations for my colored 
 laborers, and discovered that two 
 pieces had been removed from the 
 top. Liza told me that they had 
 been taken for the use cf the white 
 family, and I suppose they had. 
 
 ,Another time I went into the ho^'s- 
 
 I head to get out rations for my la- 
 ; borers, and weie;hed out seventr- 
 \ five pounds. The next ration time 
 I weighed out seventy-five pounds, 
 , which makes in all one hundred and 
 ] fifty pounds that I had taken out. 
 I When I wanted some of it the third 
 ' time, I sent a boy to get it, and he 
 was so long about it that I asked 
 why he didn't get it and bring it 
 along, that I was tired of waiting. 
 I He observed that there were only 
 two pieces in the hogshead. I told 
 him there was bound to be more 
 meat than that in there, and that 
 ; he would find it under the brine. — 
 ' Still he was unable to find any, so 
 i examined the honrshead mvself. 
 To m.y utter surprise I found no 
 meat, whereupon 1 exclaimed, 
 " Lord have mercy upon me, who 
 ever knew the likes of this ; it 
 surely must have gone out of the 
 door, for I have not heard of the 
 smioke-house having been broken 
 open. " Hearing this exclamation 
 of surprise, Liza walked out, put 
 her hands on her hips and screamed 
 out, " I reckon I stole it. " Any^ 
 hovY^, says I, it is not here. She 
 then said it had been eaten. " Not 
 here, " says I ; and it would have 
 j taken some time to have eaten it 
 I anywhere else. At th:it time I 
 I thought maybe some of the negroes 
 I had taken the key, entered the 
 I smoke-house, and carred ofi* the 
 I meat, and did not suspect Liza of 
 i making way with it. But the mys- 
 I tery of the thing caused me to watch^ 
 I and I soon discovered that Liza had 
 ; two keys to the milk house. The 
 
 b 
 
84r 
 
 TIIE LIFE OF MICAJAII AXhERSON. 
 
 way I found it out was that when 
 she would be passing about, with- 
 out having the right key, she 
 would run her hand in her pocket 
 and get another one out, with which 
 she would unlock the door and go 
 in. I could hardly think there was 
 anything wrong, though it ail seemed 
 a little strange to me. 
 
 In a short time she went away 
 one Saturday on a visit. Usually 
 when she went off she left out 
 ■enough provisions to last until her 
 return, and on this particular eve- 
 ning, between sunset and dark, I 
 went to see about it. I went to the 
 place where the keys always hung, 
 when she did not have them in her 
 pocket, but they were not there. I 
 enquired of my children about the 
 smoke-house key, but they knew 
 nothing about it, unless it was hang- 
 ing up in the house, but finding it 
 was nowhere in the house, she said 
 that her mother sometimes put the 
 smoke-house key in the milk house. 
 I took a key and vrent and unlocked 
 the milk-house, and there I found 
 over behind abo wl of milk the smoke- 
 house key, and it struck me right 
 off where my meat went to. I got 
 so mad I determined to let the key 
 stay, and watch the door, and if 
 anyone came to go in, I would kill 
 them, and I went and took a seat to 
 w^atch and study about it. After 
 about an hour it came to me that I 
 should be doing wrong, for Liza was 
 the cause of it all. So I went and 
 
 took the kcvs and carried them all 
 in the house, thinking that when 
 she found them moved, she would 
 
 know that I had my suspicions, and 
 
 that it would alter her. 
 
 When she came home Sunday af- 
 ternoon, I got near the milk-house, 
 and after changing her clothes, she 
 went to the milk-house door, and 
 taking the little extra key ou': of 
 her pocket, she opened the door, but 
 not finding the smoke-house key, 
 she turned and passed me, and as 
 she did, I looked her straight in the 
 face, and she turned as pale as a 
 corpse. She went in the house, 
 took the key, and went and got 
 meat for supper, all the while as 
 pale as she could be ; but she said 
 not a word to me, or I to her about 
 it, and I don't know how long it 
 had been since she had spoke a 
 pleasant word to me. 
 
 I said nothing about the matter, 
 but I never missed the keys from 
 the usual place any more, .nor my 
 meat never went away so fast after 
 that. The winter before the time I 
 am speaking about, I killed and put 
 up fourteen thousand pounds of as 
 fine pork as ever was raised in the 
 county, and had several beeves in 
 the fall. I never sold but little 
 over twenty-five hundred pounds, 
 and though I had only twenty-seven 
 in family, I had but a few pieces in 
 my smoke-house at the end of the 
 year. 
 
 I want anyone who has been in 
 the habit of feeding families, to 
 make a calculation of how much 
 meat it required for mine of twenty- 
 seven souls; seven thousand pounds 
 of bacon with the beeves ought to 
 have done me,leaving seven thousand 
 
t:iie life of MICAJAK axdfesox. 
 
 85 
 
 to sell, and bacon that year was 
 worth twenty cents. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon in July, to 
 
 get out of a fuss, I went off to mv 
 
 son Thomas Anderson's. Vv hen I 
 
 got home it was getting darkish, and 
 
 seeing some one sitting in the yard, 
 
 I asked my son, who came to take 
 
 my horse, who it was, and he told 
 
 me Robert Ha,rt. It seemed that 
 
 ^•hen I heard that^ a great burden 
 
 was lifted off from my heart, and 1 1 
 
 hoped to the Lord that his coming! 
 
 would cause Liza to do better than ' 
 
 she had been doing for a lono- time. 
 
 'just a little grain, and so she went 
 en until dinner was over. 
 
 AVhen we went in to eat supper, I 
 found her barefooted and barelegged, 
 with her dress tucked up to her 
 knees, and that hurt my feelings, 
 for she had shoes and stockings, 
 and she ought to have had them on. 
 That night old aunt Polly Pitt- 
 man made out to get down to our 
 house ; and Robert Hart sang and 
 prayed for us that night. 
 
 In the morning, Liza arose and 
 went about getting breakfast, with- 
 out a sign of anything on her feet, 
 and her coat tucked up as high as 
 she dared to raise it. She killed 
 some chickens after breakfast, and 
 had them at the well cleaning them, 
 and in stooping about, you could 
 see just as high up her clothes as 
 you had a mind to, and there was 
 Robert Hart, the preacher. It hurt 
 my feelings. I was ashamed for 
 her, and I passed by where she was, 
 and said, Liza, do pray let your 
 coat down a little lower. She said 
 not a word, but did drop her dress 
 
 ' After eating dinner, Robert and 
 
 ' I went out and took some chairs 
 
 I under the trees in the yard, and 
 
 : afti3r getting her table cleared away, 
 
 I Liza she came out to where we were, 
 
 with old Satan in her, and says : 
 
 " I'll come and set down with you 
 
 all awhile now, if I am allowed to 
 
 do it. " Robert Hart observed to 
 
 her she could, if she would behave 
 
 herself, with her silver slippers on. 
 
 . She sat down a little while, when 
 
 I irp she jumps and off she goes. 
 
 I Mr. Hart then, pretty soon, went 
 ' off to John W. Johnson's. He had 
 I not more than got out of sight be- 
 fore she began her fuss again. 
 In the course of the week, she got 
 j so high that she moved off again, 
 ; going to her brother Wesley'^s.— ^ 
 I While she was there, I sent her 
 I two letters, stating in them as we 
 I could not live together, I wanted to 
 I be divorced, but she said she would 
 j do no such thing, unless I would 
 ' build a nice house, give her fifty 
 ' acres of land, four barrels of corn, 
 four hundred pounds of bacon, a 
 barrel of flour, and a large amount 
 
 j of sugar and €offee; a great quantity,! 
 
 . thought, for one person to use, as I 
 stated in one of my letters to her. 
 She was always complaining that 
 I never gave her anything, and 
 made this an excuse for the way in 
 which she neglected and mistreated 
 my daughters, but it was no excuse 
 
 j for allowing her child to go on all 
 
 ! sorts of nasty talk before them, as 
 
36 
 
 TUH LIFE OF JUCAJAIf AXUFPcSOy. 
 
 she did, -wiienever she got a chance. 
 I^or did I think there was any use 
 in my getting her anything, con- 
 sidering tlie things she had from the 
 plantation to buy with — butter, tal- 
 low, eggs, cloth, kc. 
 
 And I did not dress myself fine 
 enough for her, and she came right 
 out flat and said she had married 
 two husbands, Dut both together did 
 not have pride enough to make one 
 decent man. I thought she knew 
 me well enoueh before she married 
 me to tell how much pride I had. 
 
 As she was always a flinging it 
 in my teeth that I got her nothing, 
 I said to her one day, as I was going 
 to Tarboro, that I meant to get her 
 a dress, and I wanted to know what 
 she thought of a vrorsted one ? And 
 I got her as fine a dress as any lady 
 need to wear, trimmings, and a 
 shawl, for all of which I paid thirty- 
 five dollars and some cents. I 
 thought I would try her with these 
 presents, and hoped that some good 
 would come of them, but it did no 
 good. I had not given her any- 
 thing yet. 
 
 In awhile after I got the fine 
 dress, she said she wanted to get 
 me a suit of yarn clothes, but had 
 no wool. I said I had no money 
 then, but should have in a few days, 
 and I would get her some wool. In 
 a few nights, however, she had some 
 wool, and was engaged in picking 
 it to pieces to card. She said she 
 got it from Lawrence Lyons, and 
 paid for it with cloth that had been 
 grot to make me two pair of breeches. 
 
 !• At that time she carried off cloth, 
 
 I 
 
 I rags, and eggs enough to get her a 
 
 : dress and one for her daui^hter. — 
 
 i The wool she put in my clothes, she 
 
 I carded and spun at ni^ht?, and she 
 
 j made warp of the bunch of cotton I 
 
 got for my tv»'0 little girls. After 
 
 getting these clothes, she took the 
 
 ; greatest pride in hitting me in the 
 
 teeth about it, saying that vrhen she 
 
 came there, I was naked; and she 
 
 kept on in this vfay until I swore I 
 
 never would put them on my back 
 
 again, and as she vras going away, 
 
 I told her to carry them with her. 
 
 I She said she would not, and if I put 
 
 I them on the cart, she would throw 
 
 I them out. I declared they should 
 
 I not stay in my house, and she said 
 
 I give them to John. I said they 
 
 were not mine, and I told my little 
 
 girl to tell John to take them but he 
 
 said he did not want them — that I 
 
 had better wer.ir them myself; bat I 
 
 said I'd be d d if I did, and if 
 
 ; he did not take them away I should 
 
 ! bury them in the branch, the woods, 
 
 or in the ditch, for they should not 
 
 stay about me ; and he took them 
 
 and carried them off. Before I 
 
 would have put them clothes on any 
 
 . more, I would have wrapped myself 
 
 f in a sheet and gone to Tarboro, and 
 
 I bouf;ht clothes, after I had been 
 
 made to swear about them as I had. 
 
 She left me but one pair of breeches, 
 
 and they were so tight that I called 
 
 them skin-flints, and but one w^hole 
 
 shirt to my back,' and that she got 
 
 just before she left. That was one 
 thread in the reed, and coarse 
 enough for a meal-bag. And there 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAH AXBERSOX. 
 
 37 
 
 was enou!2;h of tha cloth when it 
 was wove for another shirt for me 
 and one apiece for mj boys, for 
 they did not have a shirt that you 
 couhl have told what they Vv'ere 
 made of but one piece, and that 
 was tacked on, not sewed — -nor a 
 whole pair of breeches to their 
 nam'es. 
 
 Yf hen she was about to leave she 
 put out the fine dress I had bought 
 for her, and threw it on i\\e bed, 
 and told Ann to take it, for she 
 would never wear it ac^ain. I told 
 her Ann should not have it, for 
 when I gave anything to abody, I 
 gave it to them, and they were wel- 
 come to it, and I was not alwavs a 
 talking about it ; she had to carry 
 it away from there, and I took it and 
 threw it in her trunk. She never 
 said anything about the nine dollar 
 shawl — as big as a bed-spread 
 nearly — that I bought at the same 
 time, and I said I thought she kept 
 that back to wrap herself and rich 
 loafers in when she went out niiihts 
 "bushwhacking" of it. But she 
 sold her dress and bought her an- 
 other, so I was told, with what she 
 got for the one I gave her; and 
 had she got for it what I gave, it 
 would have got a dress for her 
 daughter and one for herself. 
 
 She was a great housekeeper ; 
 when she moved the loom out 
 of the kitchen, she stood the table 
 in the middle of the room, and left 
 everything on it from one day's end 
 to another, and the cats got on the 
 table every night, and tore the ta- 
 ble-cloth, and gnawed, and scratch- 
 
 ed, and eat,and mousled the victuals, 
 until nothing was fit to eat, as ray 
 grandson declared when he found a 
 piece of meat on the table that he 
 had seen one of the cats draiijxiii"" 
 round a good part of the morning. 
 We had five cats, and Liza said she 
 they were tearing up all the table- 
 cloths, and she wished they would. 
 
 I told her I did not know how 
 she could expect anythinsr else, for 
 the cats were not to blame fot eat- 
 ing anything they could get. But I 
 reckon she killed the cats, for all of 
 them but one were found dead 
 round about the garden. 
 
 Not long before she left she went 
 off to the store with two or three 
 pair of pants and a web of cloth, 
 with Vi'hich she bought her lady a 
 dress and some more rigging, but 
 she brought back one pair of the 
 pants ; and the dress she got that 
 day was not fine enough for her 
 daughter, and she took it herself. — ■ 
 But the dau2:hter had to have a 
 finer one, so as I was going to town 
 one day, Liza asked if she might go 
 with me, and I told her she could. 
 She took along with her a quantity 
 of tallow, some butter and the pair 
 of pants she had not sold, with 
 which she boufrht another dress for 
 
 o 
 
 her fine lady, a pair of shoes, and a 
 heap of fine rigging, but not the 
 wrappings of a finger for my chil- 
 dren, as I had hoped and thought 
 she would, as she had never given 
 them anything from the time she 
 came there ; but I said nothing 
 about it. 
 
38 
 
 rEE LIFE OF 3110 AJAR ANDEJtSOX. 
 
 When we got home, her brother 
 and his wife were there and Liza 
 got after Wesley's wife to send her 
 some help to make up the fine dress 
 for her daughter, and Wesley's wife 
 sent her daua'hter, Liza. 
 
 My boys wanted some jackets 
 
 made by Sunday preaching, and in 
 
 the room of making their jackets, 
 
 she turns in on the drosses, and 
 
 never touched a hand to the jackets, 
 
 the time Liza Pittman v/as there 
 
 helping to sew. Mary Vrilliford, 
 
 the pet of our house, in all this 
 
 time was lying and sitting about 
 
 — never so much as turnini^ her 
 
 hand to a thing, while her mother 
 
 was in the kitchen. Liza would, 
 
 after getting breakfast over, go in 
 
 and make up her bed and clean up 
 
 her room, and my girls would make 
 
 up the balance of the beds and clean 
 
 up the rest of the house; and there 
 
 was that strapping Mary Williford 
 
 doing nothing in the world ; and 
 
 when Liza left, their jackets had not 
 
 been touched. On Sunday morn- 
 
 inor tliat this dress was made in the 
 
 week, 1 went to the cow- pen where 
 
 Liza was milking, and told her to 
 
 turn the cows and calves together, 
 
 for she had milked the last cow for 
 
 me she ever should ; and she blazed 
 
 out that she did not care, for it only 
 
 took another trouble off of her. I 
 
 told her she had had all the benefit, 
 
 if she had all the trouble, for my 
 
 children had had no benefit since 
 
 there she had been. No more had 
 
 she ever paid old aunt Polly Pitt- 
 man for milking for her, for the old 
 lady scid so just before she died. 
 
 When she was milking, she and 
 her dauf^hter would aiO and stand in 
 the cow-pen while my chiklren had 
 to go through the de\v and drive up 
 the cows, and when they asked 
 Mary Williford to go with them, 
 she wouM not ; and when my daugh- 
 ters got the chills, they said they 
 believed it was because their step- 
 mother drove them through the dew 
 so much after the cows. One of 
 them got so bad I had to send for 
 the doctor ; and I told them if they 
 ever got up ngain, never to go 
 throur^h the jrrass and weeds after 
 the cows again. 
 
 Once when Wesley Pittman's 
 daughter was sick, Liza went to 
 stay there some, and as my girls 
 were picking out cotton, Liza's 
 daughter had to cook. And one 
 night Liza came home in a pet, and 
 my grandson, E-uffin, who was about 
 as ready for a fuss as she was, said 
 at the table, that the victuals tasted 
 like they had turpentine in them. — 
 Liza bursted out that she had staid 
 there and done mighty nigh as long 
 as she was ao-oinn; to. 
 
 I was sitting in the shed door, and 
 
 I told Ruflin if he did not shut his 
 
 mouth, I would come in there and 
 
 stamp him ; and I said to Liza that 
 
 if I lived and she lived, I would rid 
 
 her of the troubles she liad on my 
 
 plantation, for I had stood it as long 
 
 as I could and as long as I would. 
 
 And she out with her old song that 
 
 I had her tnere for a waiting girl 
 
 for me and my children, and I told 
 her she had waited on!me about as 
 long as she ever would. I remind- 
 
TEE LIFE OF MICAJAU AXDEESOX. 
 
 39 
 
 ed her of the faithful promises she she was pursuing, and hovr I wished 
 had made that she would divide ^ that she could see it as plain as I 
 with my poor motherless children, | and others saw it. She said she did 
 and be a mother to them as I could . nothing wrong to anyone or any- 
 prove by old aunt Polly Pittman, thing; any of us could do wrong or 
 and she need not deny it. And I let it alone, but she let all wrono- 
 asked her what was anybody's word things alone. I told her she was by 
 worth who falsified their promises, this as she was by saying that there 
 She denied ever makin.s; me any \ was no appointed time to die, or ap- 
 
 pointed time for anything else, and 
 I says if you are right, Liza, you 
 
 promises, and said she never had 
 
 done anything in her life that she 
 
 was ashamed of, and I declared to can live as long as you please, and 
 
 her that she had spoken the truth, i die when you cret ready, and if your 
 
 ft/ C5 •/ ' ft/ 
 
 though it was seldom she ever did i doctrine is true, we have no use for 
 speak it. She went on to say that | a Saviour, and you are no hard-shell 
 she and her child had no more than ! Baptist, but a free-wilier. She said 
 when she came here, though she had , I had boasted thati would not swap 
 striven ever so hard. But she knew \ chances with her, and I re-affirmed 
 better, and all the neighbors knew i that I would not ; nor would I with 
 better, as I told her. She then hit | anybody else, for I have faith and 
 ne in the teeth about writing to her i hope that I have been changed from 
 ibout a divorce, and said now she ; nature to grace, and I might swap 
 vas willing to a divorce, but I was j it away and get nothing, as I would 
 aot. I says if you are willing now, | do if I swapped with you. 
 it shall be done. Then she raged ' About a fortnight"' before this 
 out that the devil was in me— that there came to my house a lousy 
 the devil had fooled me mighty bad, | loafer, by the name of James Dor- 
 but I told her she was the one the : man, and the very moment Liza 
 devil had fooled ; that he had her on ! saw him, she fell in love with him, 
 the back track then. She declared , and I never could tell which loved 
 that she was not like other people ; \ him the best, she or her daughter, 
 that she had never done anything ; He came about a couple of hours by 
 that was wrong in her life, and I sun in the afternoon, and made out 
 says you must have been born per- ; that he was agoing about at work on 
 feet, and are a saint from Heaven, | clocks. I had one that had been 
 and then you have none of old | stopped a long time. Some of the 
 Adam's seed in you ; but 1 am de- j neighbors had told him about it, and 
 ceived if you are not as much struciv [,. wanted to go to work on it. But 
 with it as anybody I ever saw. j tokl him I did not want the clock 
 
 I told her how deeply I regretted worked on, but he would take it 
 her conduct ; how it grieved me to down ; took it all to pieces, and 
 find her bent on the wicked course ruined it, as he had done all the- 
 
40 
 
 THE LIFE OF 2IWAJA1L AXhEUSON. 
 
 neifrbbor's clocks he had touched. 
 
 o 
 
 That r.ight, at f^npper, he told 
 Liza v.'ho he was, and she said she 
 had heard old aunt PoUv Pittman 
 speak of the Dormans, and he began 
 to tell that he was raised over there 
 among the Mabrjs ; and right 
 straight Liza claimed kin with him, 
 and it was " cousin James," with her 
 and i\Iary "Williford. So right after 
 supper, the}^ cut out with him off to 
 old aunt Polly Pittman's, to make 
 lier acquainted with him, and let 
 her know that one of her relations 
 had come. Bat thej never came in 
 the house where I was. The next 
 day after dinner, the daughter took 
 him over to make him acquainted 
 with the rest of his kin. But he was a 
 picture for anyone to look at, wa'n't 
 he though ? His shirt was the color 
 of Roanoke mud, as stiff as it could 
 be, and rattled the same as if it had 
 been paper ; his old shoes were the 
 color of a fox skin, and all to pieces 
 at that; his stockings were as black 
 as they could be, out at the heel, 
 and toes gone, and the man fairly 
 stunk. Instead of cousin'ncr him, 
 I called him, in my mind, " stink- 
 ing Jeems. " Liza wanted him to 
 pull off that old louse case of a shirt, 
 and put on one of mine, but he 
 would not, and it was well he did 
 not, and let me know it. 
 
 This newly found and dearly be- 
 loved cousin of my wife's came again 
 the following Saturday night, and 
 atter supper they all cut out again 
 to their old aunt Polly Pittman's. — 
 Ke began to show his great exploits, 
 
 dealing with the devil like Liza and 
 her daughter. lie would take a 
 stick, give cnc end to one to hold, 
 and the other to somebody else, and 
 be would put a ring on the stick, or 
 take it off and they holding fast to 
 both ends of the stick. He wouhl 
 take a piece of money, (if he could 
 get one) and putting it in a tumbler 
 of water, make it dance, by sing- 
 ing to it and patting his feet. He 
 told them he could take a chicken 
 rooster, cut his head off, clean him, 
 pui him in a pot and boil him, and 
 take him out, turn him loose and he 
 would crow. 
 
 Liza came home that Saturday 
 nio-ht about midnisjht, easing herself 
 down in the bed, as shough she was 
 afraid of touching me, and lay down 
 with her back to me, without saying 
 a word. Cousin James he got up 
 in the mornins: and took himself off 
 down to old aunt Polly Pittman's, 
 where the lady Mary Williford was. 
 
 After breakfast awhile, Fred. 
 Whitehead came in, my two little 
 daughters and two grand-daughters 
 were in the house, and the lady, 
 ^lary, sat down on the bed, and her 
 cousin James beside her. Pretty 
 soon she fell ricjht down on the bed 
 flat of her back, and cousin James 
 he fell down on top of her, with that 
 miserable shirt ohj and I had just 
 as lief had a dooj risht out of a dead 
 horse on me as he, with that stink- 
 ing shirt. 
 
 On Monday, Mary Williford told 
 one of my children that she and her 
 cousin James Dorman were going 
 
THE LIFE OF ^dlCAJAR ANDERSON. 
 
 41 
 
 to marrj ; that she loved him so 
 she could not sleep for thinking of 
 
 him, and that he was coming again 
 the next Saturday night and was 
 going to sleep in her bed, for if no 
 one else would lie with him, she 
 would. 
 
 In the meantime Liza had gone 
 off to the store and got some stuff to 
 make cousin James a shirt, and on 
 Saturday evening he slipped up the 
 back way, and went out under my 
 gin-house and shedded his old lousy 
 skin, and took the nasty thino; and 
 carried it to old aunt Polly Pitt- 
 man's. During the week, while 
 Liza was making the shirt, one of 
 my little girls asked who it was for, 
 but she said that was best known to 
 herself. 
 
 On Thursday night following this 
 w^e had our big fuss that made the 
 separation : Insteai of sleeping 
 with me, Liza, as I found out after- 
 wards, had her a pallet under the 
 bed where cousin James slept — right 
 at the head of mine — in the next 
 room. She thought that I would 
 think she was staying at old aunt 
 Polly Pittman's, but I knew she was 
 up and in the kitchen too early 
 to have slept there. I asked my 
 daughters where their mother slept. 
 They did not know, but asked her ; 
 she said that was best known to her. 
 She asked them if they knew, and 
 they said they did not ; and she 
 would not tell them. I asked the 
 boys, but they said she did not 
 sleep up stairs. Feeling certain 
 
 that she did not go out of the house, 
 
 6 
 
 I looked under the bed, and I found 
 her pallet under the bed where Dor- 
 man lay. At first it struck me that 
 
 she got under there to eavesdrop me ; 
 then I became satisfied from her 
 manner, that she got uiider there so 
 she could creep out and go on tho 
 bed to her James Dorman. I took 
 the pallet and threw it under my 
 bed, and said nothing cibout it. — • 
 After dinner, I gave out provisions 
 to last my children until Sunday 
 night, telling them I was going 
 away to be gone until Sunday eve- 
 ning. Liza said she wished I would 
 go awaj and never come back again. 
 I said I knew that. I expected 
 that when I went off that mornincr, 
 that I might not come back before 
 Sunday evening, but I returned 
 about an hour in the night, Satur- 
 day ; and when I got there, Liza 
 had her cousin James in my room, 
 and she and her daughter were 
 keeping up such a whickering and 
 whinnying over him, that I could 
 make no one hear me until I had 
 called four or five times. 
 
 As I went in, who should jump 
 out first but James Dorman, and 
 then Liza and her daughter followed. 
 She could stay in my room with 
 James Dorman, but not with me. — 
 They all put off to old aunt Polly 
 Pittman's again. 
 
 Next morning, which was Sun- 
 day, she came home, leaving her 
 daughter and ccusin James at old 
 aunt Polly's. I went in to break- 
 fast after awhile, saying as I went 
 in, " after all the rest of the dogs, 
 
42 
 
 TUB LIFE OF 211CAJAJI AXDFESOK 
 
 in comes old Lubj. " Liza turned 
 her back to mc as I went in and 
 stood there in her old place until I 
 ■went out again. Iler daughter had 
 come home, and was fixed up to go 
 off among her kindred to show them i 
 her cousin James Dorman, now \ 
 that the lice were taken off of him. 
 Liza had to fix up a lie to get my 
 two little girls off with them ; and 
 "when the largest of my children 
 asked me if they might go to their 
 sister Lucy's, I asked who was going 
 to get dinner, and she said mother 
 says she will get dinner, and I let 
 them go. I said I thought her 
 mother had quit doing anything,she 
 said ^'no, she helps me cook. " 
 
 So they went off, but never 
 stopped at their sisters, but kept on 
 to Wesley Pittman's instead. The 
 lady Mary, in the room of going 
 through the field, the usual foot 
 way, Yrent round through the woods 
 along the cut path. 
 
 When they came back, I asked 
 
 Ann why they did not stop at 
 
 Lucy's ? Sbe said that her mother 
 
 said they must go on with Mary 
 
 Williford to Wesley's ; that if any 
 
 body saw Mary and James Dorman 
 
 going alone, they would talk about 
 
 it. But my grand-daughter came 
 
 back, and said that Liza tried to 
 
 get her off to her uncle Wesley's, 
 
 but they talked about me so bad she 
 
 got mad and would not go with 
 
 them ; that she despised them in 
 
 her sight. I asked her what they 
 
 said. She told me that x\[a,i'y "Willi- 
 
 ford told James Dorman a great 
 mess, how I had mistreated her and 
 
 her mother, and James he said if he 
 had a step-mother or a step-father 
 like that, he would knock their 
 heads off; and she said if I did not 
 believe her, to go and ask her grand- 
 mother. I asked her grand-mother, 
 and she said that he did say it. — 
 Then I said, I'll be d doireed if 
 
 CO 
 
 they ever come on my plantation 
 again, if I don't kill James Dorman, 
 sure ; and I'll whip Liza till she 
 can't stand. I told old aunt Polly 
 to tell her that if she was ixoinor [q 
 sign that instrument of writing, as 
 she promised, she might go off at 
 once and find a home for herself, 
 and be back to my house on Mon- 
 day, as I would have the documents 
 all ready for signing by Tuesday. 
 
 !Now for a few words morCf sug- 
 gested by that pallet. I first thought 
 they would return that Sunday 
 night, but somehow Liza had got 
 wind of my expressed intention to 
 kill Dorman, and " wear " her girl 
 out, and they came not ; and it's 
 well enough they didn't, for I took 
 my double-barreled gun, loaded 
 both barrels, and took a position 
 where I knew they would pass in 
 returning, resolved at the moment, 
 that if Dorman put his foot over the 
 fence, I would shoot him down; 
 and as for Liza and her girl, I 
 meant to whip them as long as they 
 could stand the punishment. 
 
 One night, about a week before 
 she went away, Liza came into the 
 room where I lay, undressed and 
 got in bed. When she was fairly 
 in, I raised my right arm and threw 
 it over her ; and as I did so, she 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAK AKDERSOX. 
 
 43 
 
 suddenly jumped up in bed, and 
 began to reel and catch her breath. 
 I spoke to her and asked her what 
 the matter was. As she made me 
 no answer, I took hold of her, led 
 her to the fire-place and put her 
 down by the fire. I then spoke to 
 her again, saying, " Liza, v/hat in \ 
 the name of God is the matter with 
 yon ? " She replied that she was 
 dying, I begged her not to talk 
 that way, as it hurt my feelings, 
 but she still protested she was 
 dying. I immediately caUed up 
 one of my sons and bade him go for 
 Dr. Strickland as fast as his horse j 
 oould carry him. In the meantime 
 I bathed her with camphor and pain- 
 killer, and administered some of the 
 latter internally. In a very short 
 time the doctor came. He examin- 
 ed her and prescribed something 
 which he left in a vial. I think the i 
 vial held about four table-spoonfuls. •. 
 On the third day after this, the doc- ! 
 tor again visited my house, this ; 
 time to see my daughter, vrho wr.3 | 
 very sick. The doctor and I were ; 
 •sitting in the room with my daugh- ; 
 ter, when Eliza came in and handed | 
 the doctor the vial of medicine he 
 had prescribed for herself three [ 
 days before, and said, '■' Here, doc- ' 
 tor, take this vial of stuff. " He ; 
 asked her if she had taken any of 
 it. She replied that she had once 
 or twice. He enquired whether it 
 did her any good, and she replied 
 that she did not know, but anyway 
 she wanted him to take it back, as 
 it wouJd be to pay for. But the 
 dector told her to keep it and take 
 
 it,' and I suppose it did her good 
 for she carried it with her when she 
 left me. After that. Dr. Strickland 
 told three or four persons that my 
 wife was causing me to lead a very 
 wretched life, and that he was very 
 sorry for me, because I was " a fine 
 old gentleman. " 
 
 After advising Liza of the in- 
 strument that I desired her to sign, 
 she went ofi" and remained away 
 from me seventeen days. In this 
 time old aunt Polly Pittman died. — 
 After old aunt Polly's death, there 
 were found under her bed three or 
 four armfuls of things that Liza 
 and her daughter had toted over 
 there from my house. And Ruffia 
 said that the things fo'jnd under the 
 bed were not all they had taken, 
 for Liza had also carried off a bas- 
 ket of blue cotton. L^pon this, I 
 went right off to see Betsey Pitt- 
 man about the blue cotton. She 
 said the children told her that Liza 
 had carried a basket of cotton there 
 on Sunday evening,and put it under 
 her bed, but as she was not there at 
 the time, I ought not to blame her 
 about it. I didn't tell her at the 
 time whether I blamed her or not, 
 but from what I am now going to 
 say, I reckon she can guess my 
 opinion of her : She had that cot- 
 ton at her house ; she never told me 
 it was there, she therefore concealed 
 it from me as she had other rob- 
 beries of Liza's. She was a con- 
 cealer, and in my opinion, there's 
 no difference between a concealer 
 and a thief. As to Wesley Pitt- 
 man and his family, I attach no 
 
44 
 
 TEE lifj: of micajah AXDznsoy 
 
 blame to them on account of Liza's 
 conduct, for I believe they tried as 
 hard as I did to check her in her 
 villainous career. 
 
 Now for what transpired during 
 her seventeen days' absence. After 
 she had been gone many days, I be- 
 came so angry about her conduct 
 generally, that I determined to lock 
 my house against her, and that she 
 should never enter it again, unless I 
 was present to watch her. I did 
 not intend to let her rob me and my 
 poor motherless children any longer. 
 
 On Saturday, when I went to 
 Whitaker's turn-out, where I ad- 
 vertised her, I stopped at the gate 
 of Betsey Fountain, my wife's sis- 
 ter, and called her to me. AVhen 
 she came, I asked if she knew any-, 
 thing of Liz 1 ; she replied in a very 
 angry manner that she was there, 
 and said she had heard that I had 
 been talkins^ a sfreat deal about her. 
 I told her I had said very much 
 about her, but nothing that was not 
 strictly true. I furcher told her 
 that her sister was a thief and a 
 robber, and said no more. 
 
 The next day, Sunday, Liza went 
 to Wesley Pittman's. Two of my 
 grand-children were over there that 
 day, and when they came home they 
 told me who they had seen. I en- 
 quired if they asked Liza when she 
 was coming home. They said Liza 
 told them that she was coming by 
 home. I enquired who was with 
 her, and they said Gus Parks. I 
 took it for granted that she was 
 
 coming by that evening, so taking a 
 chair and my double-barreled gun 
 
 I sought the shade of one of the 
 oaks, about eight steps distant from 
 ft'here I supposed they would drive 
 up to, and waited events. My gun 
 contained the very same charge I 
 put in it to sho^t Dorman with, and 
 I was r3Solved that when Parks 
 drove up to forewarn him as to what 
 the consequences would be, in the 
 event he attempted to carry my 
 wife from ray premises, and then if 
 he did attempt to take her off, to 
 kill him. I never was so angry in 
 all my life. Thank the Lord they 
 didn't come that night. But the 
 next morning, Liza and Parks come 
 walking up to the gate, which is. 
 about three hundred yards from my 
 house. Upon reaching the gate, 
 Parks stopped, but she came on to- 
 wards the house, and just before 
 reaching it, halted and screamed out, 
 *'I have come, ready to do whatever 
 we are sjoinn; to do. " I then in- 
 vited her into the house to the fire. 
 She was bloated, and I told her 
 that she looked like a stuffed frog, 
 swollen up as she was with the devil 
 in her. I then called for one of 
 the boys and told him to go for La- 
 fayette Legget to do the writing for 
 us. Eliza here spoke up and said 
 " that Gus Parks was out at the 
 gate ; that he could write, and if he 
 wasn't too big a loafer to be allowed 
 
 in the house, he would do all the 
 writing that was necessary." I told 
 her that I didn't send for Gus 
 Parks to do any business for me, 
 and that so far as I was concerned, 
 he might remain at the gate. 
 
 She said the reason she had not 
 come back home sooner, was be- 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAH AXDEESOy 
 
 45 
 
 cause when she got there, Gus 
 Park's wife was dying, and after 
 she was dead, her sister Betsey und 
 Wesley Fountain were taken down 
 sick, and she remained to wa't on i 
 them. I then said to her, •' Sup- 
 pose I had been down sick, who i 
 was here to wait on me?" She! 
 made no reply, and I observed to 
 her that she had not half so much i 
 respect for me as she had for my | 
 old dog. I further remarked thiit I 
 I had intended to give her a good 
 whipping when she returned, but 
 was out of that notion now. I \ 
 rather thousjht she would ask what ; 
 had put me out of this notion, but j 
 she didn't. I told her there was 
 one thing I wished her to do, name- 
 ly : when she went to l]er church 
 again to have my name taken from 
 the church books, and substitute 
 "whatever name she wanted. I didn't 
 "want her to go there in my name 
 any longer, for if she was right I 
 was wrong, and vice vei^sa ; but I 
 was just as sure that there was 
 wrong in Liza as that there was a 
 God in Heaven, and I prayed to 
 the Lord, in her presence, that she 
 might see the sin in her sinful self 
 before it was too late. 
 
 In a little while we separated, 
 and now, before God, who knows ! 
 the truth in our hearts, I would not 
 have had the separation to occur 
 for ten thousand worlds like this. 
 
 Time and again, before she left 
 
 me, I had determined to go to the 
 
 church and narrate my troubles, but 
 as often would my heart? fail me. — 
 The last time she went to meetins: 
 
 from my house, I was almost per- 
 suaded to go with her, and acquaint 
 the church wich her wicked con- 
 duct, but somehow my resolution 
 failed me, and I didn't go that time. 
 However, I did go finally. When 
 1 went, I informed the church that 
 my wife had never treated me as a 
 wife ousiht to have treated her bus- 
 band. When I made this state- 
 ment ill the church, my wife got up 
 to leave, I suppose, but some one 
 caught hold of her and kept her in 
 the church. In a short time after 
 this, I saw the old man Jack-y 
 Stamps, and narrated to him some 
 of the difficulties between Liza and 
 myself, and he advised me to see 
 her and have a talk with her. Fol- 
 lowing his advice, I called at Wes- 
 ley Fountain's, where she lived, to 
 see her. I first saw Betsey Foun** 
 tain and told ter to tell Liza that I 
 had come to have a talk with her. 
 In a few minutes she came to me. 
 I spoke to her in the most friendly 
 manner in the world, but she, on 
 her part, barel}^ took hold ot my 
 hand. Her coldness so much 
 affected me that I could not, for my 
 life, keep from crying, and as the 
 tears coursed down my furrowed 
 cheeks, 1 said to her, " Liza, Lord 
 bless your poor soul, — Lord bless 
 your poor soul, Liza. '' I then told 
 her that I had called for a friendly 
 chat and not for a quarrel. I told 
 her also that the doors of my house 
 were open to her whenever she 
 choose to return. To this, she re- 
 plied, in a loud angry manner, that 
 she would never live with me anoth- 
 
46 
 
 TIlJ^ LIFE OF 2IICAJAU AXDFBSOX. 
 
 er day of her life, because I had 
 been saying hard tilings about her. 
 She said that I had accused her of 
 following Jiin Dorman off. I re- 
 plied that if she didn't follow Jim 
 Dorman, she vfent off with him to 
 the same place and by the same 
 road. I then asked her hovv' many 
 shirts she had ever washed for me. 
 She replied that she had w^ashed 
 many a one. I exclaimed, *' What 
 a pity 'tis, Liza, that you will tell 
 
 such 1 fibs. " I said to her that 
 
 when she left me, she turned her 
 back on the best friend she ever had 
 in her life. She proudly retorted 
 that I was not the richest man in 
 the world; that she had a man to 
 stand to her back who had more 
 money than I ever had. I replied 
 that if she couldn't talk to me in 
 peace and friendship, just as a wife 
 oufrht to talk to her husband, I 
 frished her never to speak to me 
 airain. Here our conversation ended. 
 I will now relate somethins: about 
 an interview I had with Mr. John 
 Purvis, on the fourth Sunday in 
 April, at Cotton's meeting-house. 
 After a little joking and bantering 
 between us, Purvis observed that 
 some people he knew reminded him 
 pf a certain gentleman's dog. The 
 gentleman was fond of bathing, and 
 frequently when going into the 
 water, w'ould try to coax his dog in 
 with him ; but instead of following 
 his master, this perverse canine 
 would generally remain on the banks 
 of the water, barking and howling 
 for some time, and maybe at last — 
 go in. Ju-^ so with certain human 
 
 canines in regard to the church. — 
 They stand off for a long time, and 
 at last, perhaps, go in. To this I 
 replied that as for myself, I had 
 been kept out of the still waters of 
 the church the past six years by a 
 snapping slut ; bat that the wicked 
 creature had not deprived me of my 
 faith in the Lord, who was the foun- 
 tain of livinn; waters. 
 
 Now I must say soraethin;: as to 
 my treatment at the hands of the 
 church. In the lifetime of my 
 second wife, long before I married 
 Liza, I had been deeply concerned 
 about the salvation of my poor soul, 
 and felt the same concern up to the 
 time of my marriage with Liza. — 
 When that event occurred, I verily 
 believed that I had secured a help- 
 meet both as to worldly andspiritual 
 concerns, but the sequal proves that 
 I was fearfallv mistaken. 
 
 But to the church. Well, I went 
 there and gave in my experience, 
 but without avail, being rejected on 
 account of that deceitful and des- 
 perately wicked woman. To-day I 
 stand precisely w*here I did when I 
 was rejected by the church. Poor, 
 wretched, sinful Liza is afloat in the 
 world, and never thinks of attend- 
 ing church ; and I am not permitted 
 to attend, and all on her account. 
 Maj the God of all grace, for 
 Christ's sake, pardon and forgive us 
 all for our many misdeeds, is my 
 humble and heartfelt prayer. 
 
 I will now make some observa- 
 tions on Liza's conduct after she 
 left me : When she left my house, 
 she went first to the neighborhood 
 
THE LIFE OF MICAJAH AXBEESOX, 
 
 47 
 
 that she had frequently visited be- 
 fore I married her, and lived there 
 about twelve months. On the eve 
 of her departure thence, she told 
 some of her neighbors that she was ; 
 going away in order to get out of i 
 hearing of me. And here I must I 
 remark, with much heartfelt reluc- i 
 tance, that when she left there, she j 
 took all ot her meanness with her. 
 She has forsaken her church, or I I 
 suppose she has, as I am informed I 
 that she has not been there since | 
 last August. She couldn't go to 
 meeting, but could go up to Rocky 
 Mount, join the Union League, and 
 put herself in the keeping of Spen- 
 cer Fountain, chief cook and botile- 
 washer, head and tail of the league 
 in that section. And, by the way. 
 Fountain makes a good thing of his 
 connection with the league. I hear 
 that he gets fifty cents a month from 
 each colored member of his league, 
 which, he says, is necessary to de- 
 fray the expenses of burying the 
 poor, and so forth. I thank the 
 Lord that some of the colored peo- 
 ple are beginning to find out this old 
 wolf in sheep's clothing. As for 
 Liza, she has found a master and 
 mistress in this man Fountain. — 
 Now she can "cook and do, " and 
 they do say she can even wash, too. 
 Methinks she acquired the latter 
 
 accomplishment during her manipu- 
 lations of her cousin Jim Dorman's 
 • lousy shirt. Most of Fountain's 
 visitors are negroes ; wherefore 
 Liza's social enjoyments must be pe- 
 culiarly pleasing to herself, for she 
 always had a hankering for colored 
 folks. In the life-time of her first 
 
 husband, who was brother to Spen- 
 cer Fountain, Liza and her husband 
 lived with Spencer for a season, 
 and of course had the best oppor- 
 tunities for finding out the charac- 
 ter of this great leaguer ; and I have 
 heard her say that he cheated his 
 own brother out of a whole year's 
 work and fifry dollars, too, which he 
 had loaned him. Her statement 
 may be true, or it may not be true ; 
 the fact is there's no telling any- 
 thing in the world about it, lor be- 
 twixt Liza snd Spencer Fountain, 
 there's precious little difference, and 
 I should say it is pull Dick, pull 
 devil with them, as to which is the 
 meanest, for they both belong to 
 the L'nion League, which evidently 
 comes from the devil ; and what 
 comes from his satanic majesty must 
 at some time return to that indi- 
 vidual. 
 
 I have now done. In this book I 
 have been compelled to make known 
 many things I could have wished to 
 keep within the sacred precincts of 
 my family circle, but no. other 
 course has been left me, and repeat-* 
 ins; the assertion that I have not 
 
 been moved to this by any other 
 feeling than a deep sense of justice 
 to myself and children, I give this 
 much of my life's history to the pub- 
 lic, praying the indulgence of men 
 wherein I have overstepped the 
 bounds of propriety ; and freely ac- 
 knowledging the many errors and 
 sins of my life, I rest my case with 
 
 justice, and 
 
 resign 
 
 myself to my 
 
 i God, -who must at last judge and re- 
 ward me according to my deeds and 
 ' deserts. 
 
 1 THE END. 
 

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