Robert returned to Baltimore, sold himself to a Jew in that city, and sent the money to the lawyer in Philadelphia. After this he was bought by a distinguished Southern Senator--afterward a general in the Southern army[17]--with whom he remained, and to whom he rendered valuable services during the war. [17] General Robert Toombs. Other instances were known of negroes who preferred being sold into slavery rather than take care of themselves. There were some in our immediate neighborhood who, finding themselves emancipated by their master's will, begged the owners of neighboring plantations to buy them, saying they preferred having "white people to take care of them." On the Wheatly plantation, not far from us, there is still living an old negro who sold himself in this way, and cannot be persuaded _now_ to accept his freedom. After the war, when all the negroes were freed by the Federal government, and our people were too much impoverished longer to clothe and feed them, this old man refused to leave the plantation, but clung to his cabin, although his wife and family moved off and begged him to accompany them. "No," said he, "I nuvver will leave dis plantation, an' go off to starve wid free niggers." Not even when his wife was very sick and dying could he be persuaded to go off and stay one night with her. He had long been too old to work, but his former owners indulged him by giving him his cabin, and taking care of him through all the poverty which has fallen upon our land since the war. Many of us remember this old man, Harrison Mitchell, who was an unusual character, high-toned and reliable. His father was an Indian and his mother a negress. He resembled the Indian, with straight black hair, brown skin, and high cheek-bones. His great pride was that he had "cum out de Patrick Henry estate an use to run a freight boat wid flour down de Jeemes Ruver fum Lynchbu'g to Richmon' long fo' dar was a sign o' town at Lynch's Ferry." But his great and consuming theme, especially after the war, was the impossibility of the negroes taking care of themselves "bedout no white man," and nothing ever reconciled him to his own freedom. Taking his seat in our back porch, where my mother usually entertained him, we would assemble to hear him talk. I would ask: "Well, Uncle Harrison, what do you think of freedom now after ten years?"