He was a native of Maryland; had bought himself for three thousand two hundred dollars from his master, and had earned and paid over the money; had removed to Florida, and been engaged at work on a railroad, where he had already accumulated what for him was a handsome competence, when his little house burned down, and his free papers were lost in the fire. A gang of unprincipled vagabonds at once determined, there being no accessible evidence of his freedom to be produced against them, to seize him, sell him in the New Orleans market and pocket the proceeds. He frustrated their attempt by whipping the whole party of six; then hearing that they were to be re-enforced and were to try it again, he deliberately proceeded to the public square, accompanied by his wife, cut the muscles of his ankle joint, plunged a knife into the hip joint on the other side, and then, sinking down on a wheel-barrow, finished the work by chopping off with a hatchet the fingers of his left hand! Meanwhile, an awe-struck crowd of white men gathered around, but made no attempt at interference. Finally, brandishing the bloody knife, Sandie shouted to the crowd that if they persisted in their effort to sell a free man into slavery after he had once, at an extortionate price, bought himself out of it, his right arm was yet strong, and he had one blow reserved, after which they were welcome to sell him for whatever he would bring. That the essentials of this story are true, there is unquestionable evidence. The fingers on his left hand are mutilated, and the scars on the hip and ankle are still fearfully distinct, while besides there are still white eye-witnesses to testify to the main facts. Sandie’s powerful constitution brought him through; he was confined to bed six months; then he began to hobble about a little, and at the end of the year was again able to support himself. [Illustration] He showed us through what he proudly called his plantation. Ripe sapadillos hung from the trees; and a particularly large “sour-sop” was pointed out as specially intended for our dinner. He had a little patch of tobacco; green cocoanuts rested at the tops of the palm-like stems, and tamarinds were abundant; the African cayenne pepper berry was hanging on little bushes, and one or two of the party, who had been promiscuously experimenting on Sandie’s fruit, came to grief when they reached it, and were heard complaining that their “mouths were on fire.” Plucking two or three berries of another kind, Sandie handed them to the Chief Justice, “Take dem home and plant ’em in your garden, and you’ll hab you own coffee aftah while.” “But coffee won’t grow, Sandie, where I live.” “Don’t know bout dat, sah. Dat’s just what dey told me heah; but you see it does. I didn’t know no reason why it shouldn’t, and so I try. Now, you just try, too!”