He is fifty years old. We are reminded of the village blacksmith described by Longfellow, whose shop was beneath a spreading chestnut tree. "His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man." While fitting the shoes he gives a little of his experience in life. He has been a blacksmith thirty-five years. Last year, unassisted by any one, in this little dingy shop, he earned about eleven hundred dollars; this year, he thinks it will be about thirteen hundred! The farmers hereabouts like his work. When we rode up, he was fitting the axles of a two-horse wagon. He is an excellent horse-shoer, can set wagon-tires, and do all sorts of handy things. His business with the farmers is a credit-business, but he has many cash customers. His wife and his young children live at Salem, four miles distant. He lives an isolated life. He takes his meals at a little log hut near by, with a free negro, but sleeps in the shop. Summer and winter he sleeps here, lying on the bare ground in summer, and curling up upon the warm cinders of the forge in winter. There is his bed, an old blanket. To-night, when his day's work is done, he will wrap himself in it, and lie down to refreshing sleep. Saturday night he goes home to Salem to see his wife, and returns at daylight on Monday. So he has lived for fourteen years. A singular life, but not a voluntary one. No. _He is a slave!_ His owner lives down there, in that large white farm-house, with numerous out-buildings. Looking through between the logs of the shop, I can see the proprietor of this blood, bones, and brains; an old man, white-haired, walking with a cane about his stables, looking out for the comfort of his four-legged cattle on this snowy day. For thirty years has this man before me wielded the hammer, and made the anvil ring with his heavy strokes for his master; a thousand dollars a year has been the aggregate earnings. Thirty thousand dollars earned! of course it is not net earnings, but so much business done by one man, who has received nothing in return. Thirty thousand dollars' worth of unrequited labor. His wife is a slave, and his children are slaves, sold South, some of them. He will behold them no more. One has taken himself up North into freedom, and one daughter is singing of freedom in the presence of God. "How much business do you do a year, uncle?" "Last year I earned between ten and eleven hundred dollars; but this year it will be about thirteen hundred." "Of course your master gives you a liberal share of what you earn." "Not a cent, sir. I gets nothing only what the gentlemen gives me. I haved worked hard, sir, and master says if I take good care of the tools and shop, he will give 'em to me when he dies, so I takes good care of 'em." "How old is your master?" "He is seventy years old."