This was our first
view of the blacks. Our driver had to stop frequently while they were
crossing the streets, and we had full opportunity to enjoy the sight.
Hattie exclaimed, after looking at them a few moments,--
"Why, Uncle, they are human beings!"
"What did you suppose they were?" said he.
"Uncle," said she, "these cannot be slaves. Where do you suppose the
yokes are?"
"Now, Hattie," said he, "you were not so simple as to suppose that they
wore yokes, like wild cows and swine."
"Why," said she, "our papers are always telling about their being
'reduced to a level with brutes,' and every Sabbath since I was a child,
it seems to me, I have heard the prayer, 'Break every yoke!' Last Sabbath
our minister, you remember, said, 'Abraham was a slave-holder, David a
murderer, and Peter lied and swore.' Why, Uncle, these black people look
like gentlemen and ladies! If slave-holders are like murderers and
thieves, these cannot be their slaves!"
"Ask that elderly gentleman," said your Uncle. He was stopping for our
carriage to pass,--a portly man, with a ruffled shirt, and a
rich-looking cane, the end of which he kept on the ground, holding the
top of it at some distance from him.
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