You will see one of these
human-flesh-jobbers, armed with pistol, whip, and bowie-knife,
driving a company of a hundred men, women, and children, from the
Potomac to the slave market at New Orleans. These wretched
people are to be sold singly, or in lots, to suit purchasers.
They are food for the cotton-field and the deadly sugar-mill.
Mark the sad procession as it moves wearily along, and the
inhuman wretch who drives them. Hear his savage yells and his
blood-chilling oaths, as he hurries on his affrighted captives.
There, see the old man, with locks thinned and gray. Cast one
glance, if you please, upon that young mother, whose shoulders
are bare to the scorching sun, her briny tears falling on the
brow of the babe in her arms. See, too, that girl of thirteen,
weeping, yes, weeping, as she thinks of the mother from whom she
has been torn. The drove moves tardily. Heat and sorrow have
nearly consumed their strength. Suddenly you hear a quick snap,
like the discharge of a rifle; the fetters clank, and the chain
rattles simultaneously; your ears are saluted with a scream that
seems to have torn its way to the center of your soul.
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