All these faces were gray with a coating of dust.One has seen the like of this coating upon furniture in unoccupied houses,and has written his idle thought in it with his finger.I was reminded of this when I noticed the faces of some of those women,young mothers carrying babes that were near to death and freedom,how a something in their hearts was written in the dust upon their faces,plain to see,and lord,how plain to read!
for it was the track of tears.One of these young mothers was but a girl,and it hurt me to the heart to read that writing,and reflect that it was come up out of the breast of such a child,a breast that ought not to know trouble yet,but only the gladness of the morning of life;and no doubt --She reeled just then,giddy with fatigue,and down came the lash and flicked a flake of skin from her naked shoulder.It stung me as if I had been hit instead.The master halted the file and jumped from his horse.
He stormed and swore at this girl,and said she had made annoyance enough with her laziness,and as this was the last chance he should have,he would settle the account now.She dropped on her knees and put up her hands and began to beg,and cry,and implore,in a passion of terror,but the master gave no attention.He snatched the child from her,and then made the men-slaves who were chained before and behind her throw her on the ground and hold her there and expose her body;and then he laid on with his lash like a madman till her back was flayed,she shrieking and struggling the while piteously.One of the men who was holding her turned away his face,and for this humanity he was reviled and flogged.
All our pilgrims looked on and commented --on the expert way in which the whip was handled.They were too much hardened by lifelong everyday familiarity with slavery to notice that there was anything else in the exhibition that invited comment.This was what slavery could do,in the way of ossifying what one may call the superior lobe of human feeling;for these pilgrims were kind-hearted people,and they would not have allowed that man to treat a horse like that.
I wanted to stop the whole thing and set the slaves free,but that would not do.I must not interfere too much and get myself a name for riding over the country's laws and the citizen's rights roughshod.If I lived and prospered I would be the death of slavery,that I was resolved upon;but I would try to fix it so that when I became its executioner it should be by command of the nation.
Just here was the wayside shop of a smith;and now arrived a landed proprietor who had bought this girl a few miles back,deliverable here where her irons could be taken off.They were removed;then there was a squabble between the gentleman and the dealer as to which should pay the blacksmith.The moment the girl was delivered from her irons,she flung herself,all tears and frantic sobbings,into the arms of the slave who had turned away his face when she was whipped.He strained her to his breast,and smothered her face and the child's with kisses,and washed them with the rain of his tears.I suspected.I inquired.Yes,I was right;it was husband and wife.They had to be torn apart by force;the girl had to be dragged away,and she struggled and fought and shrieked like one gone mad till a turn of the road hid her from sight;and even after that,we could still make out the fading plaint of those receding shrieks.And the husband and father,with his wife and child gone,never to be seen by him again in life?--well,the look of him one might not bear at all,and so I turned away;but I knew I should never get his picture out of my mind again,and there it is to this day,to wring my heartstrings whenever I think of it.
