In the winter of that year, I was sent by my employer to Hartland with a
sleigh-load of produce, and passed through the village of Rochester, which
I had never before seen. It was a very small, forbidding looking place at
first sight, with few inhabitants, and surrounded by a dense forest.

I recollect that while pursuing my journey, I overtook a white man driving
a span of horses, who contended that I had not a right to travel the
public highway as other men did, but that it was my place to keep behind
him and his team. Being in haste I endeavored to pass him quietly, but he
would not permit it and hindered me several hours, very much to my
annoyance and indignation. This was, however, but a slight incident
indicating the bitter prejudice which every man seemed to feel against the
negro. No matter how industrious he might be, no matter how honorable in
his dealings, or respectful in his manners,--he was a "nigger," and as
such he must be treated, with a few honorable exceptions.

This year also, my father died in the village of Palmyra, where, as I have
before mentioned, he received injuries from which he never entirely
recovered. After about six months severe illness which he bore with
commendable patience and resignation, his spirit returned to God who gave
it; and his sorrowing friends and bereaved family followed his remains to
their final abode, where we laid him down to rest from unrequited labor
and dire oppression, until "all they who are in their graves shall hear
the voice of the Son of God, and they that hear shall live forever," where
the "tears shall be wiped from off all faces"--and where the righteous
bondman shall no longer fear the driver's lash or master's frown, but
freely join in the song of "Alleluia! The Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!"

My father had a good reputation for honesty and uprightness of character