day, to visit these tombs. Instead of answering my question directly he
gave me the following account of himself, in broken language:--

About sixty years ago, this negro was living under his paternal roof in
Africa. He was the son of a chief of a small tribe, the pride of his
parents, and the delight of his countrymen; none could more dexterously
throw the dart; none more skilfully guide the fragile canoe over the
bosom of the deep. He was not far from twenty years of age, when, on a
fair summer's morn, he went in his little canoe to spend the day in
fishing. About noon he paddled his bark to the shore, and, under the
shade of a beautiful palmetto-tree, he reclined till the heat of
noon-day should be passed. He was young, healthy, and active; he knew
none whom he dreaded; he was a stranger to fear, and he dreamed only of
security, as he slept under the shade of his own native tree. Thus,
while our sky is encircled with the bow of happiness, we forget that it
may soon be overspread with darkness. When this African awoke, he found
his hands bound behind him, his feet fettered, and himself surrounded by
several white men, who were conveying him on board of their ship;--it
was a slave-ship. The vessel had her cargo completed, and was ready to
sail. As they were unfurling the sails, the son of Africa, with many
others of his countrymen, for the last time cast his eyes upon his
native shores. Futurity was dark,--was uncertain,--was despair. His
bosom thrilled with anguish, as he threw his last farewell look over the
plains of his native country. There was his native spot where his had
lived, there the home of his infancy and childhood, there the place
where he had inhaled his earliest breath--and to tear him from these,
seemed like breaking the very strings of his heart.

[Illustration]