I espied a man with an immense load of chairs, from a factory in our neighborhood, as I supposed, on his way to Boston.

Four horses drew the load, which I saw was very heavy; not so heavy, I thought with myself, as that which four millions of my fellow-men are this moment laboring with, over the gloomy hills of darkness in our Southern States.

I felt impelled to address the driver on this great theme.

So, before he had reached the top of the hill, I called out,-- "Driver!" Perhaps there was more suddenness and zeal in my call than was judicious, but the driver immediately said "Whoa!" to his horses, and he ran hither and thither for stones to block the wheels to keep his load from running back, down hill.
I felt encouraged, by this, to think that he was of a kind and pliable disposition; and seeing the wheels fortified, and the horses at rest, I felt more disposed to hold conversation with the man.

"Who knows," I said to myself, "but that I may now make one new friend for the slave ?" "A warm day," said I.
"Yes, sir," said he, a little impatiently, I thought, The sun was very hot, an August morning, no air stirring, well suited to make one think of toil and woe under our Southern skies.
"Have you ever been at the South ?" said I, wiping my forehead.
"No, sir," said he, picking out a knot in the snapper of his whip, evidently to hide his embarrassment while waiting to know the drift of my question.