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called so, too, in order to divert from it the horror with which the foreign
slave trade is contemplated. That trade has long since been denounced by
this government as piracy. It has been denounced with burning words, from
the high places of the nation, as an execrable traffic. To arrest it, to put an
end to it, this nation keeps a squadron, at immense cost, on the coast of
Africa. Everywhere in this country, it is safe to speak of this foreign slave
trade as a most inhuman traffic, opposed alike to the laws of God and of
man. The duty to extirpate and destroy it is admitted even by our doctors of
divnity. In order to put an end to it, some of these last have consented that
their colored brethren (nominally free) should leave this country, and estahlish themselves on the western coast of Africa. It is, however, a notable
fact, that. while so much execration is poured out by Americans, upon those
engaged in the foreign slave trade, the men engaged in the slave trade between the states pass without condemnation, and their business is deemed
honorable.

Behold the practical operation of this internal slave trade--the American slave trade sustained hy American politics and American religion! Here
you will see men and women reared like swine for the market. You know
what is a swine-drover? I will show you a man-drover. They inhabit all our
southern states. They perambulate the country, and crowd the highways of
the nation with droves of human stock. 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 bloodchilling 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 habe 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. The crack you heard was the sound of the slave whip; the scream you
heard was from the woman you saw with the babe. Her speed had faltered
under the weight of her child and her chains; that gash on her shoulder tells