inction to the
foreign slave trade) _"the internal slave trade_." It is, probably,
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 divinity_. 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 establish 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 by 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{355} 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 blood-chilling 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 babe 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 nea