This reminds me, if you will excuse longer delay in my narrative, of some unfavorable impressions which I received lately on my way to Boston, with regard to the imperious manner in which a traveller is assailed by advertisements on the fences, as you pass through the environs of the city.  Every few miles, as the cars passed along, I saw, printed on the rough boards of a fence:  “Visit” so and so; “Use” so and so; “Try” so and so.  I would not be willing to say how often my attention was caught by those mandatory advertisements.  At last I became conscious of some feeling of resistance.  Whether it was that I began to breathe the air of Bunker Hill, and the atmosphere which nourishes our most eminent friends of freedom, so many of whom, you know, live in Boston and vicinity, I cannot tell; but I found myself saying, with quite enough resentment and emphasis, “I will not ‘use’ so and so; I will not ‘try’ so and so; especially, I will not ‘visit’ so and so,—­First, It will not be convenient.  Secondly, I have no occasion to do so.  Thirdly, I do not know the way; but, Finally, I do not like to be addressed in this manner, as an overseer of a Southern plantation addresses a slave.  I am not a slave.  I am a Massachusetts freeman.”  This way of speaking to people, dear Aunty, must be discountenanced.  It will, by and by, beget an aptitude for servile obedience; the eye and ear becoming accustomed to the forms of domination, we shall have yokes and chains upon us before we are aware.  Some one says, “Let me write the songs for a nation, and I care not who makes her laws.”  So say I, Let me write imperative advertisements on fences and buildings, and all resistance to Southern encroachments and usurpation will soon be in vain.

But to resume my narrative.  I began to look round, as soon as my excitement about the runaway horse would allow, for some one to whom I could open my overburdened mind on the subject of freedom.  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?”