I was free, but what was I to do with my freedom?  Ingenious apologists for slavery used to argue that the slave was much happier as a bondman than a freeman, as long as the conditions of his bondage were not unendurably harsh:  but no one ever knew a slave who held this creed.  There never was a slave who did not prefer his dinner of herbs, earned by his own labour, to the stalled ox of luxurious captivity.  For my part, I thought the air never tasted so sweet as on that morning of my liberation.  I walked slowly, drawing long breaths, that I might taste its full relish, as a connoisseur passes an exquisite and rare wine over his palate, that he may discriminate its subtleties.  I became a lounger, and took the pavement with the air of a gentleman at ease.  I wandered into Hyde Park, paid my penny for a seat, and sat down almost dizzy with the unaccustomed thought that there was not a human being in the universe who, at that moment, had the smallest claim to make upon my time or energy.  An hour passed in a kind of ecstatic dream.  It chanced to be a morning when Queen Victoria was driving from Paddington to Buckingham Palace, and every instant the throng of carriages increased.  Standing on my seat, I saw an immense lane of people, silent as a wood; a contagious shiver stirred them, like a gust of wind amongst the leaves; I saw the distant glitter of helmets and cuirasses, and the pageant swept along with that one tired, kindly, homely face for its centre of attraction, luring loyalty even from a heart so republican as mine by its air of patient weariness.  I thought, and I believed the thought sincere, that I would not have exchanged places with her who was the mistress of so many peoples, the Empress of such indeterminable Empire.  My new-born loyalty was three-parts pity.  Had she, who sat there in such ‘lonely splendour,’ ever known the day, since as a young girl the heavy rod of empire was intrusted to her frail and unaccustomed hands, when she woke to say, ’This day I am free, I will go where I will, do as I please, and none shall stay me?’ Yet I, a manumitted clerk, had come upon this singular and glad day; and I had it in my heart to say with Emerson, ’Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of empire ridiculous.’

I turned slowly homeward in this glow of exultation.  I should have run, for the news, either good or evil, called for instant communication.  Let my delay stand excused; I had certain matters to be settled with myself that morning.  My feet had to learn a new kind of movement, and my thoughts a new sequence; I was as a child learning to walk and think before I could take my place on equal terms with new companions.  One incident of my walk struck me by way of humour and discovery.  I had often strolled into bookshops toward evening, and had remarked upon the cold discourtesy with which my presence was regarded.  Now I knew the reason; I had come at the clerk’s hour, and the keen eyes of discriminating shopmen had recognised