In
its external aspect, the exhibition was not altogether unlike what I
have sometimes seen in England, when some wandering Italian has ranged
against a wall his bronzed figures of distinguished men,--Shakspeare,
Napoleon, Wellington, Nelson, &c. It was between twelve and one in the
day; but there was no crowd, not even a single boy or girl looking
on,--so common and every-day was the character of the scene. As we
moved along in front of this sable row, one of the white attendants
(though my wife had hold of my arm) said to me, with all the
_nonchalance_ of a Smithfield cattle-drover, "Looking out for a few
niggers this morning?" Never did I feel my manhood so insulted. My
indignation burned for expression. But I endeavoured to affect
indifference, and answered in a don't-care sort of tone, "No, I am not
particularly in want of any to-da--." I could scarcely finish the
sentence. Emotion choked my utterance. I passed on, gazing at the troop
of degraded human beings, till my eyes became so filled with tears that
I was compelled to turn my face another way. Though I anticipated such
scenes, and had tried to prepare my mind for them, yet (now that they
were actually before me) I was completely overcome, and was obliged to
seek a place to sit down while I composed my feelings.
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