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with it he conquered what? Englishmen -their equals. This man manufactured his army, out of what? Out of what you call the despicable race of negroes, debased, demoralized by two hundred years of slavery; one hundred thousand of them imported into the island within four years, unable to speak a dialect intelligible to each other. Yet out of this mixed, and, as you say, despicable race, he forged a thunderbolt, and hurled it at what? At the proudest blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and sent him home conquered; at the most warlike blood in Europe, the French, and put them under his feet; at the pluckiest blood in Europe, the English, and they skulked home to Jamaica. Now, if Cromwell was a general, at least this man was a soldier. I know it was a small territory; it was not as large as the continent; but it was as large as that Attica, which, with Athens for a capital, has filled the earth with its fame for two thousand years. We measure genius by quality, and not by quantity.

Further, Cromwell was only a soldier; his fame stops there. Not one line in the statute book of Britain can be traced to Cromwell; not one step in the social life of England finds its motive-power in his brain. The state he founded went down with him to his grave. But this man no sooner put his hand on the helm of state, than the ship steadied with an upright keel, and he began to evince a statesmanship as marvellous as his military genius. History says that the most statesmanlike act of Napoleon, was his proclamation of 1802, at the peace of Amiens, when believing that the indelible loyalty of a native-born heart is always a sufficient basis on which to found an empire, he said: "Frenchmen, come home. I pardon the crimes of the last twelve years; I blot out its parties; I found my throne on the hearts of all Frenchmen,"—and twelve years of unclouded success showed how wisely he judged. This was in 1802. In 1800 this negro made a proclamation; it runs thus: "Sons of St. Domingo, come home. We never meant to take your houses or your lands. The negro only asked that liberty which God gave him. Your houses wait for you; your lands are ready; come and cultivate them ;"-and from Madrid and Paris, from Baltimore and New Orleans, the emigrant planters crowded home to enjoy their estates, under the pledged word that was never broken of a victorious slave.

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It was 1800. The world waited fifty years before, in 1846, Robert Peel dared to venture, as a matter of practical statesmanship, the theory of free trade. Adam Smith theorized, the French statesmen dreamed, but no man at the head of affairs had ever dared to risk it as a practical measure. Europe waited until 1846 before the most practical intellect in the world, the English, adopted the great economic formula of unfettered trade. But in 1800, this black, with the instinct of statesmanship, said to the committee who were drafting him a Constitution: "Put at the head of the chapter of commerce that the ports of St. Domingo are open to the trade of the world." With lofty indifference to race, superior to all envy or prejudice, Toussaint had formed this committee of eight white proprietors and one mulatto,-not a soldier nor a negro on the list, although Haytien history proves that, with the exception of Rigaud, the rarest genius has always been shown by pure negroes.

Again, it was in 1800, at a time when England was poisoned on every page of her statute book with religious intolerance, when a man could not enter the House of Commons without taking an Episcopal communion, when every State in the Union, except Rhode Island, was full of the intensest religious bigotry. This man was a negro. You say that is a superstitious blood. He was uneducated. You say that makes a man narrow-minded. He was a Catholic. Many say that is but another name for intolerance. And yet-negro, Catholic, slave

he took his place by the side of Roger Williams, and said to his committee: "Make it the first line of my Constitution that I know no difference between religious beliefs."

Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with me to the commencement of the century, and select what statesman you please. Let him be either American or European; let him have a brain the result of six generations of culture; let him have the ripest training of university routine; let him add to it the better education of practical life; crown his temple with the silver of seventy years; and show me the man of Saxon lineage for whom his most sanguine admirer will wreathe a laurel such as embittered foes have placed on the brow of this negro,-rare military skill, profound knowledge of human nature, content to blot out all party distinctions, and trust a state to the blood of its sons,-anticipating Sir

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Robert Peel fifty years, and taking his station | I never cared to have anything to do with by the side of Roger Williams before any them afterwards. Yet I took up the hatchet Englishman or American had won the right; for them with the rest of my tribe, in the and yet this is the record which the history late war against France, and was killed of rival states makes up for this inspired while I was out upon a scalping party. But black of St. Domingo. * * * I died very well satisfied, for my brethren were victorious; and before I was shot I had gloriously scalped seven men, and five women and children. In a former war I had performed still greater exploits. My name is Bloody Bear; it was given to me to explain my fierceness and valour.

I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon made his way to empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood. This man never broke his word. "No Retaliation was his great motto and the rule of his life; and the last words he uttered to his son in France were these: "My boy, you will one day go back to St. Domingo; forget that France murdered your father." I would call him Cromwell, but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he founded went down with him into his grave. I would call him Washington, but the great Virginian held slaves. This man risked his empire rather than permit the slave-trade in the humblest village

of his dominions.

You think me a fanatic to-night, for you read history, not with your eyes, but with your prejudices. But fifty years hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of History will put Phocion for the Greek, and Brutus for the Roman, Hampden for England, La Fayette for France, choose Washington as the bright, consummate flower of our earlier civilization, and John Brown the ripe fruit of our noon-day, then, dipping his pen in the sunlight, will write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, TOUSSAINT L'OUVER

TURE.

THE DUELLIST.

The Duellist.

Mercury, Charon's boat is on the other side of the water. Allow me, before it returns, to have some conversation with the North-American savage, whom you brought hither with me. I never before saw one of that species. He looks very grimly.-Pray, sir, what is your name? I understand you speak English.

Savage.

Yes, I learnt it in my childhood, having been bred for some years among the English of New York. But, before I was a man I returned to my valiant countrymen, the Mohawks; and having been villanously cheated by one of yours in the sale of rum,

Duellist.

Bloody Bear, I respect you, and am much your humble servant. My name is Tom Pushwell, very well known at Arthur's. I fession a gamester and man of honour. I am a gentleman by my birth, and by prohave killed men in fair fighting, in honourable single combat; but don't understand cutting the throats of women and children.

Savage.

Sir, that is our way of making war. Every nation has its customs. But by the grimness of your countenance, and that hole in your breast, I presume you were killed, as I was, in some scalping party. How happened it that your enemy did not take off your scalp?

Duellist.

Sir, I was killed in a duel. A friend of mine had lent me a sum of money. After two or three years, being in great want himself, he asked me to pay him. I thought his demand, which was somewhat peremptory, an affront to my honour, and sent him a challenge. We met in Hyde Park. The fellow could not fence: I was absolutely the adroitest swords-man in England. So I gave him three or four wounds; but at last he ran upon me with such impetuosity, that he put me out of my play, and I could not prevent him from whipping me through the lungs. I died the next day as a man of honour should, without any snivelling signs of contrition or repentance; and he will follow me soon; for his surgeon has declared his wounds to be mortal. It is said that his wife is dead of grief, and that his family of seven children will be undone by his death. So I am well revenged, and that is a comfort. For my part, I had no wife— I always hated marriage; my mistress will take good care of herself, and my children

are provided for at the foundling hospi- | to be ashamed of my company? Dost thou tal. know that I have kept the best company in England?

Savage.

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the war-whoop. I challenge you to sing. | Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when Come, begin. This fellow is mute. Mercury, this is a liar. He has told us nothing but lies. Let me pull out his tongue.

Duellist.

first
The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass.
I do remember well the hour which burst
My spirit's sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was,
When I walked forth upon the glittering grass,
And wept, I knew not why; until there rose
From the near school-room voices, that, alas!
Were but one echo from a world of woes-

The lie given me! and alas! I dare not resent it. What an indelible disgrace to the family of the Pushwells! This indeed is The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.

damnation.

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Alas, that love should be a blight and snare

O my honour, my honour, to what infamy To those who seek all sympathies in one!—

art thou fallen !

LORD LYTTELTON.

Such once I sought in vain: then black despair,
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone:-
Yet never found I one not false to me,
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone,

DEDICATION OF “THE REVOLT OF | Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be

ISLAM" TO HIS WIFE.

So now my summer-task is ended, Mary,
And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;
As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faëry,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;
Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become
A star among the stars of mortal night,
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite

With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light.

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour,
Is ended, and the fruit is at thy feet!
No longer where the woods to frame a bower
With interlaced branches mix and meet,
Or where with sound like many voices sweet,
Water-falls leap among wild islands green,
Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:
But beside thee, where still my hear has ever been.

Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee.

Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart
Fell, like bright spring upon some herbless plain,
How beautiful and calm and free thou wert
In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain
Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain,
And walked as free as light the clouds among,
Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain
From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung

To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long,

No more alone through the world's wilderness,
Although I trod the paths of high intent,

I journeyed now: no more companionless,
Where solitude is like despair, I went.-
There is the wisdom of a stern content,
When Poverty can blight the just and good,
When Infamy dares mock the innocent,

And cherished friends turn with the multitude

To trample: this was ours, and we unshaken stood I

Now has descended a serener hour,

And, with inconstant fortune, friends return;
Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power
Which says:-Let scorn be not repaid with scorn;
And from thy side two gentle babes are born
To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we
Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn;
And these delights, and thou, have been to me
The parents of the Song I consecrate to thee.
Is it, that now my inexperienced fingers
But strike the prelude of a loftier strain?
Or must the lyre on which my spirit lingers
Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again,
Though it might shake the Anarch Custom's reign,
And charm the minds of men to truth's own sway,
Holier than was Amphion's? I would fain
Reply in hope--but I am worn away,

And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey.

And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak:
Time may interpret to his silent years.

Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek,
And in the light thine ample forehead wears,
And in the sweetest smiles, and in thy tears,
And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy
Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears:
And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see
A lamp of vestal fire burning internally.

They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,
Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child:

I wonder not--for one then left this earth,
Whose life was like a setting planet mild,
Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled
Of its departing glory: still her fame

Shines on thee through the tempests dark and wild,
Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim
The shelter, from thy Sire, or an immortal name.

Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind!
If there must be no response to my cry-
If men must rise and stamp with fury blind
On his pure name who loves them-thou and I,
Sweet Friend! can look from our tranquility
Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night,-
Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by
Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's sight,
That burn from year to year with unextinguished light.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. [NOTE. Employment of very young children in faotories had, in 1846, become such an evil that the best talent in England joined in urging its amendment, which proved effective, for the Factory Act was passed in 1848, limiting the hours of labor and the age at which children could be employed.]

I.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O, my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years ?

They are leaning their young heads against their moth

ers

And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west;
Bnt the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly —

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

II.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so?

The old man may weep for his to-morrow,
Which is lost in Long Ago;

The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,

The old hope is hardest to be lost:
But the young, young children, O, my brothers!
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy fatherland?

III.

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,

For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy:

"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;

"Our young feet," they say, "are very weak!
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary-
Our grave-rest is very far to seek:

Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old !

IV.

"True," say the children, "it may happen

That we die before our time,

Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen
Like a snowball in the rime.

We looked into the pit prepared to take her-
Was no room for any work in the close clay!
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, 'Get up little Alice! it is day.'

If you listen by that grave. in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries!
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know hen
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes!
And merry grow her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud, by the kirk-chime!

It is good when it happens," say the children,
"That we die before our time."

V.

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have!

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