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harm to help away a slave. I told you that a year ago. I need not repeat it. A gentleman says I steal them.

Who steals, when a man comes and takes my child from my hearthstone? Who steals, when be comes and takes the babe, flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone? Who, steals? I tell you that I have no more hesitation in helping a fugitive slave than I have in snatching a lamb from the jaws of a wolf, or disengaging an infant from the talons of an eagle. Not a bit. Long enough has the nation crouched and cowered in the presence of this stupendous wrong. Here and now I break the spell, and disenchant the Republic from the incantation of this accursed sorceress. It is simply a question whether it will pay to go down into the den where the wolf is. If you would only go into your lair, and crunch the bones and tear the flesh of your victims we might let you alone; but you will not. You claim the right to go with this flesh in your teeth all over our Territories. We deny it.

XIX.

THE BELLS.

E, A, POE,

Hear the sledges with the bells, silver bells-
What a world of merriment their melody fortells !
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle all the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight-
Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells,
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
Through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes, all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats on the on!

0, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !
How it swells, how it dwells
On the Future ! how it tells of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.

Hear the loud alarum bells, brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night how they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor, now now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.
0, the bells, bells, bells, what a tale their terror tells of Despair!
How they clang, and clash and roar! what a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear it fully knows, By thc twanging and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells In the clamor and the clangor of the bells !

Hear the tolling of the bells, iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
In the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats from the rust within their throats

Is a groan. And the people--ah, the people; they that dwell up in the steeple

All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone
They are neither man nor woman; they are neither brute nor human,

They are ghouls :
And their king it is who tolls; and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,

A pæan from the bells ! and his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells ! and he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the pæan of the bells, of the bells :
Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells ---

To the sobbing of the bells ;
Keeping time, time, time, as he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme, to the rolling of the bells --
Of the bells, bells, bells, to the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, hells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells —
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

XX.

A CATEGORICAL COURTSHIP.

I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl —
The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother;
A feeble flame around the lamp did curl,
Making faint shadows, blending in each other;
'Twas nearly twelve o'clock, too, in November,
She had a shawl on, also, I remember.
Well, I had been to see her every night
For thirteen days, and had a sneaking notion
To pop the question, thinking all was right,
And once or twice had made an awkward motion
To take her hand, and stammered, coughed and stuttered,
But somehow nothing to the point had uttered.
I thought this chance too good now to be lost;
I hitched my chair up pretty close beside her,
Drew a long breath, and then my legs I crossed,
Bent over, sighed, and for five minutes eyed her;
She looked as if she knew what next was coming,
And with her foot upon the floor was drumming.
I did'nt know how to begin, or where
I could'nt speak, the words were always choking;
I scarce could move--I seemed tied in
I hardly breathed --'t was awfully provoking;
The perspiration from each pore was oozing,
My heart and brain and limbs their power seemed losing.

my chair

At length I saw a brindle tabby cat
Walk purring up, inviting me to pat her;
An idea came, electric-like, at that -
My doubts, like summer clouds, began to scatter,
I seized on tabby, though a scratch she gave me,
And said, “Come, Puss, ask Mary if she'll have me?'
'Twas done at once-the murder now was out,
The thing was all explained in half a minute;
She blushed, and turning pussy cat about,
Said, “Pussy, tell him, yes!” Her foot was in it !
The cat had thus saved me my category,
And here's the catastrophe of my story.

XXI.

THE CLAIMS OF ITALY.

I will leave antiquity out of the question, and speak only of modern times. Is it not a striking spectacle to see Italy always give the signal to the world, always open the way to great things? The first modern epic poet is an Italian-Dante; the first lyric poet is an Italian - Petrarch; the first poet of chivalry is an Italian--Boccaccio; the first painter in the world is an Italian- Raffaelle; the first statuary is an Italian-Michael Angelo; the first vigorous statesman and historian of the revival is an Italian Machiavelli; the first philosophical historian is an Italian — Nico; the discoverer of the New World is an Italian-Christopher Columbus; and the first demonstrator of the laws of the heayenly worlds is an Italian Galileo. You will find a son of Italy standing on every step of the temple of genius ever since the twelfth century. Then, in times nearer to our own, while all other nations are working at the continuation of this immortal gallery, Italy from time to time collects her strength, and presents to the world a colossus surpassing all. Now, even now, the greatest of living artists -- the only one, perhaps, who deserves, solely as an artist, the title of a great man-is he not an Italian-Rossini? And lastly, was he not also a son of Italy — that giant who towered above the whole century, and covered all around him with his light or his shade-Napofeon? In fact, it would seem that when Providence wanted a guide or a leader for humanity, it strikes this favored soil, and a great man springs forth.

XXII.

DRUNKARDS NOT ALL BRUTES.

JOHN B. GOUGH.

I said when I began, that I was a trophy of this movement; and therefore the principal part of my work has been (not ignoring other parts,) in behalf of those who have suffered as I have suffered. You know there is a great deal said about the reckless victims of this foe being " brutes" No, they are not brutes. I have labored for about eighteen yeais among them and I never have found a brute. I have had men swear at me; I have had a man dance around me'as if possessed of a devil, and spit his foam in my face; but he is not a brute. I think it is Charles Dickens who says: “ Away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, and on that door is written 'woman.' And so in the heart of the vile outcast, away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door on which is written"

Here is our business to find that door. It may take a time; but begin and knock. Don't get tired; but remember God's long suffering for us and keep knocking a long time if need be. Don't get weary if there is no answer; remember Him whose locks were wet with dew. Knock on -- just try it -- you try it; and just so sure as you do, just so sure, by-and-by, will the quivering lip and starting tear tell you have knocked at the heart of a man, and not of a brute. It is because these poor wretches are men, and not brutes that we have hopes of them. They said “he is a brute let him alone.”. I took him home with me and kept the "brute" fourteen days and nights, through his delirium; and he nearly frightened Mary out of her wits, once chasing her about the house

man."

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