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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.
E, A, POE,
Hear the sledges with the bells, silver bells-
With a crystalline delight-
Hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells,
What a liquid ditty floats
0, from out the sounding cells,
Hear the loud alarum bells, brazen bells !
Out of tune,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
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 !
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
Is a groan. And the people--ah, the people; they that dwell up in the steeple
They are ghouls :
A pæan from the bells ! and his merry bosom swells
To the pæan of the bells, of the bells :
To the sobbing of the bells ;
A CATEGORICAL COURTSHIP.
I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl —
At length I saw a brindle tabby cat
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.
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