Gentlemen,-It has been said, that unless such acts as I have committed are punished with the utmost severity of the law, there will be a total overthrow of law and order, an end to all prosperity, an end to security for property and life, the happiness of your homes, the loves of your hearts, and the hopes of your religion would be swept away. I ask, Gentlemen, that you calmly and dispassionately consider this assertion. Are we cannibals? do we subsist upon blood? Is not every man and every woman of us as much interested in liberty, order, and religion, as yourselves? Are there no pockets but your own? no hearts but your own?-no homes but your own?-no God but your own? If, Gentlemen, your religion teaches you oppression,-if your hearts are to be supplied with blood wrung from acts of cruelty and wrong, if your homes are to be built of bones cemented by tears, then the sooner the earthquake of discontent comes the better,-for the ruins of the old city shall fertilize the land, and upon its site shall rise something more acceptable to God! But if ever the black population assume dominion over the white, depend upon it, Gentlemen, that fugitives of your colour will be flying in every direction, that you will not bear oppression as meekly as we have done. Contemplating such a state of things, I say from my heart, may God give you wings to flee from bondage. Let that time come when it may, I would rather be called a traitor to my race, and die as Masaniello did, than sit invested with the dignity of the law, to try one of you for an act without the commission of which you might well be despised as servile slaves. I "Gentlenen,-I have nearly done. might have proceeded to move your sympathies. I might have told you a tale of love; how, with all my heart, I grew attached to her who afterwards became my wife; how we were separated from each other by the cruel vicissitudes which slavery is every hour producing. I might have told you of a lovely child, one only daughter, torn from us both. I might have reminded you of your homes, your wives, and babes; and have asked you, how you could have borne to have had them ravished, and all your happiness destroyed? But I know the law, and am aware of the duty which lies before you. I move not, therefore, for your charity. But, Gentlemen, I look up to Heaven, and, in the face of Almighty God,— whose rule is love, and in whose sight all men are equal; whose word is above all law, and whose arm will avenge the wrongs of the oppressed,-I demand justice! And although you may not now be able to release me from a terrible fate, I do beseech you all, when you leave this Court, to cleanse this your native land from so foul a stain-a stain which has already sunk too deeply in her garments to be wholly obliterated, and to enable you to hand her down to history with untarnished glory; but which stain may yet be modified, if not removed, by a bold and Christian resolve, on the part of those who have her institutions now in their grasp, to overthrow oppression, and to give liberty and right immediate and complete dominion! "When the doors of my prison are opened, and I hear the last summons, I shall be sustained by the words of a sable brother, which he wrote and repeated under circumstances of equal terror: "Being of infinite goodness! God Almighty! I hasten in mine agony to thee, Rending the hateful veil of calumny, Stretch forth thine arm omnipotent in pity; Efface this ignominy from my brow, Wherewith the world is fain to brand it now. "Oh King of kings! thou God of my forefathers! My God! thou only my defence shalt be, Who gav'st her riches to the shadow'd sea; From whom the North her frosty treasures gathers. Of heavenly light and soiar flame the Giver, Revives to being at thy sacred voice; "Merciful God! I can deceive thee never, sure, And men shall trample over my cold dust, The corse outraging with malignant pleasure, E This is not only a thrilling defence, but an eloquent appeal to the universal sympathies and reason of mankind. It is throughout marked by high power, and reminds us, in one or two passages, of the natural reasoning of Shylock, but employed in a far nobler justification. Such an extract will convey a far higher opinion of the merits of the work than any thing we could say in its favour. It carries conviction with it, that no traffic is so indefensible as that which deals in human blood. Before it, how quickly tumbles to the ground every argument in its defence! "Like the baseless fabric of a vision," the whole system of Slavery is swept away, leaving no trace behind! We heartily commend the work to our readers, not only on account of the interest which it excites and its extreme cheapness, but on account of the high claims which its subject has upon the universal sympathies of mankind. THE DRUNKARD'S VOW; OR, THE VOICE OF GOD. "Hence from me, thou that can'st beguile The heart, delusive Wine! Give me one gleam from beauty's smile, Th' insensate's praise be thine!" THUS recited Henry Graham as he rose to bid adieu to his lady love, the fair Helen Meredith, and at her invitation again took a seat and refreshed himself with a glass of wine and a slice of cake. "That does very well for the poet to say, but for my part I like the smile and the wine also," he continued, "What say you, Helen?" Helen laughed and declared that she cared but little for either. "Indeed, Helen! I am sorry for that. But seriously, what think you of the great temperance reform? No doubt it does much good, but I must own that I like a cheerful glass. My friend Selby was married the other evening; and if you will believe it, not a drop of wine was allowed at the wedding." "That seems to be carrying the matter too far," replied Helen. "Intemperance is certainly a great evil; but it appears to me that there can be no harm in a very moderate use of wine." 66 Surely not, or of brandy either," said Henry. "We will have no lemonade wedding when we are married, Helen.” Helen smiled her assent; and after a few minutes' conversation, the lovers parted for the evening. Alas, Henry Graham! Highly gifted in mind, of noble person and engaging manners-few could have imagined that he stood on the brink of a frightful precipice, from which, could his mental vision have been opened, he would have recoiled with horror. And Helen, lovely and amiable, with a well cultivated mind, and a gentle, sensitive disposition, which rendered her wholly dependent for happiness upon the loved ones around her: she had given her young affections to one whom she fondly believed most worthy to be entrusted with the precious gift; and so indeed he was, had it not been for that one fatal propensity which rendered him an easy prey to the fell destroyer of domestic happiness, peace, and virtue. Henry would have spurned with indignation the thought that he could ever become intemperate; but he knew not how frequently his excited spirits were produced by the unnatural stimulus on which he had already become too dependent. Unsuspected, stealthily, but, alas! too surely, even as the tiger springs upon its prey, does intemperance seize its victim. A few short months passed on, and the lovers stood at the altar and solemnly plighted their faith. Everything seemed to promise fairly for their future happiness, and their numerous friends and acquaintance hastened to offer their warm congratulations. The young couple were indeed most happy, nearly a year elapsed before even a shadow crossed their path. And yet the dangerous habit was daily gaining strength. A few glasses of wine or a moderate share of good brandy, were now considered by Henry as quite essential to his welfare. He "needed the stimulus, and could not attend to his business without it." Helen occasionally rallied him upon taking what she considered a somewhat immoderate quantity, and threatened to compel him to sign the pledge; but her remonstrances were made in playful-As yet, not a doubt or fear had crossed her mind. ness. Time passed on, and now another tie bound them still more closely together. A lovely babe smiled upon them, and warmed their hearts with its looks of love. The duties of a mother had somewhat abstracted Helen's attention from her husband. Although he still possessed her most devoted and earnest affection even more, if possible, than previous to the birth of the child, she did not watch his every look and action as she had done when there was no other claimant to her love; and it was not until long after others had perceived and lamented his altered looks and manners, that her eyes were opened to the fearful change. "Are you going out this evening?" asked Helen, with something of disappointment in her tone, as her husband rose from the teatable, and took his hat and overcoat. Henry hesitated. "I am sorry to leave you, Helen," he said, "but to tell the truth, there is to be a social party among the young men with whom I was acquainted before our marriage, this evening, and they urged me so earnestly to attend, that I knew not how to refuse." "You have been absent so much lately," said Helen. "I long to pass one quiet evening with you. There are many things I want to talk about." Henry blushed. Already he shrunk from the thought of a long private conversation with his pure-minded, and as he felt, already injured wife; for in the closest and holiest of all ties, evil and its baneful consequences cannot be borne by one alone; the innocent must suffer with the guilty. Recovering his self-possession, he presently replied: "My absence is generally caused by business, Helen. I devote little time to my own pleasure.” 66 True," returned Helen, quickly. "I would not willingly be selfish. Forget what I have said, and go to your friends. No doubt you need the recreation." "Thank you, dearest," said her husband; to-morrow evening I will be at your service," and begging her not to await his return, but to retire at her usual hour, he kissed her cheek and left the house. There was an unusual depression in Helen's spirits, for which she could not account. She tried to occupy her thoughts with an interesting book, but found it impossible to fix her attention, and soon threw it aside. She stole softly to the crib where her sleeping boy lay in his innocent beauty, and bent over him to listen to his gentle breathing, almost wishing that he would wake and demand that care which might drive away the feeling of loneliness and desolation which had crept over her, but he slept on soundly and sweetly. Where spirits are united in the interiors of the mind, which we may regard as their heavenly home, it is impossible for one to be led astray by the temptations which constantly beset our earthly path, without the cognizance and suffering of the other. The evil, which at this day obscures all spiritual things, may not be sufficiently raised to enable the sufferer to perceive the cause of the mental disturbance, but the effect is sensibly felt. Anxiety, depression, and an undefined fear of evil in our own minds, are often the result of the errors or misfortunes of those with whom we are in intimate spiritual association. To some it may seem strange that we can speak of spiritual union between one who has yielded to the more flagrant evils of our depraved nature, and an innocent being who seems the personification of goodness and purity; but thus it is. Good and evil cannot indeed be united, but during our life in this world, there are few whom we can class as wholly evil, and none whom we are prepared to call without sin. Good and evil, truth and falsity, are strangely blended together; and even in the poor wretch who in a moment of infatuation has raised the fatal cup to his lips, there may be found redeeming traits which when deep repentance and reformation have followed sin, may still bring him into union with one who, perhaps less tempted, has wandered less from the path of virtue. The weary hours wore on. Helen could not compose her mind sufficiently to retire to rest, and resolved to wait her husband's return. Midnight passed by; but this excited no surprise. It was not to be expected that he would leave his gay companions until a late hour; but when one o'clock arrived, and still he did not return, the heart of the young wife grew more and more sad, and a thousand dangers which might have befallen her husband were conjured up before her; but, alas! her imagination pictured not the real danger-far more fearful than those which fancy presented. Two o'clock struck, and Helen still sat motionless and statue-like, in that state of anxious listening which all of us have more or less experienced. Another half hour, and a step was heard approaching. She started up; it came nearer and paused at their own door. It must be Henry; but why did he not enter? Possibly he had forgotten to take the night-key, and hesitated about ringing for fear of disturbing the family. Filled with this idea, Helen flew to the door and opened it, and her husband staggered into the entry, almost knocking her to the ground as he fell against her. Nearly fainting from alarm, Helen leaned against the wall for support, exclaiming in faltering tones: "Oh, Henry, what has happened? Are you hurt? Are you ill? Speak to me for the love of heaven!" she almost shrieked, as the unhappy man gazed at her with a vacant stare, but without making any attempt to reply. A loud and insulting laugh of derision was the answer to her last appeal, and instantly the dreadful truth flashed through the mind of the poor wife. For an instant the shock seemed too great to be borne, and consciousness was suspended, but the deep, devoted love of a true woman overcame her weakness, and, trembling in every limb, she closed the door; and inwardly congratulating herself that no eye but her own would witness this disgrace, she gently placed her hand on Henry's arm, and supported his unsteady steps to their own room. Another dreadful hour passed before her repeated and patient efforts had succeeded in inducing him to take off his clothes, and go to rest; but at length this task was accomplished, and he fell into a deep, heavy, sleep. Through all this the little one had slept, protected by the guardian spirits around it; but now he awoke and urged his claim to the mother's attention; a well-timed call, for when the immediate necessity for exertion had passed, Helen would have yielded to the overpowering sorrow which had come upon her. But the infant cried, and her own grief was again hushed while she ministered to its wants. It is ever thus with woman. No thought of self intrudes, while aught remains to be done for the loved ones in whom her thoughts are centred. The eastern sky was becoming bright with the light of day, ere Helen sought her pillow; not to sleep-for how could she sleep, when he who had so betrayed her trust lay by her side in the deep repose of drunkenness ?—but her throbbing temples seemed almost bursting, and her trembling form was unable longer to retain an upright position. Thought after thought crowded upon her mind. She could now see that this was no sudden and accidental downfall. Many little circumstances came to her recollection, which at the time had passed unheeded, but which now presented themselves in fearful array to prove that her beloved husband had indeed become what she shuddered to name even to herself. What should now be her course! Surely he was not yet irreclaimable. It should be her task to win him back to virtue. She would exert herself to make home even more attractive than it had hitherto been; and for Henry's sake she would consent to leave her babe more frequently with its attendant, and again mingle with the gay society in which he had formerly delighted. Not a reproach should pass her lips, and unless he forced the truth from her, he should not even guess that she was aware of his situation. These thoughts tranquillized her, and feeling the insufficiency of her own strength to combat the trials before her, she poured out her full heart in prayer to her Heavenly Father, and received in return that peace and consolation which earnest prayer never fails to bring. A few hours of sound sleep brought returning consciousness, and a dim recollection of what had passed, to the mind of Henry Graham. His heart was filled with shame and repentance, not so much for the evil itself, but for the grief which he knew he must have occasioned his wife. dreaded to meet her eye or to hear the gentle tones of her voice; but her first words relieved him. They contained merely a kind inquiry for his health, and He whether he had recovered from his fatigue. Surely she could not speak in this manner if she had suspected the true state of the case. He endeavoured to reply in an unconcerned and indifferent tone; but in avain, he could not return her looks or words of love; and when she placed the babe in his arms, he shrunk from its touch, as if he feared to contaminate one so innocent and lovely. Well had it been for him if he had then paused in his course, and firmly resolved with the help of Heaven to transgress no more. But he was again tempted, and again he yielded to the temptation. His almost heart-broken wife finding silent endurance, and devoted love of no avail, ventured to speak plainly on the subject, and poured forth her feelings in earnest though gentle remonstrance and entreaty, urging him to pause ere it was yet too late, and save himself and his family from the ruin which awaited them. But, alas! it was in vain. Henry's whole nature seemed to have changed. The prayers of her whom he had so lately almost idolized were now unheeded, and her fears treated with contempt and ridicule. His former unremitting attention to his business was now exchanged for idle, desultory habits which soon involved his affairs to an alarming extent; but still he rushed madly on. The friends of Helen thought it time to interfere. Her father came forward and warmly urged her to leave one so anworthy of her affection, and return with her babe to the home of her childhood. But Helen was immovable. Her first duty, she said, was to her husband. If he had been led to error, there was the more reason why she should remain by his side, and endeavour to lead him back to the right path. If she left him, she felt sure that there would no longer be a chance for his reformation; but if she still clung to him, surely Providence would open the way by which she could yet reach his heart. "This is madness, my child," remonstrated the afflicted father. "You must be well aware that your infatuated husband will soon be penniless, and if you still retain your connection with him it will be nearly impossible to aid you. You and your child must share his poverty and degradation." "It matters not," returned Helen firmly. "I will abide by my husband. It would be little comfort to me to be surrounded with all that should make life happy, and to feel that my husband was a wanderer upon the earth, without friends or home." "But your child," still urged the dis appointed parent. "Do you consider your duty to him? Think of the evils to which he will be exposed as a constant witness of the scenes which are enacted in the home of a drunkard. You shudder, Helen, and think me unkind, but I present to you the plain, unvarnished truth. Your innocent boy, nay, even yourself, may be treated with personal violence." "Oh, father, father! in pity forbear," exclaimed Helen, covering her face with her hands, and giving way to a burst of grief almost alarming by its violence. But Mr. Meredith went on: "Promise me at least, Helen, that if what I have mentioned ever does take place, you will then consider yourself absolved from the tie which you now deem so binding, and will return to those who would spend their lives for your happi ness?" Helen's wild sobs had ceased, and calmly, though sadly, she listened to her father's earnest appeal. A moment's pause, and she answered in low, sweet tones: "Never! father. Never, while the breath of life remains in my husband, will I forsake him. Personal ill-treatment will not abate my affection, for it is not he, but the demon who has for the time obtained possession of him, who would strike. But my child, my sweet boy! if this dreadful crisis arrives, he shall be yours. His wretched mother will leave him to the kind friends who would gladly protect him; and oh! if possible, conceal from him the misery and disgrace of his parents." Much affected, Mr. Meredith turned away, and returned to acquaint the mother of Helen with the result of his mission. Weeks, months, and even years passed on, and Henry Graham had not paused in his fearful course. As Mr. Meredith had foretold, poverty and degradation had come upon him, but still his gentle wife remained true to her purpose; and to the continued entreaties of her parents that she would come to them, or at least permit |