CONCLUSION.

But little more remains to be told of my history.

When Louise, Biddy and I, under the protection of Mr. Worth, sailed on a pleasant steamer from the land of slavery, I could but thank my God that I was leaving forever the State, beneath the sanction of whose laws the vilest outrages and grossest inhumanities were committed!

Our trip would, indeed, have been delightful, but that I was constantly contrasting it in my own mind with what it might have been, had HE not fallen a victim to the white man's cupidity.

Often I stole away from the company, and, in the privacy of my own room, gave vent to my pent-up grief. Biddy and Louise were in ecstacies with everything that they saw.

All along the route, after passing out of the Slave States, we met with kind friends and genuine hospitality. The Northern people are noble, generous, and philanthropic; and it affords me pleasure to record here a tribute to their worth and kindness.

In New York we met with the best of friends. Everywhere I saw smiling, black faces; a sight rarely beheld in the cities and villages of the South. I saw men and women of the despised race, who walked with erect heads and respectable carriage, as though they realized that they were men and women, not mere chattels.

When we reached Boston I was made to feel this in a particular manner. There I met full-blooded Africans, finely educated, in the possession of princely talents, occupying good positions, wielding a powerful political influence, and illustrating, in their lives, the oft-disputed fact, that the African intellect is equal to the Caucasian. Soon after my arrival in Boston I found out, from Mr. Worth, the residence of Mr. Trueman, and called to see him.

I was politely ushered by an Irish waiter into the study, where I found Mr. Trueman engaged with a book. At first he did not recognize me; but I soon made myself known, and received from him a most hearty welcome.

I related all the incidents in my life that had occurred since I had seen him last. He entered fully into my feelings, and I saw the tear glisten in his calm eyes when I spoke of poor Henry's awful fate.

I told him of Miss Nancy's kindness, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. I did not speak of what she had told me in relation to their engagement; I merely stated that she had referred to him as a particular personal friend, and when I gave him the letter he received it with a tremulous hand, uttered a fearful groan, and buried his face among the papers that lay scattered over his table. Without a spoken good-bye, I withdrew.

I saw him often after this; and from him received the most signal acts of kindness. He thanked me many times for what he termed my fidelity to his sainted friend. He never spoke of her without a quiver of the lip, and I honored him for his constancy.

He strongly urged me to take up my residence in Boston; but I remembered that Henry's preference had always been for a New England village; and I loved to think that I was following out his views, and so I removed to a quiet puritanical little town in Massachusetts.

And here I now am engaged in teaching a small school of African children; happy in the discharge of so sacred a duty. 'Tis surprising to see how rapidly they learn. I am interested, and so are they, in the work: and thus what with some teachers is an irksome task, is to me a pleasing duty.

I should state for the benefit of the curious, that Biddy is living in Boston, happily married to "a countryman," and is the proud mother of several blooming children. She comes to visit me sometimes, during the heat of summer, and is always a welcome guest.

Louise, too, has consented to wear matrimony's easy yoke. She lives in the same village with me. Our social and friendly relations still continue. I have frequently, when visiting Boston, met Miss Bradly. She, like me, has never married. She has grown to be a firmer and more earnest woman than she was in Kentucky. I must not omit to mention the fact, that when travelling through Canada, I by the rarest chance met Ben—Amy's treasure—now grown to be a fine-looking youth.

He had a melancholy story—a life, like every other slave's, full of trouble—but at length, by the sharpest ingenuity, he had made his escape, and reached, after many difficulties, the golden shores of Canada!

Now my history has been given—a round, unvarnished tale it is; and thus, without ornament, I send it forth to the world. I have spoken freely; at times, I grant, with a touch of bitterness, but never without truth; and I ask the wise, the considerate, the earnest, if I have not had cause for bitterness. Who can carp at me? That there are some fiery Southerners who will assail me, I doubt not; but I feel satisfied that I have discharged a duty that I solemnly owed to my oppressed and down-trodden nation. I am calm and self-possessed; I have passed firmly through the severest ordeal of persecution, and have been spared the death that has befallen many others. Surely I was saved for some wise purpose, and I fear nought from those who are fanatically wedded to wrong and inhumanity. Let them assail me as they will, I shall still feel that

But there are others, some even in slave States, kind, noble, thoughtful persons, earnest seekers after the highest good in life and nature; to them I consign my little book, sincerely begging, that through my weak appeal, my poor suffering brothers and sisters, who yet wear the galling yoke of American slavery, may be granted a hearing.

From the distant rice-fields and sugar plantations of the fervid South, comes a frantic wail from the wronged, injured, and oh, how innocent African! Hear it; hear that cry, Christians of the North, let it ring in your ears with its fearful agony! Hearken to it, ye who feast upon the products of African labor! Let it stay you in the use of those commodities for which their life-blood, aye more, their soul's life, is drained out drop by drop! Talk no more, ye faint-hearted politicians, of "expediency." God will not hear your lame excuse in that grand and awful day, when He shall come in pomp and power to judge the quick and dead.

And so, my history, go forth and do thy mission! knock at the doors of the lordly and wealthy: there, by the shaded light of rosy lamps, tell your story. Creep in at the broken crevice of the poor man's cabin, and there make your complaint. Into the ear of the brave, energetic mechanic, sound the burden of your grief. To the strong-hearted blacksmith, sweating over his furnace, make yourself heard; and ask them, one and all, shall this unjust institution of slavery be perpetuated? Shall it dare to desecrate, with its vile presence, the new territories that are now emphatically free? Shall Nebraska and Kansas join in a blood-spilling coalition with the South?

Answer proudly, loudly, brave men; and answer, No, No! My work is done.