smile from a good woman, who might, and he felt would, deliver him; that was in writing to his good friend, Mrs. Rosebrook, whose generous heart he might touch through his appeals for mercy.  And yet there was another obstacle; the post-office might be ten miles off, and his master having compelled him to take the name of Peter Wiley, how was he to get a letter to her without the knowledge of his master?  Should his letter be intercepted, his master, a strict disciplinarian, would not only sell him farther south, but inflict the severest punishment.  Nevertheless, there was one consolation left; his exertions on behalf of the slaves, and his earnestness in promoting the interests of their masters, had not passed unnoticed with the daughter of a neighbouring planter (this lady has since distinguished herself for sympathy with the slave), who became much interested in his welfare.  She had listened to his exhortations with admiration; she had listened to his advice on religion, and become his friend and confidant.  She would invite him to her father’s house, sit for hours at his side, and listen with breathless attention to his pathos, his display of natural genius.  To her he unfolded his deep and painful troubles; to her he looked for consolation; she was the angel of light guiding him on his weary way, cheering his drooping soul on its journey to heaven.  To her he disclosed how he had been called to the bedside of his dying master; how, previously, he had been sold from his good old master, Marston, his wife, his children; how he was mysteriously carried off and left in the charge of his present master, who exacts all he can earn.

The simple recital of his story excites the genial feelings of the young lady; she knows some foul transaction is associated with his transition, and at once tenders her services to release him.  But she must move cautiously, for even Harry’s preaching is in direct violation of the statutes; and were she found aiding in that which would unfavourably affect the interests of his master she would be subjected to serious consequences-perhaps be invited to spend a short season at the sheriff’s hotel, commonly called the county gaol.  However, there was virtue in the object to be served, and feeling that whatever else she could do to relieve him would be conferring a lasting benefit on a suffering mortal, she will brave the attempt.

“Tell me he is not a man, but a slave! tell me a being with such faculties should be thus sunken beneath the amenities of freedom! that man may barter almighty gifts for gold! trample his religion into dust, and turn it into dollars and cents!  What a mockery is this against the justice of heaven!  When this is done in this our happy land of happy freedom, scoffers may make it their foot-ball, and kings in their tyranny may point the finger of scorn at us, and ask us for our honest men, our cherished freedom!

“Woman can do something, if she will; let me see what I can do to relieve this poor oppressed,” she exclaims one day, after he has consulted her on the best means of relief.  “I will try.”