My own hopeful persuasion is, that great and marvellous works of Divine Providence and grace are in reserve for the African people in their own land, and that we are to prove to have been their educators.  Most sincerely do I hope, however, that the number of scholars and future propagators of religion and civilization, imported here from Africa, will not need to be increased, considering that one hundred and fifty per cent. of deaths by violence take place in procuring a given number of slaves.  This is but one objection; others are sufficiently obvious.  Both parts of that passage of Scripture are exceedingly interesting:  “Princes shall come out of Egypt; Ethiopia shall stretch out her hands unto God.”  Egypt, the basest of kingdoms, shall yet send forth first-rate men; and Ethiopia, even, shall be the worshipper of God.  I hope that these prophecies, though fulfilled once, are yet to have their great accomplishment.  This is my persuasion, and I trust that every nation will be independent; but I shall not discard the Bible, if my interpretation and hope should fail.  Ethiopia is certainly stretching out her hands unto God in our Southern country.

Hattie received some papers for children from a young friend at the North, last week.  After attending the colored Sabbath-school in ——­, and teaching a class of nicely-dressed, bright little “slave” girls, and hearing the school sing their beautiful songs, with melodious voices, such as, I can truly say, I never heard surpassed at the North, and after looking upon the teachers, who represented the very flower of Southern society, the superintendent being a man who would adorn any station, you cannot fully conceive with what feelings I read, in one of Hattie’s little papers from the North, these lines, set to music for the use of Northern children: 

  “I dwell where the sun shines gayly and bright,
  Where flowers of rich beauty are ever in sight;
  Here blooms the magnolia, here orange-trees wave;
  But oh, not for me,—­I’m a poor little slave.

“They say ‘Sunny South’ is the name of my home; ’Tis here that your robins and blue-birds are come, While snows cover nests up, and angry winds rave; They may rest here,—­not I; I’m a poor little slave.

  “Here beautiful mothers, ’mid splendors untold. 
  Their fairy-like babes to their fond bosoms fold;
  My mammy’s worked out, and lies here in the grave;
  There’s none to kiss me,—­I’m a poor little slave.

  “I’ve heard mistress telling her sweet little son,
  What Jesus, the loving, for children has done;
  Perhaps little black ones he also will save;
  I ask him to take me, a poor little slave!”