In that book which she and her simple old friend had read so much together, she had seen and taken to her young heart the image of one who loved the little child; and, as she gazed and mused, He had ceased to be an image and a picture of the distant past, and come to be a living, all-surrounding reality. His love enfolded her childish heart with more than mortal tenderness; and it was to Him, she said, she was going, and to his home. But.
Somewhat mollified by certain cups of very good coffee, he came out smiling and talking, in tolerably restored humor.
The shape of her head and the turn of her neck and bust were peculiarly noble, and the long golden-brown hair that floated like a cloud around it, the deep spiritual gravity of her violet blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringes of golden brown.
O, ye who take freedom from man, with what words shall ye answer it to God?
Patience! patience! ye whose hearts swell indignant at wrongs like these. Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of the oppressed, is forgotten by the Man of Sorrows, the Lord of Glory. In his patient, generous bosom he bears the anguish of a world. Bear thou, like him, in patience, and labor in love; for sure as he is God, “the year of his redeemed shall come.
The slave is always a tyrant, if he can get a chance to be one.
But what needs tell the story, told too oft, – every day told, – of heart-strings rent and broken, – the weak broken and torn for the profit and convenience of the strong! It needs not to be told; – every day is telling it, – telling it, too, in the ear of One who is not deaf, though he be long silent.
It’s such a pity, – oh! such a pity!” said Eva, looking out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself. “What’s a pity?” said Marie. “Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live with angels, should go all down, down down, and nobody help them! – oh dear!” “Well, we can’t help it; it’s no use worrying, Eva! I don’t know what’s to be done; we ought to be thankful for our own advantages.” “I hardly can be,” said Eva, “I’m so sorry to think of poor folks that haven’t any.
The book is commended to the candid attention and earnest prayers of all true Christians, throughout the world. May they unite their prayers that Christendom may be delivered from so great an evil as slavery.
The great object of the author in writing has been to bring this subject of slavery, as a moral and religious question, before the minds of all those who profess to be followers of Christ, in this country.
It’s a free country, sir; the man’s mine, and I do what I please with him, – that’s it!
To him, it is the right of a man to be a man, and not a brute; the right to call the wife of his bosom his wife, and to protect her from lawless violence; the right to protect and educate his child; the right to have a home of his own, a religion of his own, a character of his own, unsubject to the will of another.
Mrs. Bird, seeing the defenseless condition of the enemy’s territory, had no more conscience than to push her advantage.
Tom drew near, and tried to say something; but she only groaned. Honestly, and with tears running down his own cheeks, he spoke of a heart of love in the skies, of a pitying Jesus, and an eternal home; but the ear was deaf with anguish, and the palsied heart could not feel.
But to live, – to wear on, day after day, of mean, bitter, low, harassing servitude, every nerve dampened and depressed, every power of feeling gradually smothered, – this long and wasting heart-martyrdom, this slow, daily bleeding away of the inward life, drop by drop, hour after hour, – this is the true searching test of what there may be in man or woman.
Lor, if the devil don’t get them, what’s he good for?
Love needs new leaves every summer of life, as much as your elm-tree, and new branches to grow broader and wider, and new flowers to cover the ground.
And, woman, though dressed in silk and jewels, you are but a woman, and, in life’s great straits and mighty griefs, ye feel but one sorrow!
You laugh!” said the trader, with a growl. “Lord bless you, Mas’r, I couldn’t help it now,” said Sam, giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. “She looked so curi’s, a leapin’ and springin’ – ice a crackin’ – and only to hear her, – plump! ker chunk! ker splash! Spring! Lord! how she goes it!” and Sam and Andy laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks.
Here, also, in summer, various brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four-o’clocks, found an indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendors, and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe’s heart.