we passed out of the hall, a friend grasped our hand hard, his eye flashing through its tears, with a stern reflection of our own emotions, while he whispered through his pressed lips: ‘It is enough to turn every anti-slavery heart into steel.’
Our blood boiled; we longed to see the wicked apologists of slavery—the blasphemous defenders of it in Church and State—led up to the coffin of our murdered brother, and there made to feel that their hands had aided in riveting the chain upon those still limbs, and in shutting out from those cold lips the free breath of heaven.
A long procession followed his remains to their resting-place at Mount Auburn
A monument to his memory will be raised in that cemetery, in the midst of the green beauty of the scenery which he loved in life, and side by side with the honored dead of Massachusetts
Thither let the friends of humanity go to gather fresh strength from the memory of the martyr.
There let the slaveholder stand, and as he reads the record of the enduring marble commune with his own heart, and feel that sorrow which worketh repentance.
The young, the beautiful, the brave!—he is safe now from the malice of his enemies.
Nothing can harm him more.
His work for the poor and helpless was well and nobly done.
In the wild woods of Canada
, around many a happy fireside and holy family altar, his name is on the lips of God's poor.
He put his soul in their souls' stead; he gave his life for those who had no claim on his love save that of human brotherhood.
How poor, how pitiful and paltry, seem our labors!
How small and