of this general belief in the evil of human servitude?
Has it sapped the foundations of the infamous system?
No. Has it decreased the number of its victims?
Quite the contrary.
Unaccompanied by philanthropic action, it has been in a moral point of view worthless, a thing without vitality, sightless, soulless, dead.
But it may be said that the miserable victims of the system have our sympathies.
Sympathy! the sympathy of the Priest and the Levite, looking on, and acknowledging, but holding itself aloof from mortal suffering.
Can such hollow sympathy reach the broken of heart, and does the blessing of those who are ready to perish answer it?
Does it hold back the lash from the slave, or sweeten his bitter bread?
One's heart and soul are becoming weary of this sympathy, this heartless mockery of feeling; sick of the common cant of hypocrisy, wreathing the artificial flowers of sentiment over unutterable pollution and unimaginable wrong.
It is white-washing the sepulchre to make us forget its horrible deposit.
It is scattering flowers around the charnel-house and over the yet festering grave to turn away our thoughts ‘from the dead men's bones and all uncleanness,’ the pollution and loathsomeness below.
No let the truth on this subject, undisguised, naked, terrible as it is, stand out before us. Let us no longer seek to cover it; let us no longer strive to forget it; let us no more dare to palliate it. It is better to meet it here with repentance than at the bar of God.
The cry of the oppressed, of the millions who have perished among us as the brute