e worthy to sit in the hall of the old Huguenot,--one Elizabeth Blakeley, a mulatto girl, of Wilmington, N. C., who, loving freedom more than slavery, concealed herself on board a Boston brig, in the little narrow passage between the side of the vessel and the partition that formed the cabin,--two feet eight inches of room.
There he lay while her inhuman master, almost certain she was on board the vessel, had it smoked with sulphur and tobacco three times over.
Still she bore it. She came North, half frozen, in the most inclement month of the year,--this month.
She reached Boston just able to crawl.
Where did she come?
O those were better times then!
She came here.
Just able to stand, fresh from that baptism of suffering for liberty, she came her, We told her story.
And with us that night — within ten feet of where I stand-sat Fredrika Bremer, the representative of the literature of the Old World; and her humane sympathies were moved so much, that the rosebud she held in her