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end of the country to the other her charitable societies form golden links of benevolence, and scatter their contributions like rain drops over a parched heath; but they bring no sustenance to the perishing slave.
The blood of souls is upon her garments, yet she heeds not the stain.
The clanking of the prisoner's chains strike upon her ear, but they cannot penetrate her heart.
Then, with holy wrath upon the nation, thus:
Every Fourth of July our Declaration of Independence is produced, with a sublime indignation, to set forth the tyranny of the mother country, and to challenge the admiration of the world.
But what a pitiful detail of grievances does this document present, in comparison with the wrongs which our slaves endure?
In the one case it is hardly the plucking of a hair from the head ; in the other, it is the crushing of a live body on the wheel — the stings of the wasp contrasted with the tortures of the Inquisition.
Before God I must say that such a glaring contradiction as exists between our creed and practice the annals of six thousand years cannot parallel.
In view of it I am ashamed of my country.
I am sick of our unmeaning declamation in praise of liberty and equality; of our hypocritical cant about the inalienable rights of man. I would not for my right hand stand up before a European assembly, and exult that I am an American citizen, and denounce the usurpations of a kingly government as wicked and unjust; or, should I make the attempt, the recollection of my country's barbarity and despotism would blister my lips, and cover my cheeks with burning blushes of shame.
