Though I fear almost to hold converse with you, yet, conscious of my
innate love of liberty, I venture to do so. Bunker Hill is within twenty
miles of my home. When I go to that sacred memorial of liberty, I strive
to fortify my soul afresh against the slave-power. After hearing
favorable things said, in Boston, about the South, I can go to Faneuil
Hall, and there, the doors being carefully shut, walk enthusiastically
about the room, almost shouting, "Sam. Adams!" "James Otis!"
"Seventy-Six!" "Shade of Warren!" "No chains on the Bay State!"
"Massachusetts in the van!" "Give me liberty or give me death!" I can
enjoy the privilege of looking frequently on certain majestic figures in
our American Apocalypse, under the present vial,--but I need not name
them. I meet in our book-stores with "Lays of Freedom," never sung by
such as you. I see in the shop-windows the inspiring faces, in
medallion, of those masterpieces of human nature, "the champions of
freedom," our chief abolitionists;--and shall I, can I, ever succumb to
the slave-power, even though it approach me through the holy,
all-subduing charms of woman's influence? No! dear madam, ten thousand
times, No! "Slave-power!" to borrow Milton's figure when speaking of
Ithuriel and Satan, the word is as the touch of fire to powder, to our
brave anti-slavery souls.
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