Night came, cold, black, and tempestuous. At midnight, her
friends took her in a hack, and conveyed her, with her children, to
the house of her pastor. Hence, after an hour of weeping, for the
voice of prayer had passed away into the sublimity of unutterable
anguish, they conveyed this mother and her children to one of the
Cunard steamers, which fortunately was to sail for Halifax the next
day. They took them in the gloom of midnight, through the
tempest-swept streets, lest the slave-hunter should meet them. Her
brethren and sisters of the church raised a little money from their
scanty means to pay her passage, and to save her, for a few days, from
starving, after her first arrival in the cold land of strangers. Her
husband soon returned to Boston, to find his home desolate, his wife
and children exiles in a foreign land. These facts need no
word-painting.--_Burritt's Bond of Brotherhood_.
THE TONGUE OF FIRE.
BY MRS NEWTON CROSLAND.
I hear December's biting blast,
I see the slippery hail-drops fall--
That shot which frost-sprites laughing cast
In some great Arctic arsenal;
I lean my cheek against the pane,
But start away, it is so chill,
And almost pity tree and plain
For bearing Winter's load of ill.
The sombre sky hangs dark and low,
It looks a couch where mists are born--
A throne whence they in clusters flow,
Or by the tempest's wrath are torn.
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