“Oh, slavery, thou art a bitter draught,
And twice accursed is thy poisoned bowl,
Which taints with leprosy the white man’s soul!”
In the power of such monsters what might not we expect at their blood-stained hands? There was but one Deliverer for us, as well as the slave, and that deliverer was God, and on Him we cast ourselves, feeling that He was all-powerful. Job truly wrote:
“The wicked man travaileth with pain all his days, and the number of years is hidden to the oppressor.”
And with equal truth did the prophet exclaim:
“So I returned, and considered all the oppression that is done under the sun, and beheld the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comfort. And on the side of the oppressed there was power, but they had no comfort.”
Oh, may the hand be stilled in death that would raise itself to defend such a system!
While the jailor was in the midst of his trouble, the star of hope that had arisen on the coming to Macon of my Ohio friend, and then set so suddenly, came up once more, but with more cheering brilliancy this time; for, through the hubbub that he had raised, I was released from my prison cell the very day on which the poor negro, who had been so unmercifully lashed, was to have his trial. I was scarcely fit to be seen, for I was yet clothed in the wretched rags in which I had lived for several months. Yet, notwithstanding this, when I appeared before the Major, whose opinion, since having heard of my real character and position, was wonderfully changed, he began to bow and scrape in his best style.
“Oh, sir,” he exclaimed, “I did not know that you were a minister, or I would not have had you put into that cell. And now,” added he, “I will give you a parole of the town, and you may report here every morning.”