to prepare his defence; and the rest of
Saturday was occupied with the coroner's
inquest on Batchelder, and the committal of
the ringleaders.

On Sunday, that largest place in Boston,
mentioned above, was crowded—clustered
with people wherever they could hang on;
and if we ever did copy sermons into this
publication, we would give Mr. Parker's
discourse of that day, with the past and
coming week for his text. It reads like a
Lutheran denunciation of the times of the
Reformation; and if we could say anything
stronger in description of it, we would.
Among the audience were two leading
abolitionists, whom their townsmen were
glad to see in safety. Their houses, and
that of Mr. Parker, were saved, by a strong
police muster, from destruction by the
partisans of the kidnappers. In every pulpit in
Boston that day lay a slip of paper, requesting,
in the name of Burns, the prayers of the
congregation on behalf of one in sore distress.
This was done at Burns's special request, in
his tribulation. On this day, too, the people
of colour held a secret meeting, and afterwards put
out a handbill, imploring that nobody
would believe the report that Burns
would be purchased; and entreating that
his release might not be prevented by belief
in such a lie. They were but too right. All
that day handbills were circulating in the
furthest part of the state, requesting all who
loved the liberties of Massachusetts to come
into Boston, armed only with the arms that
God gave them, to see what was doing there;
and on Monday they came pouring in, these
sons of the pilgrims, and sons of the declarers
of independence. Some were there already
from a distance of eighty miles. The summons
reads like a solemn call to vigilance
over national liberties; and as such, we have
no doubt, it will stand in history hereafter;
and a future generation will emphasise the
last line: "Come,—but, this time, with only
such arms as God gave you." The yeomanry
who did not come, staid to hold meetings
in all the townships; and the excitement
immediately rose to a pitch never before
witnessed since the grave closed over
Washington.

The pleadings were protracted by every
possible device till Wednesday evening;
when the commissioner promised judgment
on the Friday morning. Every one knew
but too well what that decision would be;
for the misstatement of date was slurred over
as an incident of no consequence. A steamer
stole up, and was refused a place at one
wharf after another, when it was whispered
that this was the vessel that was getting up
its steam to carry away Burns. A wharfinger
at last let a wharf without communicating
the knowledge thereof to the owners, who
immediately discharged him; but he was
soon snugly harboured in a good post in the
Custom House.

Other preparations for the verdict were
made. The court square was cleared, and
cannon were planted. The military lined the
way to the harbour, and gathered about the
door, to receive the slave within their hollow
square.

Other preparations were also made.
Twenty thousand people filled the side-
pavements, besides those who thronged every
wharf but one, and the multitude who clustered
to the very topmasts of every ship in
the harbour.

When the doom was pronounced, down
dropped the flags of the Union and of the
State, hung with black. The shops were
shut. The balconies and windows were filled
with women dressed in mourning. One of
the hardest things for the citizens to bear
was the volunteer offer of an artillery troop
of seventy-five Irishmen to come into the city
and control the inhabitants by force of arms.
For our part, we are not very sorry that our
ex-patriots have thus shown to all
sympathisers how they carry their practice of
making bulls into their social conduct.
Throughout the townships of the interior,
the bells were tolled as for a great public
calamity.

The moment came. Burns appeared on
the steps, a slave. Not often has the dignity
of that misfortune been so blazoned. Before
him went dragoons, marines, guards, artillery,
the gun of the latter being the only
carriage in the streets; and the ear-piercing
hiss, and the wary execration, went on rising
and redoubling from street to street.
Nowhere was it louder than at the Exchange,
where the great merchants of the city stood.
That this book of Wrong and Infamy will
end here, we think no one can believe who
has studied the incidents of the first American
Revolution, or the character of the Sons of
the Pilgrims; a character which lies deep
and firm under all such accretions of a less
noble quality as have concealed it for a time.
It is well that for one while the oppressor had
his own way—a complete enjoyment of law
and order, as he calls it. Can there be a
doubt that, next time, Massachusetts will be
ready; every man convinced in his own
mind what law he is living under; every
citizen prepared to sustain that law; and all
good men agreed as to the action to be
taken? Meanwhile, the free blacks are
flying to Canada, feeling that there is no
safety for them in Massachusetts, free-born
citizens of that so-called free state though
they be!

But let them take courage, and be of good
heart. If there were men, once, who
refused to harbour King George's stamped
paper, and who emptied the India Company's
tea into the dock, and who supported those
acts at Lexington and Bunker's Hill, there are
descendants of those men, now, who will refuse
to be made the slave-catchers of the planters,
and will insist on the practical working