fluences of morals and religion, and the prevailing laws of social economy.
I am not blind to the adverse signs. But this I see clearly. Amidst all seeming discouragements, the great omens are with us. Art, literature, poetry, religion—every thing which elevates man—all are on our side. The plow, the steam-engine, the railroad, the telegraph, the book, every human improvement, every generous word anywhere, every true pulsation of every heart which is not a mere muscle, and nothing else, gives new encouragement to the warfare with slavery. The discussion will proceed. The devices of party can no longer stave it off. The subterfuges of the politician cannot escape it. The tricks of the office-seeker cannot dodge it. Wherever an election occurs, there this question will arise. Wherever men come together to speak of public affairs, there again will it be. No political Joshua now, with miraculous power, can stop the sun in his course through the heavens. It is even now rejoicing, like a strong man to run its race, and will yet send its beams into the most distant plantations—aye, Sir, and melt the chains of every slave.
But this movement—or agitation, as it is reproachfully called—is boldly pronounced injurious to the very object desired. Now, without entering into details which neither time nor the occasion justifies, let me say that this objection belongs to those commonplaces, which have been arrayed against
