and not as a help, our situation calls for far more strenuous exertion than when, in 1835, the freedom of the women of Boston was vilely bartered away in the merchant-thronged street. Our situation is as much more perilous now as spiritual is more dreadful than temporal outrage. We have no means to strengthen and nourish our spirits but by entertaining and obeying the free Spirit of God."-" As yet our judgment is unimpaired by hopes of the favour, and our resolution undamped by the fear of the host who oppose us. As yet our hearts are not darkened by the shadow of unkindness. We listen to clerical appeals, and religious magazines, and the voices of an associated clergy, as though we heard them not, so full on the ear of every daughter among us falls the cry of the fatherless and those who have none to help them-so full in every motherly heart and eye rises the image of one pining in captivity, who cannot be comforted because her children are not."-Right and Wrong in Boston, iii, pp. 73, 75, 86.

As no degree of violence, directed to break up the meetings of the Ladies' Society, was too strong for the consciences of certain of the gentlemen of Boston, so no device was clearly too low for their purpose of hindering utterance. When they found they could not stop the women's tongues by violence, they privily sprinkled cayenne pepper on the stove of their place of meeting, thus compelling them to cough down their own speakers.

We

A resident of Boston was expressing to an European traveller one day, in the year 1836, his regret that strangers should be present in the country when its usual quiet and sobriety were disturbed. "I am glad," observed the traveller, "to have been in the country in its martyr age."-"Martyr age! martyr age!" cried a clergyman, remarkable for the assiduity of his parochial visiting. "What do you mean? don't burn people in Smithfield here."-"No," replied the stranger, "because Boston refinement' will not bear the roasting of the bodies of men and women: but you come as near to this pass as you dare. You rack their consciences and wring their souls."- Our martyr age! our martyr age!" the clergyman went on muttering to himself, in all the excitement of a new idea.

The other great event of the year concerned the freedom of the press, and was as remarkable in its consequences as it was interesting in itself. Never was there a case of martyrdom more holy than that which we are about to relate. Never was there more complete evidence that a man in the prime of life, attached to the world by the tenderest ties, and of a calm, rational mind, was able long to sustain the apprehension of violent death, and to meet it at last, rather than yield up a principle which he knew to be true. He could not give up truth for safety and life-no, not even for wife and child.. -Elijah P. Lovejoy was a native of Maine, a graduate of Waterville College. He settled at St. Louis, Missouri, and attained a high reputation as editor of a newspaper there. He became a clergyman, and at length an abolitionist. After the burning of McIntosh, at St. Louis, he spoke out in his newspaper about the atrocity of the deed, and exposed the iniquities of the district judge, and of the mob which overawed Marion College, and brought two of the students before a Lynch Court. For this his press and types were destroyed, and he established himself on the opposite side of the river,

in the free State of Illinois.

But the town of Alton, in which he put up his press, was as dangerous to him as if it had stood in a slave State. It was the resort of slave-traders, and of river-traders, who believed their interests to depend on the preservation of slavery: For some time after his settlement at Alton, he did not think it necessary to enter into express discussion of the slavery question. At length he saw it to be his duty to do so he called together the supporters of the paper, and laid his views before them. They consented to let his conscience have free course he did his duty, and his press was again destroyed by a mob. Twice more was his property annihilated in the same manner, without the slightest alteration of conduct on his part. His paper continued to be the steady, dispassionate advocate of freedom, and reprover of violence. In October, 1837, he wrote to a friend in New York, to unburthen his full head and heart. After having described the fury and murderous spirit of his assailants, and the manner in which for weeks his footsteps had been tracked by assassins, he proceeded

"And now, my dear brother, if you ask what are my own feelings at a time like this, I answer, perfectly calm, perfectly resigned. Though in the midst of danger, I have a constant sense of security that keeps me alike from fear and anxiety. I read the Bible, and especially the Psalms, with a delight, a refreshing of soul I never knew before. God has said, 'As thy day is, so shall thy strength be;' and he has made his promise good. Pray for me.- -We have a few excellent brethren here, in Alton. They are sincerely desirous to know their duty at this crisis, and to do it: but as yet they cannot see that duty requires them to maintain their cause here, at all hazards. Of this be assured, the cause of truth still lives in Illinois, and will not want defenders. Whether our paper starts again will depend on our friends, East, West, North, and South. So far as depends on me, it shall go forward. By the blessing of God, I will not abandon the enterprise so long as I live, and until success has crowned it. And there are those in Illinois who join me in this resolution. And if I am to die, it cannot be in a better cause.

Death and victory were now both at hand. Two or three weeks after this letter was written, he was called before a large meeting of the townsmen, on a singular affair. A committee of gentlemen was appointed to mediate between the Editor of the Alton Observer' and the mob. They drew up a set of "Compromise Resolutions," so called, which yielded every thing to the mob, and required of Lovejoy to leave the place. One member of the committee, Mr. Gilman, remonstrated: but he was overborne. Lovejoy was summoned, and required to leave the place. He listened till the chairman had said what he had to say, and then stepped forward to the bar. There, with grisly Murder peeping over his shoulder, he bore his last verbal testimony in the following unpremeditated address, reported by a person present :-

I feel, Mr Chairman, that this is the most solemn moment of my life. I feel, I trust, in some measure, the responsibilities which at this hour I sustain to these my fellow-citizens, to the church of which I am a minister, to my country, and to God. And let me beg of you, before I proceed further, to construę

nothing I shall say as being disrespectful to this assembly; I have no such feeling; far from it. And if I do not act or speak according to their wishes at all times, it is because I cannot conscientiously do it. It is proper I should state the whole matter, as I understand it, before this audience. I do not stand here to argue the question as presented by the honourable gentleman, the chairman of that committee, for whose character I entertain great respect, though I have not the pleasure of his personal acquaintance my only wonder is how that gentleman could have brought himself to submit such a Report.

"Mr. Chairman, I do not admit that it is the business of this assembly to de cide whether I shall or shall not publish a newspaper in this city. The gentlemen have, as the lawyers say, made a wrong issue. I have the right to do it. I know that I have the right to speak and publish my sentiments, subject only to the laws of the land for the abuse of that right. This right was given me by my Maker, and is solemnly guaranteed to me by the constitution of these United States, and of this State. What I wish to know of you is, whether you will protect me in the exercise of this right, or whether, as heretofore, I am to be subjected to personal indignity and outrage. These resolutions, and the measures proposed by them, are spoken of as a compromise; a compromise between two parties. Mr. Chairman, this is not so; there is but one party here. It is simply a question whether the law shall be enforced, or whether the mob shall be allowed, as they now do, to continue to trample it under their feet, by violating with impunity the rights of an innocent individual. Mr. Chairman, what have I to compromise? If freely to forgive those who have so greatly injured me; if to pray for their temporal and eternal happiness; if still to wish for the prosperity of your city and State, notwithstanding all the indignities I have suffered in it; if this be the compromise intended, then do I willingly make it. My rights have been shamefully and wickedly outraged; this I know and feel, and can never forget; but I can and do freely forgive those who have done it.

"But if by a compromise is meant, that I should cease doing that which duty requires of me, I cannot make it. And the reason is, that I fear God more than I fear man. Think not that I would lightly go contrary to public sentiment around me. The good opinion of my fellow-men is dear to me, and I would sacrifice any thing but principle to obtain their good wishes; but when they ask me to surrender this, they ask for more than I can-than I dare give. Reference is made to the fact, that I offered, a few days since, to yield up the editorship of the Observer' into other hands. This is true, I did so; because it was thought, or said by some, that perhaps the paper would be better patronised in other hands. They declined accepting my offer, however, and since then we have heard from the friends and supporters of the paper in all parts of the State. There was but one sentiment among them, and this was that the paper should be sustained in no other hands than mine. It is also a very different question, whether I shall voluntarily, or at the request of friends, yield up my post, or whether I shall forsake it at the demand of a mob. The former I am at all times ready to do, when circumstances seem to require it, as I will never put my personal wishes or interests in competition with the cause of that Master whose minister I am; but the latter, be assured, I NEVER WILL DO. God in his providence so say all my brethren, and so I think-has devolved upon me the responsibility of maintaining my ground here; and Mr. Chairman, I am determined to do it. A voice comes to me from Maine, from Massachusetts, from Connecticut, from New York, from Pennsylvania; yea, from Kentucky, from Mississippi, from Missouri, calling upon me in the name of all that is dear to heaven and earth, to stand fast; and, by the help of God, I WILL STAND.

I

* Hon. Cyrus Edwards, Senator from Madison County, and Whig Candidate for Governor.

E. P. LOVEJOY'S ADDRESS.

37

know I am but one, and you are many. My strength would avail but little against you all; you can crush me if you will, but I shall die at my post, for I cannot and will not forsake it. Why should I flee from Alton? Is not this a free State? When assailed by a mob in St. Louis, I came here as to the home of freedom and of the laws. The mob have pursued me here, and why should I retreat again? Where can I be safe, if not here? Have I not a right to claim the protection of the laws? and what more can I have in any other place? Sir, the very act of retreating will embolden the mob to follow me wherever I go. No, sir, there is no way to escape the mob, but to abandon the path of duty; and that, God helping me, I never will do.

"It has been said here that my hand is against every man and every man's hand against me. The last part of the declaration is too painfully true. I do indeed find almost every hand lifted against me, but against whom in this place has my hand been raised? I appeal to every individual present; whom of you have I injured? whose character have I traduced? whose family have I molested? whose business have I meddled with? If any, let him rise here, and testify against me.-No one answers.

And do not your resolutions say that you find nothing against my private or personal character? And does any one believe that if there was anything to be found, it would not be found and brought forth? If in anything I have offended against the law, am I so popular in this community as that it would be difficult to convict me? You have courts and judges and juries; they find nothing against me; and now, you have come together for the purpose of driving out a confessedly innocent man, for no cause but that he dares to think and speak as his conscience and his God dictate. Will conduct like this stand the scrutiny of your country, of posterity, above all, of the judgment day? For, remember, the Judge of that day is no respecter of persons.

"Pause, I beseech you, and reflect. The present excitement will soon be over; the voice of conscience will at last be heard; and in some season of honest thought, even in this world, as you review the scenes of this hour, you will be compelled to say, he was right-he was right.'

"But you have been exhorted to be lenient and compassionate, and in driving me away, to affix no unnecessary disgrace upon me. Sir, I reject all such compassion. You cannot disgrace me. Scandal, falsehood, and calumny have done their worst. My shoulders have borne the burden till it sits easy upon them. You may hang me up, as the mob hung up the individuals at Vicksburg; you may burn me at the stake, as they did M‘Intosh at St. Louis; you may tar and feather me, or throw me into the Mississippi, as you have often threatened to do; but you cannot disgrace me. I, and I alone, can disgrace myself; and the deepest of all disgrace would be, at a time like this, to deny my Master by forsaking his cause. He died for me, and I were most unworthy to bear his name, should I refuse, if need be, to die for him.

"Again, you have been told that I have a family who are dependent upon me, and this has been given as a reason why I should be driven off as gently as possible. It is true, Mr Chairman, I am a husband and a father: and this it is that adds the bitterest ingredient to the cup of sorrow I am called to drink. I am made to feel the wisdom of the Apostle's advice, It is better not to marry.' I know, sir, that in this contest, I stake not my life only, but that of others also. I do not expect my wife will ever recover from the shock received at the awful scenes through which she was called to pass at St. Charles. And how was it the other night on my return to my home? I found her driven into the garret through fear of the mob, who were prowling round my house. And scarcely had I entered the house ere my windows were broken by the brickbats of the mob, and she so alarmed as rendered it impossible for her to sleep or rest that night. I am hunted as a partridge on the mountain. I am pursued as a felon through your streets; to the guardian power of the law I look in vain for that protection against violence, which even the vilest criminal may enjoy. Yet think

not that I am unhappy.-Think not that I regret the choice that I have made; while all around me is violence and tumult, all is peace within. An approving conscience and the rewarding smile of God are a full recompense for all that I forego, and all that I endure. Yes, sir, I enjoy a peace which nothing can destroy. I sleep sweetly and undisturbed, except when awakened by the brickbats of the mob.

No, sir, I am not unhappy; I have counted the cost, and stand prepared freely to offer up my all in the service of God. Yes, sir, I am fully aware of all the sacrifice I make, in here pledging myself to continue the contest until the last. (Forgive these tears. I had not intended to shed them, and they flow not for myself, but for others.)-But I am commanded to forsake father and mother, wife and children, for Jesus' sake; and as his professed disciple, I stand pledged to do it. The time for fulfilling this pledge in my case, it seems to me, has come. Sir, I dare not flee away from Alton; should I attempt it, I should feel that the angel of the Lord, with his flaming sword, was pursuing me wherever I went. It is because I fear God, that I am not afraid of all who oppose me in this city. No, sir, the contest has commenced here, and here it must be finished. Before God and you all, I here pledge myself to continue it, if need be, till death; and if I fall, my grave shall be made in Alton."

His office was surrounded

A few days after this he was murdered. by an armed mob, and defended from within by a guard furnished by the Mayor of Alton. When the attack was supposed to be over, Lovejoy looked out to reconnoitre. He received five bullets in his body, was able to reach a room on the first floor, declared himself fatally wounded, and fell on his face dead. His age was thirty-two.

6

A letter from a Boston abolitionist to a friend bears on one page the following: E. P. Lovejoy, at Alton, is fairly suffering the persecution of St. Paul. Alton is anxious for the trade of Missouri and the lower Mississippi, and is willing to sacrifice a few abolitionists to conciliate its slave-holding customers. Lovejoy has been three times mobbed," &c., &c., &c.—" The Attorney-General of Illinois said, at a meeting of gentlemen of property and standing,' that the community ought not to resort to violence until it became absolutely necessary.' Thank heaven, it is now beginning to be Illinois versus Alton. The spirit is rising among the farmers, and Lovejoy will yet conquer the State." The next page begins,- 'I have just heard of the murder of Lovejoy at Alton. He was shot by an armed mob. Now he will indeed conquer the State, and, I trust, the nation. I meant to have given you my budget of gossip; but my heart is very full, and I cannot write more now."

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In a note to his tract on Slavery, Dr. Channing had said, a year before this, "One kidnapped, murdered abolitionist would do more for the violent destruction of slavery than a thousand societies. His name would be sainted. The day of his death would be set apart for solemn, heart-stirring commemoration. His blood would cry through the land with a thrilling voice, would pierce every dwelling, and find a response in every heart." These latter clauses have come true. The anniversary of Lovejoy's death will be a sacrament day to his comrades till slavery shall be no more: and as for the careless part of the community,-the multitudes who were too busy eating and drinking, planting, trading, or amusing themselves, to know the pangs that were rending the very heart