If the reader is shocked by such inquiries and inferences, and as directly and intentionally designed to encourage servile insurrection and civil war, he may be assured that my aim is entirely different. It is my wish to secure timely precautions against danger. For we are to remember, that our slave and coloured population is advancing with the same gigantic rate of increase characteristic of our country. In twenty-five years, we shall have six millions of slaves; in fifty years, twelve millions; in seventy-five years, twenty-four millions. Can any one dream of the possibility of retaining twenty-four millions, or twelve millions, of human beings in slavery? Long before that number is reached, will not vast multitudes of them learn the simple lessons of liberty and right, which our books, orations, and politicians inculcate day by day? Will there not arise among them men of courage, genius, enthusiasm, who will, at all hazards, lead them on to that glorious liberty which we have taught them is cheaply purchased at any peril, or war, or bloodshed? When that day comes, as sure it must, will there not be horrors such as civil war has never yet produced? Is it not wise, then, to begin measures for averting so fearful a catastrophe? Is it not madness to slumber over such a frightful future? Should not the talent and energies of the country be directed to the momentous inquiry, How can slavery _now_ be peacefully and rightfully removed? Does not every attempt to hush agitation, and insist on the finality of anti-slavery measures, make more sure the awful fact that slavery is to work out its own emancipation in fighting and blood? [Signature: Geo. W. Perkins] DEATH IN LIFE. SUPPOSED INSCRIPTION UPON THE SEPULCHRE OF A NEGRO SLAVE, WHO, FOR SOME IMAGINED CRIME, HAD BEEN IMMURED HALF A CENTURY IN A DUNGEON. Ope, jealous portal! ope thy cavern womb, Thy pris’ner will not flee its close embrace; He lived and moved too long within a tomb, Beyond its narrow bounds to dream of space. To eat his crust and muse, unvarying lot! Thus, like his beard, his life slow length’ning grew; So long shut out, the world the wretch forgot, His cell his universe,—’twas all he knew. For Memory soon with loving pinions wheeled In circles narrowing each successive flight; Her sickly wings at length enfeebled yield, Too weak to scale the walls that bound his sight. But Hope sat with him once, and cheered his day; And raised his limbs, and kept his lamp alight; Scared by his groans, at length she fled away; And left him lone,—to spend one endless night. What change to him, then, is the vault below, From that where late the captive was confined? But this,—a worm _here_ eats his BODY now; Whilst _there_ it gnawed his slow decaying MIND.