"The husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he receive the early and latter rain." So are we obliged often to have "long patience," until we see the manifest blessing of God on our labors. But patient waiting becomes a virtue, only when combined with the exercise of our best powers in promoting the object of our desire. We must adapt our efforts to the express object which we seek to attain. Taking those spiritual weapons which are "mighty for the pulling down of the strongholds" of sin, let us assault the great evils of slavery and oppression of every name and kind, always marching under the banners of the Prince of Peace, whose conquests are achieved not by violence, but by the subduing power of Godlike love. Let us go forth, brethren, sisters, a feeble band though we may seem to the eye of man, yet strong in the assurance that the hosts of heaven are encamped round about us, and that "more are they that are with us, than they that are" on the side of the oppressor; and let us not falter until in God's own good time the word shall be spoken, not as, we would hope, in the whirlwind or the earthquake, but in the "still small voice" of the oppressor's own conviction, saying to the slaves, "Go free!" [Illustration: (signature) Mary Willard] A Welcome to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, on her Return from Europe. She comes, she comes, o'er the bounding wave, Borne swift as an eagle's flight; She comes, the tried friend of the slave,-- Truth's champion for the right. Not as the blood-stained warrior comes, With shrill-sounding fife and drums; But peaceful by our quiet homes, The conquering heroine comes. Then welcome to our Pilgrim shore, Tho' sad affliction[6] meet thee; Three million welcomes from God's poor, The south winds bear, to greet thee. To thee, with chain-linked hearts we come, Which naught but death can sever, To thank thee for thy "Uncle Tom," Thy gentle-hearted "Eva." When the crushed slave himself shall own, Three million fetters broken, Shall mount before thee, to the Throne; Of thy true life, the token. Then welcome to our northern hills; Thy own New England dwelling; The birds, the trees, the sparkling rills, All, are thy welcome swelling. [Illustration: (signature) Joseph C. Holly.] ROCHESTER, N. Y., October 19th, 1853. FOOTNOTES: [6] The sickness of her daughter. Forward. FROM THE GERMAN OF HOFFMAN, IN FOLLERSLEBEN. It is a time of swell and flood, We linger on the strand, And all that might to us bring good Lies in the distant land. O forward! forward! why stand still? The flood will ne'er run dry; Who through the wave not venture will, That land shall never spy. [Illustration: (signature) T. W. Higginson.] What has Canada to do with Slavery?