No attempt has been made to impart interest to the following narrative, by remodelling it in more forcible language or refined style than it was clothed with as it fell from the lips of the narrator. My sole object has been to let him tell his own story. I havefore, there , as nearly as possible, given his own words.

Still, one thing is lacking;--that earnestness--that depth of feeling which gave it life, as it was uttered by one, who himself had seen all, and felt much of the reality. Divested of this perhaps, it will appear dull and repulsive. I am aware that excepting the account of his escape, there is not a gleam of light--not even a bright shade through the whole of it. Let none, on this account neglect it. IT IS TRUE; and they who are the subjects of the cruel system here partially delineated, are lying wounded and bleeding at our very door. There was no poetry in the bruises of the man who fell among thieves between Jerusalem and Jericho. It was no pathetic tale of distress, that lured the good Samaritan from across the way, but the simple sight of a bleeding brother. "He bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine." "Go and do thou likewise."