the
negro, and throws a natural veil of doubt over horrors so utterly
repulsive to the feelings that their existence is discredited; the
latter, with a shallowness which Providence sometimes attaches to guilt,
aware that some such accusations come too painfully and truthfully
home, pronounce their own condemnation by their line of
defence--recrimination.

Take, for example, the following extract from an article in a Slave
State paper, entitled "A Sequel to Uncle Tom's Cabin," and in which
Queen Victoria, under the guidance of a "genius," has the condition of
her subjects laid bare before her. After various other paragraphs of a
similar nature comes the following:--

"The sky was obscured by the smoke of hundreds of small chimneys and
vast edifices, stretching in lines for miles and miles. The latter were
crowded with women and children, young in years, but withered in form
and feature. The countenances of the men were as colourless as the white
fabric in their looms; their eyes sparkled with intelligence, but it was
chiefly the intelligence of suffering, of privation, of keen sense of
wrong, of inability to be better, of rankling hatred against existing
institutions, and a furtive wish that some hideous calamity would bury
them all in one common, undistinguishable ruin.

"'Are these the people? groaned the Queen, as the cold damp of more than
mortal agony moistened her marble forehead.

"'Not all of them!" sounded the voice in her ear, so sharply that her
Majesty looked up eagerly, and saw written, in letters of fire, on the
palace wall:--

"'1. Every twelfth person in your dominions is a pauper, daily receiving
parochial relief.

"'2. Every twentieth person in your dominions is a destitute wanderer,
with no roof but the sky--no home but a prison. They are the Ishmaelites
of modern society; every one's hand is against them, and their hands are
against every one.

"'3. There are in Freeland 10,743,747 females; divide that number by
500,000, and you will find that every twentieth woman in your dominions
is--Oh! horror piled on horror!--a harlot!'"

Then follows the scene of a disconsolate female throwing herself over a
bridge, the whole winding up with this charming piece of information,
addressed by the genius to her Majesty:--

"In your own land, liberty, the absence of which in another is deplored,
is, in its most god-like development, but a name--unless that may be
termed liberty which practically is but v