The French ship Le Rodeur, with a crew of twenty-two men, and with one hundred and sixty negro slaves, sailed from Bonny in Africa, April, 1819. On approaching the line, a terrible malady broke out-an obstinate disease of the eyes-contagious, and altogether beyond the resources of medicine. It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among the slaves, (only half a wine glass per day being allowed to an individual,) and by the extreme impurity of the air in which they breathed. By the advice of the physician, they were brought upon deck occasionally; but some of the poor wretches, locking themselves in each other's arms, leaped overboard, in the hope, which so universally prevails among them, of being swiftly transported to their own homes in Africa. To check this, the captain ordered several, who were stopped in the attempt, to be shot, or hanged, before their companions. The disease extended to the crew; and one after another was smitten with it, until only one remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful condition did not preclude calculation: to save the expense of supporting slaves rendered unsaleable. and to obtain grounds for a claim against the underwriters, thirty-six of the negroes, having become blind, were thrown into the sea and drowned! In the midst of their dreadful fears lest the solitary individual, whose sight remained unaffected, should also be seized with the malady, a sail was discovered. It was the Spanish slaver, Leon. The same disease had been there; and, horrible to tell, all the crew had become blind! Unable to assist each other, the vessels parted. The Spanish ship has never since been heard of. The Rodeur reached Guadaloupe on the 21st of June; the only man who had escaped the disease, and had thus been enabled to steer the slaver into port, caught it in three days after its arrival-Speech of M. Benjamin Constant, in the French Chamber of Deputies, June 17, 1820. Hark from the ship's dark bosom, The very sounds of hell! The ringing clank of iron The maniac's short, sharp yell !— The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifledThe starving infant's moanThe horror of a breaking heart Pour'd through a mother's groan! Up from that loathsome prison The stricken blind ones came : Below, had all been darkness Above, was still the same. Yet the holy breath of Heaven Was sweetly breathing there, And the heated brow of fever Cool'd in the soft sea air. "Overboard with them, shipmates!" Cutlass and dirk were plied; Fetter'd and blind, one after one, Plunged down the vessel's side. The sabre smote above Beneath, the lean shark lay, Waiting with wide and bloody jaw His quick and human prey. God of the earth! what cries Rang upward unto Thee? Voices of agony and blood, From ship-deck and from sea. The last dull plunge was heardThe last wave caught its stain— And the unsated shark look'd up For human hearts in vain. Red glow'd the Western watersThe setting sun was there, Scattering alike on wave and cloud His fiery mesh of hair. Amidst a group in blindness, A solitary eye Gazed, from the burden'd slaver's deck, Into that burning sky. "A storm," spoke out the gazer, Night settled on the waters, And on a stormy heaven, While fiercely on that lone ship's track The thunder-gust was driven. "THE ONE IDEA." EY SARAH JANE CLARKE. "We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness Our glorious one Idea! From the source of life it came, And it shineth far and mounteth high, An ever living flame. Then let it burn! what mortal hand Its fiery wing shall bind? For it hath reached the moral wastes, The prairies of the mind! It sweepeth off the wild, rank growth Of prejudice and wrong, As, fanned by mighty viewless wings, Our men are men of "One Idea !" For pilgrims toiling on to pay Their cold reluctant vows- Thus come our band-impassioned zeal Their father's glory, as an Ark, Moving in light before them- As rainbows bending o'er them! Go scowling on their way; But as to some high festival, Their steeps keep time to freedom's march, And high, and broad, and startling truths And rear with bold, exulting shouts, Till they float before a gazing world Our wives, our girls, of « One Idea!" It dwells in beauty and in power, They are no slavish devotees, Cloistered in gloom and night, Their life is like a morn in May, Flowers, dew, and warm sunlight: The sunlight of that perfect peace They have that strong, brave, soaring hope That worship of the truth, So far beneath their lofty gaze Rank's vain distinctions lie, They could stand before a crowned queen And look her in the eye, Then turn, and smile on honest worth, Though Monarchs on it frownedAnd bow to royal intellect, Though by the world uncrowned. And yet no stern Zenobias, No maids of Orleans they, But once name Freedom's holy war And dare to sneer at human rights, Then cringe beneath each lightning glance As in their souls the "One Idea" Now blessed Father of us all, Lead them from error's labyrinth, To tread the paths of rightPour on their poor benighted minds, Truth's clear and perfect light! Oh! break upon the sleep of death That wraps their moral powersBreathe in them as a living soul, This One Idea" of ours! MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. Written on reading an account of the proceedings of the citizens of Norfolk, (Va.) in reference to GEORCE I ATIMER, the alleged fugitive slave, the result of whose case in Massachusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro SOMERSET in England, in 1772. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. The blast from Freedom's northern hills, upon its Southern way, No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal, Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horseman's steel. No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways go Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow; And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their errands far, A thousand sails of Commerce swell, but none are spread for War. We hear thy threats, Virginia! thy stormy words and high Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. George's bank, Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout are the hearts which man The cold North light, and wintry sun glare on their icy forms, What means the Old Dominion? Hath she forgot the day. Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Faneuil Hall? What asks the Old Dominion? If now her sons have proved We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery's hateful hell— Thank God! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow, The spirit of her early time is with her even now; Dream not because her pilgrim blood moves slow, and calm, and cool, |