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In 1836, Capt. Jonathan Walker, a citizen of Massachusetts, removed with his family to Florida, and in that territory resided till 1842, when he returned to his native State. During his residence at the South, he hired, but never owned slaves-and while they were in his employ, he treated them as our Northern farmers and mechanics are accustomed to treat their laborers-recognizing their rights as men, instead of regarding them as " chattels personal." While this course won the confidence and good will of the slaves, it was anything but agreeable to the slaveholders. In pursuance of his lawful business, Captain Walker visited Pensacola, in the month of June, 1844. While there, seven men-the same, we understand, who had worked for him during his residence in Florida-applied to him for a passage to Nassau, where they might enjoy that Liberty which is the inalienable right of all. Captain Walker, in obedience to the great law of humanity, received them on board his vessel-a small, open boat--and proceeded along the coast, towards the destined haven. Exposed to the broiling sun, Capt. Walker was soon taken sick, and continued very ill for many days. On the 8th of July, when off Cape Florida, they were discovered by a wrecker, which took them all captive--as clear an act of piracy as was ever committed upon the high seas. They were taken into Key West, where Capt. Walker was thrust into jail, loaded with double irons--thence he was conveyed in the hold of a United States vessel, to Pensacola, where he was examined before a magistrate and committed to prison in default of $10,000 bail. Though greatly emaciated, and in feeble health, he was thrust into a cell unsupplied with either chair, table, or bed, and was chained to the floor. No physician was sent him, and no attention whatever was paid to his enfeebled condition. Here he remained till the following November, when he was taken before the United States Court, tried and convicted upon four indictments, for aiding the escape of slaves, and sentenced to pay a fine of $150, stand in the pillory one hour, be branded with the letters S. S. (slave stealer) on the right hand, and suffer imprisonment fifteen days. The whole sentence was carried into execution-the branding, was done by binding his hand to a post, and applying a red hot iron to the palm, which left the letters an inch long and about an eighth of an inch deep. The branding was performed by a recreant yankee from Maine, whose name is DORR. Let it be embalmed in eternal infamy. After the fifteen days of imprisonmnet had expired, he was retained in consequence of inability to pay the fine and costs of court, amounting to something over $400. On the 6th of February last, while yet in prison, three more indictments were found against him for aiding slaves to escape. On the 9th of May he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to pay a fine of $5 on each offence. This was the smallest sum the law would allow, and Capt. Walker returned his thanks to the Jury for their leniency. On the 16th of June he was liberated by the assistance of friends, who paid the fine, and on the 10th of July last arrived in New York."

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Welcome home again, brave seaman! with thy thoughtful brow and gray,

And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day

With that front of calm endurance, on whose steady nerve, in vain,
Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery shafts of pain!

Is the tyrant's brand upon thee? Did the brutal cravens aim

To make God's truth thy falsehood, His holiest work thy shame ?
When all blood-quenched, from the torture the iron was withdrawn,
How laughed their evil angel the baffled fools to scorn!

They change to wrong, the duty which God hath written out

On the great heart of Humanity too legible for doubt!

They, the loathsome moral lepers, blotched from foot-sole up to crown,
Give to shame what God hath given to honor and renown!

Why, that brand is highest honor!-than its traces never yet
Upon old armorial hatchments was a prouder blazon set;
And thy unborn generations as they crowd our rocky strand,
Shall tell with pride the story of their father's BRANDED HAND!

As the Templar home was welcomed, bearing back from Syrian wars,

The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim scimetars,

The pallor of the prison and the shackle's crimson span,

So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of God and man!

He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's grave,

Thou for His living presence in the bound and bleeding slave;
He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod,

Thou for the true SHECHINAH, the present home of God!

For, while the jurist sitting with the slave-whip o'er him swung,
From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of slavery wrung,
And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God-deserted shrine,
Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the bondman's blood for wine-

While the multitude in blindness to a far off SAVIOUR knelt;

And spurned, the while, the temple where a present SAVIOUR dwelt;
Thou beheld'st Him in the task-field, in the prison shadows dim,
And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto HIM!

In thy lone and long night watches, sky above and wave below,
Thou did'st learn a higher wisdom than the babbling schoolmen know;
God's stars and silence taught thee as His angels only can,

That the one, sole sacred thing beneath the cope of heaven is MAN!

That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law and creed,
In the depth of God's great goodness may find mercy in his need;
But woe to him who crushes the souL with chain and rod,
And herds with lower natures the awful form of God!

Then lift that manly right hand, bold ploughman of the wave!
Its branded palm shall prophesy SALVATION TO THE SLAVE!'
Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso reads may feel
His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change to steel.

Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our northern air-
'Ho! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God look there!
Take it henceforth for your standard-like the Bruce's heart of yore,
In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand be seen before!

And the tyrants of the slave land shall tremble at that sign,
When it points its fingers southward along the Puritan line:
Woe to the state's gorged leeches, and the church's locust band,
When they look from slavery's ramparts on the coming of that HAND!



Toussaint!-thou most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;
Oh, miserable chieftain !-where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet, die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and

There's not a breathing of the common wind

That will forget thee: thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

And love, and man's unconquerable mind.



"Ye build the tombs of the Prophets."-HOLY WRIT Yes-pile the marble o'er him! It is well That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life The ploughshares of your hatred, hot from hell, Who clamored down the bold reformer when He pleaded for his captive fellow men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought Within thy walls, St. Tamany, to bind

In party chains the free and honest thought,

The angel utterance of an upright mind,— Well it is now that o'er his grave ye raise The stony tribute of your tardy praise, For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame


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