It was a superb day。 The blue waves of Lake Erie danced； rippling and sparkling； in the sun…light。 A fresh breeze blew from the shore； and the lordly boat ploughed her way right gallantly onward。
O； what an untold world there is in one human heart！ Who thought； as George walked calmly up and down the deck of the steamer； with his shy companion at his side； of all that was burning in his bosom？ The mighty good that seemed approaching seemed too good； too fair； even to be a reality； and he felt a jealous dread； every moment of the day； that something would rise to snatch it from him。
But the boat swept on。 Hours fleeted； and； at last； clear and full rose the blessed English shores； shores charmed by a mighty spell；—with one touch to dissolve every incantation of slavery； no matter in what language pronounced； or by what national power confirmed。
George and his wife stood arm in arm； as the boat neared the small town of Amherstberg； in Canada。 His breath grew thick and short； a mist gathered before his eyes； he silently pressed the little hand that lay trembling on his arm。 The bell rang； the boat stopped。 Scarcely seeing what he did； he looked out his baggage； and gathered his little party。 The little company were landed on the shore。 They stood still till the boat had cleared； and then； with tears and embracings； the husband and wife； with their wondering child in their arms； knelt down and lifted up their hearts to God！
“’T was something like the burst from death to life；
From the grave’s cerements to the robes of heaven；
From sin’s dominion； and from passion’s strife；
To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven；
Where all the bonds of death and hell are riven；
And mortal puts on immortality；
When Mercy’s hand hath turned the golden key；
And Mercy’s voice hath said； Rejoice； thy soul is free。”
The little party were soon guided； by Mrs。 Smyth； to the hospitable abode of a good missionary； whom Christian charity has placed here as a shepherd to the outcast and wandering； who are constantly finding an asylum on this shore。
Who can speak the blessedness of that first day of freedom？ Is not the sense of liberty a higher and a finer one than any of the five？ To move； speak and breathe；—go out and come in unwatched； and free from danger！ Who can speak the blessings of that rest which comes down on the free man’s pillow； under laws which insure to him the rights that God has given to man？ How fair and precious to that mother was that sleeping child’s face； endeared by the memory of a thousand dangers！ How impossible was it to sleep； in the exuberant posession of such blessedness！ And yet； these two had not one acre of ground；—not a roof that they could call their own；—they had spent their all； to the last dollar。 They had nothing more than the birds of the air； or the flowers of the field；—yet they could not sleep for joy。 “O； ye who take freedom from man； with what words shall ye answer it to God？”
1 John Philpot Curran （1750…1817）； Irish orator and judge who worked for Catholic emancipation。
Chapter 38
The Victory
“Thanks be unto God； who giveth us the victory。”1
Have not many of us； in the weary way of life； felt； in some hours； how far easier it were to die than to live？
The martyr； when faced even by a death of bodily anguish and horror； finds in the very terror of his doom a strong stimulant and tonic。 There is a vivid excitement； a thrill and fervor； which may carry through any crisis of suffering that is the birth…hour of eternal glory and rest。
But to live；—to wear on； day after day； of mean； bitter； low； harassing servitude； every nerve dampened and depressed； every power of feeling gradually smothered；—this long and wasting heart…martyrdom； this slow； daily bleeding away of the inward life； drop by drop； hour after hour；—this is the true searching test of what there may be in man or woman。
When Tom stood face to face with his persecutor； and heard his threats； and thought in his very soul that his hour was come； his heart swelled bravely in him； and he thought he could bear torture and fire； bear anything； with the vision of Jesus and heaven but just a step beyond； but； when he was gone； and the present excitement passed off； came back the pain of his bruised and weary limbs；—came back the sense of his utterly degraded； hopeless； forlorn estate； and the day passed wearily enough。
Long before his wounds were healed； Legree insisted that he should be put to the regular field…work； and then came day after day of pain and weariness； aggravated by every kind of injustice and indignity that the ill…will of a mean and malicious mind could devise。 Whoever； in our circumstances； has made trial of pain； even with all the alleviations which； for us； usually attend it； must know the irritation that comes with it。 Tom no longer wondered at the habitual surliness of his associates； nay； he found the placid； sunny temper； which had been the habitude of his life； broken in on； and sorely strained； by the inroads of the same thing。 He had flattered himself on leisure to read his Bible； but there was no such thing as leisure there。 In the height of the season； Legree did not hesitate to press all his hands through； Sundays and week…days alike。 Why shouldn’t he？—he made more cotton by it； and gained his wager； and if it wore out a few more hands； he could buy better ones。 At first； Tom used to read a verse or two of his Bible； by the flicker of the fire； after he had returned from his daily toil； but； after the cruel treatment he received； he used to come home so exhausted； that his head swam and his eyes failed when he tried to read； and he was fain to stretch himself down； with the others； in utter exhaustion。
Is it strange that the religious peace and trust； which had upborne him hitherto； should give way to tossings of soul and despondent darkness？ The gloomiest problem of this mysterious life was constantly before his eyes；—souls crushed and ruined； evil triumphant； and God silent。 It was weeks and months that Tom wrestled； in his own soul； in darkness and sorrow。 He thought of Miss Ophelia’s letter to his Kentucky friends； and would pray earnestly that God would send him deliverance。 And then he would watch； day after day； in the vague hope of seeing somebody sent to redeem him； and； when nobody came； he would crush back to his soul bitter thoughts；—that it was vain to serve God； that God had forgotten him。 He sometimes saw Cassy； and sometimes； when summoned to the house； caught a glimpse of the dejected form of Emmeline； but held very little communion with either； in fact； there was no time for him to commune with anybody。
One evening； he was sitting； in utter dejection and prostration； by a few decaying brands； where his coarse supper was baking。 He put a few bits of brushwood on the fire； and strove to raise the light； and then drew his worn Bible from his pocket。 There were all the marked passages； which had thrilled his soul so often；—words of patriarchs and seers； poets and sages； who from early time had spoken courage to man；—voices from the great cloud of witnesses who ever surround us in the race of life。 Had the word lost its power； or could the failing eye and weary sense no longe