TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.-WENDELL PHILLIPS.

[Toussaint L'Ouverture, who has been pronounced one of the greatest states. an and generals of the nineteenth century, saved his master and family by hurrying them on board a vessel at the insurrection of the negroes of Hayti. He then joined the negro army, and soon found himself at their head. Napoleon sent a fleet with French veterans, with orders to bring him to France at all hazards. But all the skill of the French soldiers could not subdue the negro army; and they finally made a treaty, placing Toussaint L'Ouverture governor of the island. The negroes no sooner disbanded their army, than a squad of soldiers seized Toussaint by night, and taking him on board a vessel, hurried him to France. There he was placed in a dungeon, and finally starved to death.]

If I were to tell you the story of Napoleon, I should take it from the lips of Frenchmen, who find no language rich enough to paint the great captain of the nineteenth century. Were I to tell you the story of Washington, I should take it from your hearts,—you, who think no marble white enough on which to carve the name of the Father of his country. But I am to tell you the story of a negro, Toussaint L'Ouverture, who has left hardly one written line. I am to glean it from the reluctant testimony of his enemies, men who despised him because he was a negro and a slave, hated him because he had beaten them in battle.

Cromwell manufactured his own army. Napoleon, at the age of twenty-seven, was placed at the head of the best troops Europe ever saw. Cromwell never saw an army till he was forty; this man never saw a soldier till he was fifty. Cromwell manufactured his own army-out of what? English men,--the best blood in Europe. Out of the middle class of Englishmen,-the best blood of the island. And with it he conquered what? Englishmen, their equals. This man manufactured his army out of what? Out of what you call the despicable race of negroes, debased, demoralized by two hundred years of slavery, one hundred thousand of them imported into the island within four years, unable to speak a dialect intelligible even to each other. Yet out of this mixed, and, as you say, despicable mass he forged a thunderbolt and hurled it at what? est blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and sent him home conquered; at the most warlike blood in Europe, the French, and put them under his feet; at the pluckiest blood in Europe, the English, and they skulked home to Jamaica.

At the proud

Now, if Cromwell was a general, at least this man was a soldier.

Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with me to the commencement of the century, and select what statesman you please. Let him be either American or European; let him have a brain the result of six generations of culture; let him have the ripest training of university routine; let him add to it the better education of practical life; crown his temples with the silver locks of seventy years, and show me the man of Saxon lineage for whom his most sanguine admirer will wreathe a laurel, rich as embittered foes have placed on the brow of this negro,―rare military skill, profound knowledge of human nature, content to blot out all party distinctions, and trust a state to the blood of its sons, anticipating Sir Robert Peel fifty years, and taking his station by the side of Roger Williams, before any Englishman or American had won the right; and yet this is the record which the history of rival States makes up for this inspired black of St. Domingo.

Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Hayti, and stand on those fifty thousand graves of the best soldiers France ever had, and ask them negro's sword.

I would call him Napoleon, but to empire over broken oaths and This man never broke his word.

what they think of the

Napoleon made his way through a sea of blood. I would call him Crom

well, but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he founded went down with him into his grave. I would call him Washington, but the great Virginian held slaves. This man risked his empire rather than permit the slave-trade in the humblest village of his dominions.

You think me a fanatic, for you read history, not with your eyes but with your prejudices. But fifty years hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of history will put Phocion for the Greek, Brutus for the Roman, Hampden for England, Fayette for France, choose Washington as the bright consummate flower of our earlier civilization, then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, TousSAINT L'OUVERTURE.

TOM'S LITTLE STAR.-FANNY FOSTER.

Sweet Mary, pledged to Tom, was fair
And graceful, young and slim.
Tom loved her truly, and one dare
Be sworn that she loved him;
For, twisting bashfully the ring
That sealed the happy fiat,

She cooed: "When married in the spring,
Dear Tom, let's live so quiet!

"Let's have our pleasant little place,
Our books, a friend or two;

No noise, no crowd, but just your face
For me, and mine for you.

Won't that be nice?" "It is my own
Idea," said Tom, "so chary,

So deep and true, my love has grown,
I worship you, my Mary."

She was a tender, nestling thing,
A girl that loved her home,
A sort of dove with folded wing,
A bird not made to roam,
But gently rest her little claw
(The simile to carry)

Within a husband's stronger paw

The very girl to marry.

Their courtship was a summer sea,
So smooth, so bright, so calm,

Till one day Mary restlessly

Endured Tom's circling arm,

And looked as if she thought or planned, Her satin forehead wrinkled,

She beat a tattoo on his hand,

Her eyes were strange and twinkled.

She never heard Tom's fond remarks,
His "sweety-tweety dear,"

Or noticed once the little larks

He played to make her hear. "What ails," he begged, "my petsy pet? What ails my love, I wonder?" "Do not be trifling, Tom. I've met Professor Shakspeare Thunder."

"Thunder!" said Tom; "and who is he?" "You goose! why, don't you know?" "I don't. She never frowned at me, Or called me 'goose.' And though,"

Thought Tom, "it may be playfulness,
It racks my constitution."

"Oh! Ah!

Indeed! and what is that?

My notion is but faint."

"It's art," said Mary, brisk and pat.
Tom thought that "art" meant paint.
"You blundering boy! why, art is just
What makes one stare and wonder.
To understand high art you must
Hear Shakspeare read by Thunder."
Tom started at the turn of phrase;
It sounded like a swear.

Then Mary said, to his amaze,

With nasal groan and glare,

"To be or-r-not to be?" And fain To act discreet yet gallant,

He asked, "Dear, have you any-pain?" "Oh, no, Tom; I have talent.'

"Professor Thunder told me so;
He sees it in my eye;

He says my tones and gestures show
My destiny is high."

Said Tom, for Mary's health afraid,
His ignorance revealing,

Is talent, dear, that noise you made?"
"Why, no; that's Hamlet's feeling."

"He must have felt most dreadful bad."
"The character is mystic,"

Mary explained, "and very sad,
And very high artistic.

And you are not; you're commonplace;
These things are far above you."

"I'm only," spoke Tom's honest face,
"Artist enough-to love you."

From that time forth was Mary changed;
Her eyes stretched open wide;

Her smooth fair hair in friz arranged,
And parted on the side.

More and more strange she grew,

Incapable of taking

and quite

The slightest notice how each night
She set Tom's poor heart aching.

As once he left her at the door,

"A thousand times good-night,"

Sighed Mary, sweet as ne'er before.
Poor Tom revived, looked bright.
"Mary," he said, "you love me so?
We have not grown asunder?"
"Do not be silly, Tom; you know
I'm studying with Thunder.

"That's from the famous Juliet scene.
I'll do another bit."

Quoth Tom: "I don't know what you mean.” "Then listen; this is it:

'Dear love, adieu.

Anon, good nurse. Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.'

Now, Tom, say ' Blessed, blesséd night!'"
Said Tom, with hesitation,

"B-blesséd night." "Pshaw! that's not right; You've no appreciation."

At Tom's next call he heard up-stairs
A laugh most loud and coarse;

Then Mary, knocking down the chairs,
Came prancing like a horse.

"Ha! ha! ha! Well, Governor, how are ye? I've been down five times, climbing up your stairs in my long clothes.'

That's comedy," she said. "You're mad,"
Said Tom. Mad! Ha! Ophelia!
"They bore him barefaced on his bier,
And on his grave rained many a tear,"
She chanted, very wild and sad;

Then whisked off on Emilia:

"You told a lie-an odious, fearful lie.
Upon my soul, a lie-a wicked lie.'"

She glared and howled two murder scenes,
And mouthed a new French role,

Wher luckily the graceful miens

Hid the disgraceful soul.

She wept, she danced, she sang, she swore-
From Shakspeare-classic swearing;

A wild, abstracted look she wore,

And round the room went tearing.

And every word and every pause
Made Mary "quote a speech."
If Tom was sad (and he had cause),
She'd say, in sobbing screech,
"Clifford, why don't you speak to me?"
At flowers for a present

She leered, and sang coquettishly,

When daisies pied and violets blue.''

Tom blurted, "That's not pleasant."