“Blow ye the trumpet abroad o’er the sea,
  Columbia has triumphed, the negro is free! 
  Praise to the God of our fathers! ’twas He,
  Jehovah, that triumphed, Columbia, through thee.”

To increase the effect, the director of ceremonies had added a flourish of trumpets behind the scenes.

Then the colored band came forward, hand in hand, and sang together, with a will, Whittier’s immortal “Boat Song":—­

“We own de hoe, we own de plough,
We own de hands dat hold;
We sell de pig, we sell de cow;
But nebber chile be sold. 
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We’ll hab de rice an’ corn: 
O, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!”

All the family, of all ages and colors, then joined in singing “The Star-spangled Banner”; and when Mr. King had shaken hands with them all, they adjourned to the breakfast-room, where refreshments were plentifully provided.

At last Mr. Bright said:  “I don’t want to bid you good night, friends; but I must.  I don’t generally like to go among Boston folks.  Just look at the trees on the Common.  They’re dying because they’ve rolled the surface of the ground so smooth.  That’s just the way in Boston, I reckon.  They take so much pains to make the surface smooth, that it kills the roots o’ things.  But when I come here, or go to Mrs. Blumenthal’s, I feel as if the roots o’ things wa’n’t killed.  Good night, friends.  I haven’t enjoyed myself so well since I found Old Hundred and Yankee Doodle in the Harmolinks.”

The sound of his whistling died away in the streets; the young people went off to talk over their festival; the colored troop retired to rest; and the elders of the two families sat together in the stillness, holding sweet converse concerning the many strange experiences that had been so richly crowned with blessings.

A new surprise awaited them, prepared by the good taste of Mr. Blumenthal.  A German Liederkrantz in the hall closed the ceremonies of the night with Mendelssohn’s “Song of Praise.”