doors were unbarred to me, and the wretched, lacerated inmates of its cold, dark cells were presented to my view.  Night and day they were before me, and yet my hands were bound as with chains of iron.  I could do nothing but weep over the scenes of horror which passed in review before my mind.  Sometimes I felt as though I was willing to fly from Carolina, be the consequences what they might.  At others, it seemed as though the very exercises I was suffering under were preparing me for future usefulness to them; and this,—­hope, I can scarcely call it, for my very soul trembled at the solemn thought of such a work being placed in my feeble and unworthy hands,—­this idea was the means of reconciling me to suffer, and causing me to feel something of a willingness to pass through any trials, if I could only be the means of exposing the cruelty and injustice which was practised in the institution of oppression, and of bringing to light the hidden things of darkness, of revealing the secrets of iniquity and abolishing its present regulations,—­above all, of exposing the awful sin of professors of religion sending their slaves to such a place of cruelty, and having them whipped so that when they come out they can scarcely walk, or having them put upon the treadmill until they are lamed for days afterwards.  These are not things I have heard; no, my own eyes have looked upon them and wept over them.  Such was the opinion I formed of the workhouse that for many months whilst I was a teacher in the Sunday-school, having a scholar in my class who was the daughter of the master of it, I had frequent occasion to go to it to mark her lessons, and no one can imagine my feelings in walking down that street.  It seemed as though I was walking on the very confines of hell; and this winter, being obliged to pass it to pay a visit to a friend, I suffered so much that I could not get over it for days, and wondered how any real Christian could live near such a place.”

It may appear to some who read this biography that Angelina’s expressions of feeling were over-strained.  But it was not so.  Her nervous organization was exceedingly delicate, and became more so after she began to give her best thoughts to the cause of humanity.  In her own realization, at least, of the suffering of others there was no exaggeration.

Not long after making the above record of her feelings on this subject, she narrates the following incident:—­

“I have been suffering for the last two days on account of Henry’s boy having run away, because he was threatened with a whipping.  Oh, who can paint the horrors of slavery!  And yet, so hard is the natural heart that I am constantly told that the situation of slaves is very good, much better than that of their owners.  How strange that anyone should believe such an absurdity, or try to make others believe it!  No wonder poor John ran away at the threat of a flogging, when he has told me more than once that when H. last whipped him he was in pain for