This visit of Mr. Garrison, taken in all its dramatic features, is more like a chapter of fiction, with its strange and improbable incidents and situations, than a story of real life.  The pioneer entered Georgia and trod the streets of Savannah, whose legislature thirty-three years before had set a price upon his head.  In Charleston he witnessed the vast ruin which the war had wrought, realized how tremendous had been the death-struggle between Freedom and Slavery, and saw everywhere he turned that slavery was beaten, was dead in its proud, rebellious center.  Thousands upon thousands of the people whose wrongs he had made his own, whose woes he had carried in his soul for thirty-five years, greeted him, their deliverer, in all stages of joy and thanksgiving.  They poured out at his feet their overflowing love and gratitude.  They covered him with flowers, bunches of jessamines, and honeysuckles and roses in the streets of Charleston, hard by the grave where Calhoun lay buried. “‘Only listen to that in Charleston streets!’ exclaimed Garrison, on hearing the band of one of the black regiments playing the air of ‘Old John Brown’, and we both broke into tears,” relates Rev. Theodore L. Cuyler, who stood by the side of the pioneer that April morning under the spire of St. Michael’s church.

“The Government has its hold upon the throat of the monster, slavery,” Mr. Garrison assured an audience of nearly four thousand freedmen, “and is strangling the life out of it.”  It was even so.  Richmond had fallen, and Lee had surrendered.  The early and total collapse of the rebellion was impending.  The Government was, indeed, strangling the life out of it and out of slavery, its cause and mainspring.  The monster had, however, a crowning horror to add to a long list of horrors before fetching its last gasp.  The assassination of President Lincoln was the dying blow of slavery, aimed through him at the Union which he had maintained.  Appalling as was the deed, it was vain, for the Union was saved, and liberty forever secured to the new-born nation.  As Garrison remarked at the tomb of Calhoun, on the morning that Lincoln died, “Down into a deeper grave than this slavery has gone, and for it there is no resurrection.”

CHAPTER XXI

THE LAST.

“Garrison,” said George Thompson on the steamer which was conveying the Government party out of Charleston Harbor on their return trip; “Garrison you began your warfare at the North in the face of rotten eggs and brickbats.  Behold you end it at Charleston on a bed of roses!” The period of persecution had indeed ended, the reign of missiles had ceased, but with the roses there came to the pioneer not a few thorns.  Bitter was the sorrow which visited him in the winter of 1863.  Without warning his wife was on the night of December 29th, stricken with paralysis, which crippled her for the rest of her life.  No words can adequately express all