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Liberty or death, or, Heaven's infraction of the Fugitive slave law. M'Keehan, Hattia..
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LIBERTY OR DEATH; OR HEAVEN'S INFRACTION OF THE FUGITIVE SLAVE LAW.

BY

HATTIA M'KEEHAN

"Give me Liberty, or give me Death." —PATRICK HENRY.

CINCINNATI. PUBLISHED FOR AND BY THE AUTHOR. No. 227 FIFTH STREET, NEAR PLUM.

1858.
page: iii[View Page iii]

Preface.

GENIUS, in its wildest and brightest conceptions, even when rising upon the bold pinions of a fervid and glowing imagination, has rarely produced ideal creations more thrilling than the real incidents forming the basis of the following story.

The late terrible tragedy at Cincinnati, which may be denominated, The Slave Mother's Sacrifice, and the strange circumstances connected therewith, taking into consideration, also, the remarkable events which in rapid succession followed as well as preceded that sanguinary scene, present in themselves a romance of the most exciting character. To such as may be unacquainted with the history of the affair, the picture may seem overdrawn—yet, indeed, had I consented to lay aside the drapery of fiction and closely follow, with the pen of a faithful historian the footsteps of the unhappy heroine of my tragic story, from the moment she passed the Crystal Bridge, to tread the soil of freedom, up to the present period of her eventful career, I should doubtless, even page: iv-v (Table of Contents) [View Page iv-v (Table of Contents) ] then, have staggered the credulity of the most credulous, and been charged with unpardonable hyperbole.

On this theme I write because I must—my thoughts and feelings will have utterance;—deep and fearful was the impression made upon my heart—still vividly is the terrific scene before me,—in my mind's eye the frantic mother still lifts the gleaming blade, and with fell stroke sunders at once life's silver chord and slavery's hated chain—a lovely daughter, of tender years, falls beneath her hand—that hand which oft in tenderness had caressed and cherished the child it now destroys! Appalling to think of—'twas more appalling to behold! Still bleeds my heart when memory recalls the dread spectacle—my brain's on fire and my feverish blood is madly coursing through my veins! I repeat it, I write because I must. Though surrounded by slaveholding friends, who bid me beware of the exciting, dangerous topic, their cowardly advice I'll heed not, nor a moment restrain my anxious pen, knowing full well, that light, truth and reformation come of wholesome, busy agitation.

THE AUTHOR.

Index.

Prologue.

SMOULDERING fires lie hidden in the bosom of the earth—they must one day have vent—in silence long have they slumbered—but sooner or later the volcanic flame will surely kindle to paint terror on the sky. The more deeply imbedded those fires, the more fearful and disastrous must be the eruption when it comes. The stronger the rock-built strata imprisoning the boiling lava, the higher will spout, when once it breaks forth, the burning, desolating fluid.

Faint emblem this of a thought I'd fain express; there are human hearts in which unceasingly burn fires that no longer lie smouldering. Though crushed down by the iron hand of cruel oppression loaded with heavy chains, ignored and despised, those hearts beat with anxious life, and are even now beginning to throb with the violence of an earthquake's tread; the fires kindling there must and will have vent;—the fierce, quenchless flame cannot but melt the surrounding walls of adamant and slavery's galling chains dissolve. Then beware—the redhot lava of the injured, trampled heart will spout in torrents to the skies—thence in blazing fury to earth descend to be avenged!

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