the blacks; having exhibited them as we have found them, for which we feel no manner of accountability, as the difference, in all respects, between the negro and the white race, as to the physical and mental being, is of God, the Creator.
Here ends our labor, whether good or bad,
Of which our pen assures that she is glad;
And if light is shed on the misty space
Of ancient times, and the dark negro race,
Then we rejoice; but if not, then we mourn,
And know not where for truth our face should turn.
But, as a vessel sent the winds to brave,
We launch this book upon the public wave,
Where rocks and shoals may cross its dubious way,
And dash its sides and sails amid the spray.
And yet this may not be its final fate,
Though many who may read, may also hate —
Yet some, perhaps, may love, of thinking men,
And justify the author and his pen.
Should this be so, which hope our thoughts inspire,
A better goal than this we can't desire.
