The Fugitive
Slave Law--and for that fact we should give "most hearty thanks"--is
about as dead as any statute can be, but as in the case of a snake
that has been killed, it may be the wiser course not to trifle with
its fangs. Therefore, instead of telling my own story in the first
person singular, I offer as a substitute the confession of one John
Smith, whose existence no one will presume to dispute. Here is his
statement:
"There was an old barn on my father's farm. It was almost a ruin.
One end of the roof had fallen in, pretty much all the windows
were gone, and there was a general air of dilapidation about the
place. A dwelling-house, to which it was an appendage, had been
burned and not rebuilt, and the barn had been left to fight a
battle with the elements and other foes in pretty much its own
way.
"Not that it was wholly abandoned. There was one mow that was kept
pretty well supplied with grass, and there were two or three horse
stalls that were in tolerable order, although but rarely used.
There were a number of excellent hiding-places about the old
rookery. In the basement all sorts of rubbish, including unused
vehicles and machinery, had been stored away, and so wedged and
packed was it that it would have taken hours to uncover man or
beast seeking concealment there.
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