OUR CORRESPONDENT.

FOR FREDERICK DOUGLAS' PAPER

FROM OUR BROOKLYN CORRESPONDENT.

BROOKLYN, Aug. 2, 1855.

MY DEAR DOUGLASS:—Where is Ethiop?—
Where? This is the question a thousand time
put and a thousand times unanswered. Indeed
it is one of the questions of the day down here
in Gotham, and about the Heights. One says
he is not in or about Gotham, and another says
he is not about the Heights. Both are im
measurably true. Without attempting to an
swer this rather anxious question fully, still, for
the especial benefit of one of the "First of
August Orators," the ","
who came over to the quiet city of Brooklyn,
on that evening to revise himself, and vocifer
ously raised the question; and also for the ben
efit of the good public generally, I may give a
gentle intimation as to where. Let me begin,
then. Where is Ethiop?

The 1st of August just passed. It was cele
brated, as you know, with much point and
spirit, here especially on.—
Cars, stages, hacks, and other delicate vehicles
were charted, and for aught I know, borrowed
and bought for the occasion; and a large con
course of people of all shades, sizes, and shapes,
gathered at Morris' Grove in good order
ere eleven o'clock. The day, by this time, not
withstanding the threatened aspect of the
morning, had put on a fine appearance; the
air was soft and balmy, without excessive heat,
and all present fresh and full for enjoyment and
rejoicing. On arriving at the spot, we found an
altar being created to liberty. The builder laid
thereon the last plank, drove his last nail, and
laid aside his hammer. The company were soon
seated; and though in person, reading in Mor-

ris Grove, were almost as soon, by the glowing
eloquence of Judge Culver being swiftly wafted
in the spirit to the islands of the sea,

"Where freemen joining heart to heart rejoiced,
And for hours too, with tidings laden,
He did our spirits ferry o'er."

At length the Judge arrived at a point he call
ed a conclusion, but which few were willing to
admit; still we submitted, and everybody re
paired to where refreshments were served, and
partook bountifully. The hospitality exhibited
on the occasion, was unbounded. All were in
vited to partake without money and without
price. Refreshments over, Wm. Lloyd Gar
rison—the same William Lloyd Garrison of
twenty years ago—fresh and vigorous in appear
ance now as then, mounted the stand, and after
some good old-fashioned psalm-singing, led by
(an old familiar face) Robert Hamilton, he,
(Garrison,) for about one hour, thundered in
the car of oppression, one of those telling
speeches which only Garrison can make. Mor
ris' Grove is near Jamaica, one of those once
strongholds of old Long Island slavery, the
relics of which are yet visible. One old white
woman who had had "niggers" in her ,
in the days that are passed, after hearing read
by Garrison a portion of history relative to
West India barbarity previous to emancipation,
evinced so much ignorance as to say she did not
believe a word of it; it was all a lie. Another
old pair, apparently from a distance, and doubt
less, never witnessed such a sight before, drew
near, and remained standing by the stand, du
ring the whole delivery of Garrison's speech,
lost in wonder at what they heard, and after
ward withdrew to a private nook, struck a light,
filled their pipes, and quietly smoked in deep
meditation.

A knot of rustics left their fields and came
up in the afternoon, doubtless for a little fun—They consisted of about a dozen the greatest
and hardest-looking customers seen probably in
a year's travel. Attempt of description is use
less, yet, they were, evidently, of the gentry of
the surrounding neighborhood. I have said

they came up for a little diversion, but from the
extreme width of their mouths, and the saucer
like shape of their eyes, and the inclined posi
tion of their bodies, I judged they had reck
oned without their host. They went away with
something in their thick noodles that placed
them somewhere between a dream and a rev
erie.

I have ever thought, and am more confirmed
in it than ever, that old Long Island needs to
be inundated with anti-slavery lecturers and
agents; that both the black and white-faced
population stand as much, if not more, in need
of light as any other spot north of Mason and
Dixon's line.

The exercises of the day were brought to a
close by Mr.McKim, of Philadelphia; and
everybody returned home well pleased with the
day's excursion, and the occasion that produced
it. But the affair did not end here. No black
man, as you will perceive, took part in the exer
cises, save the Rev. J. M. Williams, who played,
and the old and familiar face of Robert Hamil
ton, in a little singing. They (the blacks) were,
of course, invited to participate, but I suppose
that meant silent participation. Be this as it
may, the third session of the affair came off in
the Bridge Street Methodist Church, Brooklyn,
in the evening, under the management of colored gentlemen. But where was Ethiop?—
Those at the Grove

"Little knew good, gentle folks,
The cheil was 'mong them taking notes;"

nor do I think it was distinctly known at Bridge
Street, and for this reason. I had quietly en
tered and ensconced myself in an unobtrusive
corner; had listened to the prayer of the chap
lain for the oppressed and the loosed; had lis
tened to the "familiar voice" of friend Hamil
ton again in a song; had heard quite a number
of speeches by orators, whose names were not
down on the , and colored all save one; and had began to store away in my mind the substance of these instantaneous oratorical effusions, as they came fresh and unstudied from the speakers, when this tide of eloquence ceased

to flow. It was for but a moment; for the
master of ceremonies—a sprig of the medical
profession—announced the distinguished orator
from Gotham, of whom slight mention is made
in the beginning of these notes. He arose—His thin lips quivered; his eyes flashed vivid fight; his locks, of which he takes some pains, shook to the hot breeze as it passed by him
through the window-pane, rendering him as a
whole, in appearances, wonderfully striking.—This, as you may know, is the handsome member—or rather the fire-eating member, as he is
more commonly called—of the once celebrated
Committee of Thirteen; and I can never behold
him without being reminded of Cooper's 'Last
of the Mohegans." His first and second atti
tudes taken, and a few smothering sentences ut
tered, he began to warm up; the smoke began
to clear; and he finally blazed out in the fol
lowing classical and beautiful apostrophy:—"Where—Oh where is Ethiop!" So sudden, so unexpected was it, that everybody looked
around, while Ethiop quietly kept his seat, as
unruffled as a pensive lake on a still mid-sum
mer evening. "Where—Oh where is Ethiop?"
he again exclaimed; and then pitching upon
this unknown , and his sayings and doings
for his next text, this fire-eating orator proceed
ed on and on, John Gilpin-like, in a truly char
acteristic speech of much force, truth, and elo
quence, mixed with still more wit, fun, fiction
and folly, till the hour of adjournment, after
which everybody went home, doubtless repeat
ing the beautiful apostophy, "Where—Oh
where is Ethiop?"

"They little thought these gentle folks,
The cheil was 'mong them taking notes."

This ended the First of August on old Long
Island. May the glorious day never be forgot
ten by us here—rather may our interest in it,
and the cause of it, heighten with the lapse of
years. In my next, I may better answer the
question, "Where is Ethiop?"

Yours truly, ETHIIOP