Oh, I
thought, the very cotton which fills this comforter, was cultivated by
the hand of a slave. And shall I complain at being nearly smothered by
it, when I remember what an incubus slavery is to the poor creature who
gathered this cotton, and what an incubus it is to our unhappy land? I
was delivered at last from my load, because my tormentors were tired of
their sport. Would that there were some prospect that they who load
cruel burdens on the slave were increasingly tired of their work!
They would not, however, let me rise. So, thought I, when we have taken
the burden of slavery off from the poor negro, unholy prejudice against
color keeps him from rising to a level with the rest of the community. I
begged that I might get up. They told me that my morning exertions
required longer rest. I told them that I must get my Greek. Whereupon
one of them stood over me, with his arms raised in a deploring attitude,
and said,--
"Sternitur infelix!--
--Et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos."
This, dear Aunty, is the lamentation of a Latin poet over a Greek
soldier lying prostrate on the battle-field, far from home;--"and dying
he remembers his sweet Greece.
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