In the Asiatic jungle, lurking behind the palm-trunk,
they waited, lithe and swarthy Thugs, treacherously to slay whatever victim
passed by alone; or in the fair Pacific islands kept horrid jubilee above
their feasts of human flesh, and streaked themselves with kindred blood in
their carousals. Holland tells its fearful story of their Spanish
rule. Russian serfs record their despotism, cowering at the memory of the
knout. France cringes yet at the names of the black few who guided her
roaring Revolution as one might guide the ravages of a tiger with curb of
adamant and rein of linked steel.
Africa stretches out her hands to testify of their presence. Too well those
golden shores recall the wail of women and the yelling curses of men,
driven, beast-fashion, to their pen, and floated from home to hell,
or,--happier fate!--dragged up, in terror of pursuit, and thrown overboard,
a brief agony for a long one. They know them, too, whose continual cry of
separation, starvation, insult, agony, and death rises from the heart of
freedom like the steam of a great pestilence,--Pity them, hearts of flesh!
pity also the captors,--the Sphinx children, the flint-hearts! pity those
who cannot feel, far beyond those who can,--though it be but to suffer!
New England knew them, in band and steeple-hat, hanging and pressing to
death helpless women, bewitched with witchcraft. Acadia knew them, when its
depopulated shores lay barren before the sun, and its homes sent up no
smoke to heaven.
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