Saddening were
the brief and almost unvaried histories recorded on its unpretending
monuments. There was a name, and then a date, and then that word at
the bare mention of which there are few old Indians who, as it calls
up memories of bygone shocks and griefs, can refrain from a sickening
shudder--"cholera." Among all who rested there in peace, so far away
from every reminder of childhood and of home, not one had passed the
prime of life. It was easy to picture to one's self the last gloomy
hours of those hapless exiles, stricken down by the fell scourge in
the pride of their strength, and perhaps at the full tide of their
prosperity, with none to succor, and with no hope from the first but
that they must perish. Nor was this quite all. How could their sole
companions, their servants, people of the country, and bound to their
masters by none but the mercenary tie of a hireling, soothe their
dying moments with any genuine sympathy, or supply in the dread
travail of mortality the room of a friend, or even of a
fellow-countryman? This is no baseless sketch of fancy. Familiar facts
dispense with all need to draw on the imagination in outlining the end
of one who meets a destiny like theirs. The planter suddenly finds
himself ill; he rapidly grows worse; a few hours of agony in his
solitude, and all is over.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192