I loved her,--she loved me,--it was confessed.
In a little while I called her wife; I would, if I could, tell you of
the time that followed: I cannot. We had a beautiful home, youth,
health, riches, friends, happiness, two noble boys. At last an evil fate
brought us to America. I was to look after some business affairs which,
my agent said, needed personal supervision. My brother, whose health had
failed, was advised to try a sea-voyage, and change of scene and
climate. My wife was enthusiastic about the glorious Republic,--the
great, free America,--the land of my birth. We came, carrying with us
letters from friends in England, that were an open sesame to the most
jealously barred doors. They flew wide at our approach, but to be shut
with speed when my face was seen; hands were cordially extended, and
drawn back as from a loathsome contact when mine went to meet them. In
brief, we were outlawed, ostracised, sacrificed on the altar of this
devilish American prejudice,--wholly American, for it is found nowhere
else in the world,--I for my color, she for connecting her fate with
mine.
"I was so held as to be unable to return at once, and she would not
leave me. Then my brother drooped more and more. His disease needed the
brightest and most cheerful influences. The social and moral atmosphere
stifled him. He died; and we, with grief intensified by bitterness, laid
him in the soil of his own country as though it had been that of the
stranger and enemy.
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