Their cause--was in Africa.
They upheld it there--they lost it there--and to those that are here the struggle was over; they were, one and all, prisoners of war.
"You speak of them in the third person," said Frowenfeld.
"Ah ham nod a slev." "Are you certain of that ?" asked the tenant.
His landlord looked at him.
"It seems to me," said Frowenfeld, "that you--your class--the free quadroons--are the saddest slaves of all.

Your men, for a little property, and your women, for a little amorous attention, let themselves be shorn even of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of sham freedom have consented to endure a tyrannous contumely which flattens them into the dirt like grass under a slab.

I would rather be a runaway in the swamps than content myself with such a freedom.

As your class stands before the world to-day--free in form but slaves in spirit--you are--I do not know but I was almost ready to say--a warning to philanthropists!" The free man of color slowly arose.
"I trust you know," said Frowenfeld, "that I say nothing in offence." "Havery word is tru'," replied the sad man.
"Mr.Grandissime," said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back again into his seat, "I know you are a broken-hearted man." The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up.
"And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work of patient and sustained self-sacrifice.

You have only those things to lose which grief has taught you to despise--ease, money, display.