I did not know at
first what ailed me. At last it occurred to me that what I had lost
was a country. I had never respected the government near to which I
lived, but I had foolishly thought that I might manage to live here,
minding my private affairs, and forget it. For my part, my old and
worthiest pursuits have lost I cannot say how much of their
attraction, and I feel that my investment in life here is worth many
per cent less since Massachusetts last deliberately sent back an
innocent man, Anthony Burns, to slavery. I dwelt before, perhaps, in
the illusion that my life passed somewhere only between heaven and
hell, but now I cannot persuade myself that I do not dwell wholly
within hell. The site of that political organization called
Massachusetts is to me morally covered with volcanic scoriae and
cinders, such as Milton describes in the infernal regions. If there is
any hell more unprincipled than our rulers, and we, the ruled, I
feel curious to see it. Life itself being worth less, all things
with it, which minister to it, are worth less. Suppose you have a
small library, with pictures to adorn the walls- a garden laid out
around- and contemplate scientific and literary pursuits and
discover all at once that your villa, with all its contents is located
in hell, and that the justice of the peace has a cloven foot and a
forked tail- do not these things suddenly lose their value in your
eyes?
I feel that, to some extent, the State has fatally interfered with
my lawful business.
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