In thinking of America, I sometimes find myself admiring her bright blue sky-her grand old woods-her fertile fields-her beautiful rivers-her mighty lakes and star-crowned mountains. But my rapture is soon checked when I remember that all is cursed with the infernal spirit of slave-holding and wrong When I remember that with the waters of her noblest rivers, the tears of my brethren are borne to the ocean, disregarded and forgotten That her most fertile fields drink daily of the warm blood of my outraged sisters, I am filled with unutterable loathing.