Sorrow doubles the burden to the bent-down back; plants thorns in the unyielding pillow; mingles gall with water; adds saltness to their bitter bread; clothing them in rags, and strewing ashes on their bare heads. To our irremediable distress every small and pelting inconvenience came with added force; we had strung our frames to endure the Atlean weight thrown on us; we sank beneath the added feather chance threw on us, “the grasshopper was a burden.” Many of the survivors had been bred in luxury⁠—their servants were gone, their powers of command vanished like unreal shadows: the poor even suffered various privations; and the idea of another winter like the last, brought affright to our minds. Was it not enough that we must die, but toil must be added?⁠—must we prepare our funeral repast with labour, and with unseemly drudgery heap fuel on our deserted hearths⁠—must we with servile hands fabricate the garments, soon to be our shroud?