All men are free and equal, in the grave, - Harriet Beecher Stowe

So much has been said and sung of beautiful young girls, why don't somebody wake up to the beauty of old women?

If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, tomorrow morning, — if you had seen the man, and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you had only from twelve o'clock till morning to make good your escape, — how fast could you walk? How many miles could you make in those few brief hours, with the darling at your bosom, — the little sleepy head on your shoulder, — the small, soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck?

One should have expected some terrible enormities charged to those who are excluded from heaven, as the reason; but no, — they are condemned for not doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm.