does not go so far as to make me imagine when I tell you how the last buffalo has been carried off from the enclosure, in broad daylight, without fear, under protection of Dutch power, when I cause the stolen cattle to be followed by the owner and his weeping children, and make him sit down upon the steps of the robber’s house, speechless and senseless, absorbed in sorrow, to be chased away with outrage and disdain, menaced with stripes and prison. . . . .
See! I neither claim nor expect that you will be moved by this in the same manner as you would be if I sketched the destiny of a Dutch peasant whose cow had been taken away. Task no tear for the tears that flow on such dark faces, nor noble indignation when I shall speak of the despair of the sufferer. Neither do I expect that you will rise and go with my book in your hand to the King, saying: “Look here, O King, that happens in your empire, in your beautiful empire of Insulinde!”. . . .
No, no; all this I do not expect. The excess of misery at home overmasters your feeling of sympathy for what is far off. Was there not yesterday but little business going on at the Exchange, and does not the glutting of the coffee-market threaten a reduction in price?
“Don’t write such nonsense to your papa, Stern,” I said, and perhaps a little passionately, for I can’t bear untruth; that has always been a fixed principle with me.
