Carols Of Gladness Ring From Every Tree.

Though The Negroes Are Fed, Clothed, And Housed, And Though The Irish Peasant Is Starved, Naked, And Roofless, The Bare Name Of Freemen-the Lordship Over His Own Person, The Power To Choose And Will-are Blessings Beyond Food, Raiment, Or Shelter; Possessing Which, The Want Of Every Comfort Of Life Is Yet More Tolerable Than Their Fullest Enjoyment Without Them.

The Death I Should Prefer Would Be To Break My Neck Off The Back Of A Good Horse At A Full Gallop On A Fine Day.

[when Her Husband Said Her Earnings As A Married Woman Belonged To Him:] I Cannot Persuade Myself That That Which I Invent - Create, In Fact - Can Belong To Anyone But Myself! I Wish That Women Could Be Dealt With, Not Mercifully, Not Compassionately, Nor Affectionately, But Justly; It Would Be So Much Better - For The Men.

In The North We Could Not Hope To Keep The Worst And Poorest Servant For A Single Day In The Wretched Discomfort In Which Our Negro Servants Are Forced Habitually To Live.

I Have Been Out Again On The River, Rowing. I Find Nothing New.