I Want To Do Everything In The

The Southern Newspapers, With Their Advertisements Of Negro Sales And Personal Descriptions Of Fugitive Slaves, Supply Details Of Misery That It Would Be Difficult For Imagination To Exceed. Scorn, Derision, Insult, Menace - The Handcuff, The Last - The Tearing Away Of Children From Parents, Of Husbands From Wives - The Weary Trudging In Droves Along The Common Highways, The Labor Of Body, The Despair Of Mind, The Sickness Of Heart - These Are The Realities Which Belong To The System, And Form The Rule, Rather That The Exception, In The Slave's Experience.

... It's Always Determined Characters Who Make The Greatest Fools.

What Shall I Do With All The Days And Hours That Must Be Counted Ere I See Thy Face? How Shall I Charm The Interval That Lowers Between This Time And That Sweet Time Of Grace?

Your Theory Of Partial Immortality Is Abhorrent To Me. I Would Rather Disbelieve In The Immortality Of My Own Soul Than Suppose The Boon Given To Me Was Withheld From Any Of My Fellow Creatures.

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.