There Are Wrongs Which Even The Grave

The Degradation, The Wrongs, The Vices, That Grow Out Of Slavery, Are More Than I Can Describe. They Are Greater Than You Would Willingly Believe.

Lives That Flash In Sunshine, And Lives That Are Born In Tears, Receive Their Hue From Circumstances.

Death Is Better Than Slavery.

There Must Be Sophistry In All This; But The Condition Of A Slave Confuses All Principles Of Morality, And, In Fact, Renders The Practice Of Them Impossible.

Notwithstanding My Grandmother's Long And Faithful Service To Her Owners, Not One Of Her Children Escaped The Auction Block. These God-breathing Machines Are No More, In The Sight Of Their Masters, Than The Cotton They Plant, Or The Horses They Tend.