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The
painful,
cutting
and
brilliant
letters
Black
people
wrote to
their
former
enslavers
By
Gillian
Brockell
washingtonpost.com
Three of
these
five
letters
were
written
by
formerly
enslaved
people
directly
to their
onetime
enslavers.
One was
addressed
to
President
Abraham
Lincoln,
who had
the
power to
emancipate
its
author
and had
so far
withheld
it. One
was
written
by a
still-enslaved
woman
desperately
searching
for her
daughter.
Spelling
has been
standardized
and
paragraph
breaks
added
for
readability.
An
undated
photo of
Jourdon
Anderson
used an
alternative
spelling
for his
name.
(Wikimedia
Commons)
“Send us
our
wages”:
Jourdon
Anderson,
1865
Jourdon
Anderson
and his
family
were
freed by
Union
troops
during
the
Civil
War and
left
Tennessee
for
Ohio. A
few
months
after
the war
ended,
Anderson’s
former
enslaver
wrote to
him,
asking
him to
return
to the
plantation,
where
the
harvest
was
about to
come in,
and
promising
a wage
and
freedom.
Anderson
dictated
his
reply to
his
abolitionist
employer,
who was
so
impressed
with its
wit he
had it
published
in the
newspaper.
Dayton,
Ohio,
August
7, 1865
To my
old
Master,
Colonel
P. H.
Anderson,
Big
Spring,
Tennessee
Sir:
I got
your
letter,
and was
glad to
find
that you
had not
forgotten
Jourdon,
and that
you
wanted
me to
come
back and
live
with you
again,
promising
to do
better
for me
than
anybody
else
can. I
have
often
felt
uneasy
about
you. I
thought
the
Yankees
would
have
hung you
long
before
this,
for
harboring
Rebs
they
found at
your
house. I
suppose
they
never
heard
about
your
going to
Colonel
Martin's
to kill
the
Union
soldier
that was
left by
his
company
in their
stable.
Although
you shot
at me
twice
before I
left
you, I
did not
want to
hear of
your
being
hurt,
and am
glad you
are
still
living.
It would
do me
good to
go back
to the
dear old
home
again,
and see
Miss
Mary and
Miss
Martha
and
Allen,
Esther,
Green,
and Lee.
Give my
love to
them
all, and
tell
them I
hope we
will
meet in
the
better
world,
if not
in this.
I would
have
gone
back to
see you
all when
I was
working
in the
Nashville
Hospital,
but one
of the
neighbors
told me
that
Henry
intended
to shoot
me if he
ever got
a
chance.
I want
to know
particularly
what
“the
good
chance”
is you
propose
to give
me. I am
doing
tolerably
well
here. I
get $25
a month,
with
victuals
and
clothing;
have a
comfortable
home for
Mandy
(the
folks
call her
Mrs.
Anderson),
and the
children,
Milly,
Jane,
and
Grundy,
go to
school
and are
learning
well.
The
teacher
says
Grundy
has a
head for
a
preacher.
They go
to
Sunday
school,
and
Mandy
and me
attend
church
regularly.
We are
kindly
treated.
Sometimes
we
overhear
others
saying,
“Them
colored
people
were
slaves”
down in
Tennessee.
The
children
feel
hurt
when
they
hear
such
remarks;
but I
tell
them it
was no
disgrace
in
Tennessee
to
belong
to
Colonel
Anderson.
Many
darkeys
would
have
been
proud,
as I
used to
be, to
call you
master.
Now if
you will
write
and say
what
wages
you will
give me,
I will
be
better
able to
decide
whether
it would
be to my
advantage
to move
back
again.
As to my
freedom,
which
you say
I can
have,
there is
nothing
to be
gained
on that
score,
as I got
my free
papers
in 1864
from the
Provost-Marshal-General
of the
Department
of
Nashville.
Mandy
says she
would be
afraid
to go
back
without
some
proof
that you
were
disposed
to treat
us
justly
and
kindly;
and we
have
concluded
to test
your
sincerity
by
asking
you to
send us
our
wages
for the
time we
served
you.
This
will
make us
forget
and
forgive
old
scores,
and rely
on your
justice
and
friendship
in the
future.
I served
you
faithfully
for
thirty-two
years,
and
Mandy
twenty
years.
At $25 a
month
for me,
and $2 a
week for
Mandy,
our
earnings
would
amount
to
$11,680.
Add to
this the
interest
for the
time our
wages
have
been
kept
back,
and
deduct
what you
paid for
our
clothing,
and
three
doctor’s
visits
to me,
and
pulling
a tooth
for
Mandy,
and the
balance
will
show
what we
are in
justice
entitled
to.
Please
send the
money by
Adams
Express,
in care
of V.
Winters,
Esq.,
Dayton,
Ohio.
If you
fail to
pay us
for
faithful
labors
in the
past, we
can have
little
faith in
your
promises
in the
future.
We trust
the good
Maker
has
opened
your
eyes to
the
wrongs
which
you and
your
fathers
have
done to
me and
my
fathers,
in
making
us toil
for you
for
generations
without
recompense.
Here I
draw my
wages
every
Saturday
night;
but in
Tennessee
there
was
never
any
pay-day
for the
negroes
any more
than for
the
horses
and
cows.
Surely
there
will be
a day of
reckoning
for
those
who
defraud
the
laborer
of his
hire.
In
answering
this
letter,
please
state if
there
would be
any
safety
for my
Milly
and
Jane,
who are
now
grown
up, and
both
good-looking
girls.
You know
how it
was with
poor
Matilda
and
Catherine.
I would
rather
stay
here and
starve
and die,
if it
come to
that,
than
have my
girls
brought
to shame
by the
violence
and
wickedness
of their
young
masters.
You will
also
please
state if
there
has been
any
schools
opened
for the
colored
children
in your
neighborhood.
The
great
desire
of my
life now
is to
give my
children
an
education,
and have
them
form
virtuous
habits.
From
your old
servant,
Jourdon
Anderson
P.S.—
Say
howdy to
George
Carter,
and
thank
him for
taking
the
pistol
from you
when you
were
shooting
at me.
Anderson’s
former
enslaver
was
forced
to sell
his
plantation
and died
a few
years
later at
44.
Anderson
lived a
long
life,
had 11
children
with his
wife and
became a
sexton
in his
church.
“It is
my
Desire
to be
free”:
Annie
Davis
(to
Abraham
Lincoln),
1864
Lincoln
was
never a
slaveholder,
but as
president
during
the
Civil
War, he
held the
fate and
freedom
of
millions
of Black
Americans
in his
hands.
As such,
he
received
hundreds
of
letters
from
Black
Americans,
both
free and
enslaved,
many of
which
are
collected
in a new
book.
When
Lincoln
issued
his
Emancipation
Proclamation,
he did
not free
enslaved
people
in slave
states
that
remained
in the
Union,
like
Maryland,
where
Annie
Davis
was
held.
Belair,
Aug.
25th,
1864
Mr.
President,
It is my
Desire
to be
free. To
go to
see my
people
on the
Eastern
Shore.
My
mistress
won’t
let me.
You will
please
let me
know if
we are
free and
what I
can do.
I write
to you
for
advice.
Please
send me
word
this
week, or
as soon
as
possible,
and
obliged.
Annie
Davis
Belair,
Harford
County,
MD.
There is
no
evidence
Lincoln
responded.
However,
the
state of
Maryland
ended
slavery
months
later, a
move the
president
had
urged.
Frederick
Douglass
circa
1847-1852,
about
the time
he wrote
a letter
to his
former
enslaver,
Thomas
Auld.
(Samuel
J.
Miller/Art
Institute
of
Chicago)
“I took
nothing
but what
belonged
to me”:
Frederick
Douglass,
1848
Ten
years
after
escaping
slavery,
famed
abolitionist
orator
and
activist
Frederick
Douglass
published
an open
letter
to his
former
enslaver,
Thomas
Auld, in
the
abolitionist
newspaper
Douglass
founded,
the
North
Star.
This is
an
excerpt
of the
full
3,400-word
letter.
I have
often
thought
I should
like to
explain
to you
the
grounds
upon
which I
have
justified
myself
in
running
away
from
you. I
am
almost
ashamed
to do so
now, for
by this
time you
may have
discovered
them
yourself.
I will,
however,
glance
at them.
When yet
but a
child
about
six
years
old, I
imbibed
the
determination
to run
away.
The very
first
mental
effort
that I
now
remember
on my
part,
was an
attempt
to solve
the
mystery
— why am
I a
slave?
and with
this
question
my
youthful
mind was
troubled
for many
days,
pressing
upon me
more
heavily
at times
than
others.
When I
saw the
slave-driver
whip a
slave-woman,
cut the
blood
out of
her
neck,
and
heard
her
piteous
cries, I
went
away
into the
corner
of the
fence,
wept and
pondered
over the
mystery.
I had,
through
some
medium,
I know
not
what,
got some
idea of
God, the
Creator
of all
mankind,
the
black
and the
white,
and that
he had
made the
blacks
to serve
the
whites
as
slaves.
How he
could do
this and
be good,
I could
not
tell. I
was not
satisfied
with
this
theory,
which
made God
responsible
for
slavery,
for it
pained
me
greatly,
and I
have
wept
over it
long and
often.
At one
time,
your
first
wife,
Mrs.
Lucretia,
heard me
sighing
and saw
me
shedding
tears,
and
asked of
me the
matter,
but I
was
afraid
to tell
her. I
was
puzzled
with
this
question,
till one
night
while
sitting
in the
kitchen,
I heard
some of
the old
slaves
talking
of their
parents
having
been
stolen
from
Africa
by white
men and
were
sold
here as
slaves.
The
whole
mystery
was
solved
at once.
Very
soon
after
this, my
Aunt
Jinny
and
Uncle
Noah ran
away,
and the
great
noise
made
about it
by your
father-in-law
made me,
for the
first
time,
acquainted
with the
fact
that
there
were
free
states
as well
as slave
states.
From
that
time, I
resolved
that I
would
someday
run
away.
The
morality
of the
act I
dispose
of as
follows:
I am
myself;
you are
yourself;
we are
two
distinct
persons,
equal
persons.
What you
are, I
am. You
are a
man, and
so am I.
God
created
both,
and made
us
separate
beings.
I am not
by
nature
bond to
you, or
you to
me.
Nature
does not
make
your
existence
depend
upon me,
or mine
to
depend
upon
yours. I
cannot
walk
upon
your
legs, or
you upon
mine. I
cannot
breathe
for you,
or you
for me;
I must
breathe
for
myself,
and you
for
yourself.
We are
distinct
persons,
and are
each
equally
provided
with
faculties
necessary
to our
individual
existence.
In
leaving
you, I
took
nothing
but what
belonged
to me,
and in
no way
lessened
your
means
for
obtaining
an
honest
living.
Your
faculties
remained
yours,
and mine
became
useful
to their
rightful
owner. I
therefore
see no
wrong in
any part
of the
transaction.
It is
true, I
went off
secretly;
but that
was more
your
fault
than
mine.
Had I
let you
into the
secret,
you
would
have
defeated
the
enterprise
entirely;
but for
this, I
should
have
been
really
glad to
have
made you
acquainted
with my
intentions
to
leave.
You may
perhaps
want to
know how
I like
my
present
condition.
I am
free to
say, I
greatly
prefer
it to
that
which I
occupied
in
Maryland.
I am,
however,
by no
means
prejudiced
against
the
state as
such.
Its
geography,
climate,
fertility,
and
products
are such
as to
make it
a very
desirable
abode
for any
man; and
but for
the
existence
of
slavery
there,
it is
not
impossible
that I
might
again
take up
my abode
in that
state.
It is
not that
I love
Maryland
less,
but
freedom
more.
Since I
left
you, I
have had
a rich
experience.
I have
occupied
stations
which I
never
dreamed
of when
a slave.
Three
out of
the ten
years
since I
left
you, I
spent as
a common
laborer
on the
wharves
of New
Bedford,
Massachusetts.
It was
there I
earned
my first
free
dollar.
It was
mine. I
could
spend it
as I
pleased.
I could
buy hams
or
herring
with it,
without
asking
any odds
of
anybody.
That was
a
precious
dollar
to me.
You
remember
when I
used to
make
seven,
or
eight,
or even
nine
dollars
a week
in
Baltimore,
you
would
take
every
cent of
it from
me every
Saturday
night,
saying
that I
belonged
to you,
and my
earnings
also. I
never
liked
this
conduct
on your
part —
to say
the
best, I
thought
it a
little
mean. I
would
not have
served
you so.
But let
that
pass.
I have
an
industrious
and neat
companion,
and four
dear
children
— the
oldest a
girl of
nine
years,
and
three
fine
boys,
the
oldest
eight,
the next
six, and
the
youngest
four
years
old. The
three
oldest
are now
going
regularly
to
school;
two can
read and
write,
and the
other
can
spell,
with
tolerable
correctness,
words of
two
syllables.
Dear
fellows!
they are
all in
comfortable
beds,
and are
sound
asleep,
perfectly
secure
under my
own
roof.
There
are no
slaveholders
here to
rend my
heart by
snatching
them
from my
arms, or
blast a
mother’s
dearest
hopes by
tearing
them
from her
bosom.
These
dear
children
are ours
— not to
work up
into
rice,
sugar,
and
tobacco,
but to
watch
over,
regard,
and
protect,
and to
rear
them up
in the
nurture
and
admonition
of the
gospel —
to train
them up
in the
paths of
wisdom
and
virtue,
and, as
far as
we can,
to make
them
useful
to the
world
and to
themselves.
Oh! sir,
a
slaveholder
never
appears
to me so
completely
an agent
of hell,
as when
I think
of and
look
upon my
dear
children.
It is
then
that my
feelings
rise
above my
control.
I meant
to have
said
more
with
respect
to my
own
prosperity
and
happiness,
but
thoughts
and
feelings
which
this
recital
has
quickened,
unfits
me to
proceed
further
in that
direction.
The grim
horrors
of
slavery
rise in
all
their
ghastly
terror
before
me; the
wails of
millions
pierce
my heart
and
chill my
blood.
I
remember
the
chain,
the gag,
the
bloody
whip;
the
death-like
gloom
overshadowing
the
broken
spirit
of the
fettered
bondman;
the
appalling
liability
of his
being
torn
away
from
wife and
children,
and sold
like a
beast in
the
market.
Say not
that
this is
a
picture
of
fancy.
You well
know
that I
wear
stripes
on my
back,
inflicted
by your
direction;
and that
you,
while we
were
brothers
in the
same
church,
caused
this
right
hand,
with
which I
am now
penning
this
letter,
to be
closely
tied to
my left,
and my
person
dragged,
at the
pistol’s
mouth,
fifteen
miles,
from the
Bay Side
to
Easton,
to be
sold
like a
beast in
the
market,
for the
alleged
crime of
intending
to
escape
from
your
possession.
All
this,
and
more,
you
remember,
and know
to be
perfectly
true,
not only
of
yourself,
but of
nearly
all of
the
slaveholders
around
you.
At this
moment,
you are
probably
the
guilty
holder
of at
least
three of
my own
dear
sisters,
and my
only
brother,
in
bondage.
These
you
regard
as your
property.
They are
recorded
on your
ledger,
or
perhaps
have
been
sold to
human
flesh-mongers,
with a
view to
filling
your own
ever-hungry
purse.
Sir, I
desire
to know
how and
where
these
dear
sisters
are.
Have you
sold
them? or
are they
still in
your
possession?
What has
become
of them?
are they
living
or dead?
And my
dear old
grandmother,
whom you
turned
out like
an old
horse to
die in
the
woods —
is she
still
alive?
Write
and let
me know
all
about
them.
If my
grandmother
be still
alive,
she is
of no
service
to you,
for by
this
time she
must be
nearly
eighty
years
old —
too old
to be
cared
for by
one to
whom she
has
ceased
to be of
service;
send her
to me at
Rochester,
or bring
her to
Philadelphia,
and it
shall be
the
crowning
happiness
of my
life to
take
care of
her in
her old
age. Oh!
she was
to me a
mother
and a
father,
so far
as hard
toil for
my
comfort
could
make her
such.
Send me
my
grandmother!
that I
may
watch
over and
take
care of
her in
her old
age. And
my
sisters
— let me
know all
about
them. I
would
write to
them,
and
learn
all I
want to
know of
them,
without
disturbing
you in
any way,
but
that,
through
your
unrighteous
conduct,
they
have
been
entirely
deprived
of the
power to
read and
write.
You have
kept
them in
utter
ignorance,
and have
therefore
robbed
them of
the
sweet
enjoyments
of
writing
or
receiving
letters
from
absent
friends
and
relatives.
Your
wickedness
and
cruelty,
committed
in this
respect
on your
fellow
creatures,
are
greater
than all
the
stripes
you have
laid
upon my
back or
theirs.
It is an
outrage
upon the
soul, a
war upon
the
immortal
spirit,
and one
for
which
you must
give
account
at the
bar of
our
common
Father
and
Creator.
The
responsibility
which
you have
assumed
in this
regard
is truly
awful,
and how
you
could
stagger
under it
these
many
years is
marvelous.
Your
mind
must
have
become
darkened,
your
heart
hardened,
your
conscience
seared
and
petrified,
or you
would
have
long
since
thrown
off the
accursed
load,
and
sought
relief
at the
hands of
a
sin-forgiving
God.
I will
now
bring
this
letter
to a
close;
you
shall
hear
from me
again
unless
you let
me hear
from
you. I
intend
to make
use of
you as a
weapon
with
which to
assail
the
system
of
slavery
— as a
means of
concentrating
public
attention
on the
system,
and
deepening
the
horror
of
trafficking
in the
souls
and
bodies
of men.
I shall
make use
of you
as a
means of
exposing
the
character
of the
American
church
and
clergy —
and as a
means of
bringing
this
guilty
nation,
with
yourself,
to
repentance.
In doing
this, I
entertain
no
malice
toward
you
personally.
There is
no roof
under
which
you
would be
more
safe
than
mine,
and
there is
nothing
in my
house
which
you
might
need for
your
comfort,
which I
would
not
readily
grant.
Indeed,
I should
esteem
it a
privilege
to set
you an
example
as to
how
mankind
ought to
treat
each
other.
I am
your
fellow
man, but
not your
slave.
Douglass
met with
Auld in
1877.
They
mostly
spoke
warmly
about
family
members
— Auld’s
wife and
Douglass’s
beloved
grandmother
— and
Auld
told
Douglass
he was
right to
have
escaped
bondage.
A letter
from
Vilet
Lester
to her
former
enslaver,
written
in 1857.
(David
M.
Rubenstein
Rare
Book &
Manuscript
Library,
Duke
University)
“What
has Ever
become
of my
Precious
little
girl?”:
Vilet
Lester,
1857
Nothing
is known
of Vilet
Lester
and the
fate of
her
daughter
other
than
what
appears
in this
letter,
which
she
likely
dictated
to her
enslaver
and
addressed
to
Patsey
Patterson,
who may
have
been the
adult
daughter
of
Lester’s
former
enslaver.
It was
found in
the
papers
of
Patterson’s
relatives
and is
housed
at Duke
University.
Georgia,
Bullock
Co.,
August
29th,
1857
My
Loving
Miss
Patsey,
I have
long
been
wishing
to
embrace
this
present
and
pleasant
opportunity
of
unfolding
my [word
unclear]
and
feelings,
since I
was
constrained
to leave
my Long
Loved
home and
friends,
which I
cannot
never
give
myself
the
Least
promise
of
returning
to. I am
well and
Enjoying
good
health
and ha[ve]
ever
Since I
Left
Randolph.
When'd I
left
Randolph,
I went
to
Rockingham
and
Stayed
there
five
weeks,
and then
I left
there
and went
to
Richmond,
Virginia,
to be
Sold.
And I
Stayed
there
three
days and
was
bought
by a man
by the
name of
Groover
and
brought
to
Georgia,
and he
kept me
about
Nine
months.
And he,
being a
trader,
Sold me
to a man
by the
name of
Rimes.
And he
Sold me
to a man
by the
name of
Lester,
and he
has
owned me
four
years
and Says
that he
will
keep me
until
death
Separates
us,
[unless]
Some of
my old
North
Carolina
friends
wants to
buy me
again.
My Dear
Mistress,
I cannot
tell my
feelings,
nor how
bad I
wish to
See you,
and old
Boss and
Miss
Rahol
and
Mother.
I do not
know
which I
want to
See the
worst,
Miss
Rahol or
mother.
I have
thought
that I
wanted
to See
mother,
but
never
before
did I
know
what it
was to
want to
See a
parent
and
could
not.
I wish
you to
give my
love to
old
Boss,
Miss
Rahol
and
Bailum,
and give
my
manifold
love to
mother,
brothers
and
sister,
and
please
to tell
them to
Write to
me, So I
may hear
from
them, if
I cannot
See
them.
And
also, I
wish you
to write
to me
and
write me
all the
news. I
do want
to know
whether
old Boss
is Still
Living
or not,
and all
the rest
of them,
and I
want to
know
whether
Bailum
is
married
or not.
I wish
to know
what has
Ever
become
of my
Precious
little
girl. I
left her
in
Goldsborough
with Mr.
Walker,
and I
have not
heard
from her
Since.
And
Walker
Said
that he
was
going to
Carry
her to
Rockingham
and give
her to
his
Sister,
and I
want to
know
whether
he did
or not,
as I do
wish to
See her
very
much.
And Boss
Says he
wishes
to know
whether
he
[Walker]
will
Sell her
or not,
and the
least
that can
buy her.
And that
he
wishes
an
answer
as Soon
as he
can get
one, as
I wish
him to
buy her,
and my
Boss,
being a
man of
Reason
and
feeling,
wishes
to grant
my
troubled
breast
that
much
gratification
and
wishes
to know
whether
he will
Sell her
now.
So I
must
come to
a close
by
Escribing
myself
your
long-loved
and
well-wishing
play
mate, as
a
Servant
until
death,
Vilet
Lester
of
Georgia
to Miss
Patsey
Patterson
of North
Carolina
My
Boss’s
Name is
James B.
Lester,
and if
you
Should
think
enough
of me to
write
me,
which I
do beg
the
favor of
you as a
Servant,
direct
your
letter
to
Millray,
Bullock
County,
Georgia.
Please
do write
me, So
fare you
well, in
love.
Illustration
of
Jermain
Wesley
Loguen,
a
formerly
enslaved
man who
was
active
in the
Underground
Railroad.
(Onondaga
Historical
Association)
“Wretched
Woman!”:
Rev.
Jermain
Wesley
Loguen,
1860
Rev.
Jermain
Wesley
Loguen
was born
“Jarm
Logue”
in
Tennessee
in 1813.
His
enslaver,
Mannasseth
Logue,
was also
his
biological
father.
Twenty-six
years
after
his
Christmas
escape,
Loguen
was a
renowned
minister
in
Syracuse,
N.Y.,
his home
a hub on
the
Underground
Railroad.
In
February
1860,
Logue’s
wife
wrote to
him,
giving
him a
brief
update
on his
family
and
blaming
him for
her
financial
problems.
She
insisted
he
return
or send
her
$1,000,
or else
she
would
sell him
to
someone
who,
because
of the
Fugitive
Slave
Act of
1850,
could
come to
Syracuse
and
legally
kidnap
him.
This is
his
reply to
her.
Syracuse,
N.Y.,
March
28, 1860
MRS.
SARAH
LOGUE:—
Yours of
the 20th
of
February
is duly
received,
and I
thank
you for
it. It
is a
long
time
since I
heard
from my
poor old
mother,
and I am
glad to
know she
is yet
alive,
and, as
you say,
“as well
as
common.”
What
that
means I
don’t
know. I
wish you
had said
more
about
her.
You are
a woman;
but had
you a
woman’s
heart
you
could
never
have
insulted
a
brother
by
telling
him you
sold his
only
remaining
brother
and
sister,
because
he put
himself
beyond
your
power to
convert
him into
money.
You sold
my
brother
and
sister,
ABE and
ANN, and
12 acres
of land,
you say,
because
I ran
away.
Now you
have the
unutterable
meanness
to ask
me to
return
and be
your
miserable
chattel,
or in
lieu
thereof
send you
$1000 to
enable
you to
redeem
the
land,
but not
to
redeem
my poor
brother
and
sister!
If I
were to
send you
money it
would be
to get
my
brother
and
sister,
and not
that you
should
get
land.
You say
you are
a
cripple,
and
doubtless
you say
it to
stir my
pity,
for you
know I
was
susceptible
in that
direction.
I do
pity you
from the
bottom
of my
heart.
Nevertheless
I am
indignant
beyond
the
power of
words to
express,
that you
should
be so
sunken
and
cruel as
to tear
the
hearts I
love so
much all
in
pieces;
that you
should
be
willing
to
impale
and
crucify
us out
of all
compassion
for your
poor
foot or
leg.
Wretched
woman!
Be it
known to
you that
I value
my
freedom,
to say
nothing
of my
mother,
brothers
and
sisters,
more
than
your
whole
body;
more,
indeed,
than my
own
life;
more
than all
the
lives of
all the
slaveholders
and
tyrants
under
Heaven.
You say
you have
offers
to buy
me, and
that you
shall
sell me
if I do
not send
you
$1000,
and in
the same
breath
and
almost
in the
same
sentence,
you say,
“you
know we
raised
you as
we did
our own
children.”
Woman,
did you
raise
your own
children
for the
market?
Did you
raise
them for
the
whipping-post?
Did you
raise
them to
be
driven
off in a
coffle
in
chains?
Where
are my
poor
bleeding
brothers
and
sisters?
Can you
tell?
Who was
it that
sent
them off
into
sugar
and
cotton
fields,
to be
kicked,
and
cuffed,
and
whipped,
and to
groan
and die;
and
where no
kin can
hear
their
groans,
or
attend
and
sympathize
at their
dying
bed, or
follow
in their
funeral?
Wretched
woman!
Do you
say you
did not
do it?
Then I
reply,
your
husband
did, and
you
approved
the deed
— and
the very
letter
you sent
me shows
that
your
heart
approves
it all.
Shame on
you.
But, by
the way,
where is
your
husband?
You
don’t
speak of
him. I
infer,
therefore,
that he
is dead;
that he
has gone
to his
great
account,
with all
his sins
against
my poor
family
upon his
head.
Poor
man!
gone to
meet the
spirits
of my
poor,
outraged
and
murdered
people,
in a
world
where
Liberty
and
Justice
are
MASTERS.
But you
say I am
a thief,
because
I took
the old
mare
along
with me.
Have you
got to
learn
that I
had a
better
right to
the old
mare, as
you call
her,
than
MANNASSETH
LOGUE
had to
me? Is
it a
greater
sin for
me to
steal
his
horse,
than it
was for
him to
rob my
mother’s
cradle
and
steal
me? If
he and
you
infer
that I
forfeit
all my
rights
to you,
shall
not I
infer
that you
forfeit
all your
rights
to me?
Have you
got to
learn
that
human
rights
are
mutual
and
reciprocal,
and if
you take
my
liberty
and
life,
you
forfeit
your own
liberty
and
life?
Before
God and
High
Heaven,
is there
a law
for one
man
which is
not a
law for
every
other
man?
If you
or any
other
speculator
on my
body and
rights,
wish to
know how
I regard
my
rights,
they
need but
come
here and
lay
their
hands on
me to
enslave
me. Did
you
think to
terrify
me by
presenting
the
alternative
to give
my money
to you,
or give
my body
to
Slavery?
Then let
me say
to you,
that I
meet the
proposition
with
unutterable
scorn
and
contempt.
The
proposition
is an
outrage
and an
insult.
I will
not
budge
one
hair’s
breadth.
I will
not
breathe
a
shorter
breath,
even to
save me
from
your
persecutions.
I stand
among a
free
people,
who, I
thank
God,
sympathize
with my
rights,
and the
rights
of
mankind;
and if
your
emissaries
and
venders
come
here to
re-enslave
me, and
escape
the
unshrinking
vigor of
my own
right
arm, I
trust my
strong
and
brave
friends,
in this
City and
State,
will be
my
rescuers
and
avengers.
Yours,
&c.,
J.W.
Loguen
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