Reading Frederick Douglass

Every man stood firm; and at our last meeting, we pledged ourselves afresh, in the most solemn manner, that, at the time appointed, we would certainly start in pursuit of freedom.

I had a number of warmhearted friends in Baltimore,—friends that I loved almost as I did my life,—and the thought of being separated from them forever was painful beyond expression.

The thought of leaving my friends was decidedly the most painful thought with which I had to contend.

Every man appeared to understand his work, and went at it with a sober, yet cheerful earnestness, which betokened the deep interest which he felt in what he was doing, as well as a sense of his own dignity as a man.

I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do.

The songs of the slave represent the sorrows of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an aching heart is relieved by its tears.

The singing of a man cast away upon a desolate island might be as appropriately considered as evidence of contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave; the songs of the one and of the other are prompted by the same emotion.

I went at it in good earnest, working for the first time with the hope of reward.

The fatal poison of irresponsible power was already in her hands, and soon commenced its infernal work.

The moral which I gained from the dialogue was the power of truth over the conscience of even a slaveholder.

The silver trump of freedom had roused my soul to eternal wakefulness.

You have seen how a man was made a slave; you shall see how a slave was made a man.

We met often, and consulted frequently, and told our hopes and fears, recounted the difficulties, real and imagined, which we should be called on to meet.

We now began to feel a degree of safety, and to prepare ourselves for the duties and responsibilities of a life of freedom.

I have no accurate knowledge of my age, never having seen any authentic record containing it.

The thought that came up, came out—if not in the word, in the sound;—and as frequently in the one as in the other.

I have often been utterly astonished, since I came to the north, to find persons who could speak of the singing, among slaves, as evidence of their contentment and happiness.

I have often sung to drown my sorrow, but seldom to express my happiness.

I now understood what had been to me a most perplexing difficulty—to wit, the white man’s power to enslave the black man.

Though conscious of the difficulty of learning without a teacher, I set out with high hope, and a fixed purpose, at whatever cost of trouble, to learn how to read.