Frederick Douglass: “The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows, Is like the dew-drop on the rose— When next the summer breeze comes by, And…”

The good to be sought and the evil to be shunned were flung in the balance and weighed against each other.

Treason had shot its poisonous roots deeper, and had spread its death-dealing branches further than any northern calculation had covered.

To make a man a slave was to rob him of moral responsibility.

The anti-slavery platform had performed its work, and my voice was no longer needed.