My home at my old master’s was charmless to me; it was not home, but a prison to me; on parting from it, I could not feel that I was leaving anything which I could have enjoyed by staying.
In his autobiography, Douglass describes his childhood dwelling on the plantation as a prison rather than a home.
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It was in the air, and men breathed it and were permeated by it, often when they were quite unconscious of its presence.
A son of toil himself, he was linked in brotherly sympathy with the sons of toil in every loyal part of the republic.
Treason had shot its poisonous roots deeper, and had spread its death-dealing branches further than any northern calculation had covered.