Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

by Frederick Douglass

Slaves sing most when they are most unhappy. 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. At least, such is my experience. I have often sung to drown my sorrow, but seldom to express my happiness. Crying for joy, and singing for joy, were alike uncommon to me while in the jaws of slavery. 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.

This is the penalty of telling the truth, of telling the simple truth, in answer to a series of plain questions.

It was considered as being bad enough to be a slave; but to be a poor man’s slave was deemed a disgrace indeed!

He was just the man for such a place, and it was just the place for such a man.

To be accused was to be convicted, and to be convicted was to be punished; the one always following the other with immutable certainty.

His words were in perfect keeping with his looks, and his looks were in perfect keeping with his words.

Any thing, no matter what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my condition that tormented me. There was no getting rid of it. It was pressed upon me by every object within sight or hearing, animate or inanimate.

Will not a righteous God visit for these things?

“Does a righteous God govern the universe? and for what does he hold the thunders in his right hand, if not to smite the oppressor, and deliver the spoiled out of the hand of the spoiler?”

“Shoot me, shoot me!” said Henry; “you can’t kill me but once. Shoot, shoot,—and be damned! I won’t be tied!”