Дванадцять років рабства

           Includingus,therewerenowatleastfiftyinthispen. Depositingourblanketsinoneofthesmallbuildingsintheyard,andhavingbeencalledupandfed,wewereallowedtosaunterabouttheenclosureuntilnight,whenwewrappedourblanketsroundusandlaiddownundertheshed,orintheloft,orintheopenyard,justaseachonepreferred. 

           ItwasbutashorttimeIclosedmyeyesthatnight. Thoughtwasbusyinmybrain. CoulditbepossiblethatIwasthousandsofmilesfromhome—thatIhadbeendriventhroughthestreetslikeadumbbeast—thatIhadbeenchainedandbeatenwithoutmercy—thatIwaseventhenherdedwithadroveofslaves,aslavemyself? Weretheeventsofthelastfewweeksrealitiesindeed? —orwasIpassingonlythroughthedismalphasesofalong,protracteddream? Itwasnoillusion. Mycupofsorrowwasfulltooverflowing. ThenIliftedupmyhandstoGod,andinthestillwatchesofthenight,surroundedbythesleepingformsofmycompanions,beggedformercyonthepoor,forsakencaptive. TotheAlmightyFatherofusall—thefreemanandtheslave—Ipouredforththesupplicationsofabrokenspirit,imploringstrengthfromonhightobearupagainsttheburdenofmytroubles,untilthemorninglightarousedtheslumberers,usheringinanotherdayofbondage.