It is this that throws his family history into utter confusion, and leaves him without a single record to which he may appeal in vindication of his character, or honour.
And has a man no sense of honour because he was born a slave?
Has he no need of character?
Suppose insult, reproach, or slander, should render it necessary for him to appeal to the history of his family in vindication of his character, where will he find that history?
He goes to his native state, to his native county, to his native town; but no where does he find any record of himself _as a man_.

On looking at the family record of his old, kind, Christian, master, there he finds his name on a catalogue with the horses, cows, hogs and dogs.

However humiliating and degrading it may be to his feelings to find his name written down among the beasts of the field, _that_ is just the place, and the _only_ place assigned to it by the chattel relation.

I beg our Anglo-Saxon brethren to accustom themselves to think that we need something more than mere kindness.

We ask for justice, truth and honour as other men do.
My coloured brethren are now widely awake to the degradation which they suffer in having property vested in their persons, and they are also conscious of the deep and corrupting disgrace of having our wives and children owned by other men--men, who have shown to the world that their own virtue is not infallible, and who have given us no flattering encouragement to entrust that of our wives and daughters to them.
I have great pleasure in stating that my dear friend W.W., spoken of in this narrative, to whom I am so deeply indebted, is still living.