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                                                                                                October 8, 1780

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My Dearest A.,

 

     I feel I must relay to you a most extraordinary conversation I had with a man who was introduced to me as Mr. Smith while I was visiting the charming city of Savannah. In another letter I shall expound upon those charms, of which there are many, but at present I wish to write about the astounding things Mr. S. expressed to me.  

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     Firstly, I must disclose that Mr. S. is an auctioneer, which, in and of itself, is not provocative. However, the product he traffics in is not cattle, nor sheep, nor tobacco, which grows here in abundance and provides the local economy with great sums. His product, as it were, is human, I’m afraid. I do, of course, recall our conversation from the morning of my departure from our home and from you, my dearest, but if I am to be effective in my new role, I feel it is of utmost importance to discourse with men of every profession, even those engaged in that most depraved practice.

I was given introduction to Mr. S. by our intimate colleague Mr. J, whom I know you despise, but is of extraordinary value to me here in the South.

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     The auction itself was as abhorrent as we imagined. More so, even, as the reality of being in the presence of such evil had a dire and chilling effect on my soul. At the conclusion of the event, Mr. J. took me to the platform where several slaves remained standing, shackled by the wrists and ankles to each other, wearing coarse rags that provided scarcely enough cover to maintain the barest minimum of dignity for the event, and none at all for the participants.

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     Standing beside Mr. S. on the platform, was a man, perhaps thirty years of age, of such proportions it would not be difficult to imagine him breaking his chains with sheer strength. However, there was no such display. He stood by the side of Mr. S. as docile as a lamb, his eyes cast to the ground, without so much as a glance at his surroundings. Beside him stood a woman of similar age, with a small frame, and a countenance that spoke of a lifetime of brutality and sorrow. One more figure stood shackled upon that platform – a girl of no more than twelve or thirteen years.

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     I was under the impression that the girl was child to the man and woman to whom she was bound. I do not know of this with certainty, as no mention of family relations was made about the girl, nor any of the poor souls that were paraded across that platform. Family or no, they were to be separated within the hour as they had been sold to three different men.

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     Upon our introduction, Mr. S. expressed to me his understanding of our meeting thusly: Mr. J. has told me that you wish to understand our peculiar institution. Upon my affirmation, he launched into a lengthy monolog of which I shall relate to you as accurately as my recall will allow.

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     He placed his hand upon the massive shoulder of the slave he had just sold and said that this man was but a leaf upon a river of history that has been flowing for millennia. At some time in the distant past, beyond the recollection of any man living, his ancestors were betrayed by men of his own race, sold into slavery to be chained and brought here, to a distant land of which they knew nothing, to toil in the hot sun for the privilege of avoiding the lash.

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     Mr. S. continued: This colossal specimen did not ask to be here, but here he stands. You, no doubt, see me as an instrument of his captivity, but that is because your vision does not extend past what is in front of you. The river of history has swept us all up and brought us here to this place and this time. I can no more escape the history of my race, as this man can escape the history of his. This peculiar institution, this fledgling country, this world into which we are all born, are too immense to be manipulated by mere mortal men. Providence has brought us here, and providence shall do with us as it pleases.

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     I shall not represent myself to you as a prophet, however allow me the indulgence of elaborating upon a future beyond our lifetimes – one of which will be experienced by our descendants, and the descendants of these slaves, many generations to come.

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     Slavery is not eternal. Only the almighty is eternal. Slavery shall pass from the earth someday as surely as you and I will. While its lifespan is greater than our feeble flesh and blood, it is less so than the sturdy mountains and unfathomable oceans. Mankind will endure beyond slavery for many generations. And at such a time as the end of slavery is as long forgotten as the beginning is to us, the Negro race will be no more free than it is today.

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     Some say the peculiar institution will die off naturally in as little as a few decades hence. Perhaps you believe it yourself. I am here to tell you that is a fool’s dream. Slavery will end in blood and tears. It is the only possible way.

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     Your expression conveys to me you are unconvinced. I beseech you to ask yourself this simple question, if slavery were to end today, what would prevent these Negros from killing us all? Of course they would. They would certainly overwhelm us with their immense physical strength and the force of their righteous hatred.

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     Such a calamity for the white race will not be allowed by men of power. When slavery comes to its bloody final act, it will be replaced by other acts of subjugation. We will not willingly hand to them the instruments of our destruction. The Negro will be deprived of land, of arms, of the vote, lest we lay down and await our slaughter.

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     In time, the Negro race may achieve a semblance of freedom. Every scrap will be fought for passionately if it is to be gained at all. Every step will be opposed by those who have the most to lose by an empowered Negro.

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     Assuming such progress is made, and white men live side by side with the Negro, our descendants will insist upon the Negro’s allegiance to our culture, our religion, and our country. Peace will be achieved only to the extent that they comply. They will be made to bow to the very symbols of their current subjugation, and pledge unyielding, earnest love of the people who kept them on their knees. Anything less will be intolerable to the white men who will retain power by any means possible.

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     The great, great grandchildren, of this shackled hulk standing helplessly upon this platform, if they are fortunate enough to taste freedom, will, for a paltry wage, serve the great, great grandchildren of the men who traded their ancestors like so much chattel to be bought and sold. They will kneel before Our flag, pray to Our god, and assume the customs of Our society. They will do so or suffer grievous penalties at the hands of Our descendants.

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     And what of our descendants – yours and mine alike. Having no living memory of this peculiar institution, it will seem entirely reasonable to them that the Negro should love this country as they do. They will see only free men, and not the shackles of history that bind them to the pain and humiliation that you have witnessed yourself here today. Like you, they will see only what is in front of them and be blind to the mighty river of history that continues its immutable progression, unyielding to the will of individual men.

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     This is the story of our future. There is no other way. I have pondered it many times, considered many alternative paths, but none withstand the scrutiny of reason as the one I have proffered you.

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     There upon, Mr. S. concluded, looking quite satisfied until registering the apprehension displayed upon my countenance. He then turned to the captive man standing beside him and said: Ain’t that right, boy? The slave nodded solemnly without raising his head. Mr. S. looked back at me, irreverently smiling, raised his brow and said: see.

 

     Moments later, the three slaves marched mournfully off the auction platform with Mr. S. following jauntily behind. The slaves were placed in a horse drawn cart, and hauled away to parts unknown, while Mr. S. collected a sum of money from a man of evident means, as I surmised from the cut of his suit and the shine of his shoes.

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     Naturally, I thought the entirety of this oration to be madness. No man knows the future. Yet I find I can not escape the fear of his prophecy. He spoke with such certainty, and I must confess to recognizing a distressing logic in his rhetoric.

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     Do not fear the worst of me, my love. I am as committed as ever to the abolition of the dreadful practice. If I have the good fortune to witness its demise, I shall rejoice with the fervor of all men of conscience, but perhaps with a little more apprehension than I had previously imagined.

                                                           

 

 

                                                                                                       With Great Love and Affection, Yours,

 

                                                                                                       

                                                                                                       J.

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