By J. H. Ingraham
Today shall finish my servitude to poverty. as the coincidence of start has forged my lot inside of those wretched partitions, and made me fellow-prisoner with penury, accordingly shall I now not throw off my chains whilst i'll? Have I no longer a soul--a brain? Do I no longer imagine, think, act, communicate, like these whom males name noble? might I now not, even with nature, but develop into the builder of my very own name-- the carver of my very own fortunes? by way of the sunshine of the intense solar, i'll not be the slave of others! the `lowborn serf'--the `humble fisher's lad'-- the peasant, hind, and what now not, that suggests baseness of beginning and degradation of soul! No; henceforth i'm going to take my position one of the optimum of all of them, or depart my bones to bleach at the sand!