Miss Porter,

Dear Friend

I have at my office a poor fugitive on his way to Canada—without money. I have assisted him as well as can—but am compelled to call upon you for two dollars—

F Douglass—

Rochester—22 Feb—

For Frederick Douglass's Paper.

BETHANY, Gen. Co., Feb. 24, '54.

FRIEND DOUGLASS:—I have just finished the narrative of Solomon Northrop, and the thought was suggested that it would only be following a precedent established by our Southern brethern, to get up a petition, circulate it among friends of the colored man, asking Congress to grant a few thousands to those unfortunate freemen who have been kidnapped and sold into the prison house of Slavery. On the archives of our government are records of many thousands having been paid out of the public treasury, to compensate the salveholder for the loss of runaway human chattels. It is no small matter to be robbed of ourselves twelve, or even two years, in the prime of life. Would not any one prefer to lose his property than his liberty? and when defrauded of both, who can count the loss? Can the most gifted portray the terrible ruin of the soul, when all its God-given rights are trampled upon by the brutal oppressor, who has been crushing out the manhood through every bleeding pore of his helpless victim, and whose highest effort has been to erase the last vestige of human nature, thus to secure to himself human chattels, which shall not posess reason sufficent to desire liberty? On yonder eminence, observe that young oak, tall, slender and umbrageous, beautiful in its own graceful proportions, throwing its long arms to the breeze, wooing to its embrace the singing rivulet, which wanders on, seemingly regardless of the sighs wafted to its bosom on the wings of the fairy-like zephyrs; yet bright-eyed morn, with glittering fingers, reveals the traces of the love kisses of the sweet waters, upon his lofty brow. The tiny birds warble their songs in his leafy top, and the lowing herd gratefully recline beneath his shadow. One would select it among a thousand, as an emblem of sublime loveliness. Listen! the sound as of many waters falls upon the ear, and the tornado rushes onward, spreading ruin in its path. Will it spare our favorite tree?—Look, its branches fall like shreds, it bends to the blast, it will be uprooted: No! it rises, the Wind King relaxes his grasp, and it sways heavily to and fro, essaying to recover it primal dignity. Shall we again behold it, erect and stately, exultant in conscious strength and superiority? We shall see.—The whirlwind has passed on, the sun shines radiantly as ever. The gentle winds discourse sweet music, the air is bland and pure. The calmness of the elements induces hope, and we turn to greet our old friend; but ah! how sad our reflections. The once upright oak wears the mark of premature age; its bended form and straggling branches tell of scathing blasts. Its roots still drink full draughts from the streamlet's bed, the sparkling waters nightly press kisses of love upon his shattered brow, and with gentle murmur glides away. The orb of day bestows its genial warmth and light; the moon hangs up its silver horn; the stars, with laughing eyes, reflect the glory of other spheres, and all nature moves harmoniously as when the proud oak stood in its lofty grandeur. All the healing influences of the elements can never restore its former youth and symetry. Thus it is with the mind of man, when, Freedom, the soul's richest jewel, is ravished by the hand of the oppressor. The flowers of genius are blighted at their opening, and the intellect ever looks through a darkened casement.