April 20, 2012
Dangerfield, all too aptly named
Dangerfield Newby. That's the sort of name you can't make up as a novelist. I'll be reading a passage about Newby tomorrow, and I'm afraid I'll choke.
Not over his fantastic name. Over the letters his wife, who was a slave, wrote him, once he was free and trying to save the money to buy her.
Here's one--real people, real letter.
Transcribed as it was written, spelling and grammar as she laid it down.
Dear Husband you [know] not the trouble I see
the last two years has ben like a trouble dream to me it is said Master is in want of monney if so I know
not what time he may sell me an then all my bright hops of the futer are blasted for there has ben one
bright hope to cheer me in all my troubles that is to be with you for if I thought I shoul never see you this
earth would have no charms for me do all you Can for me witch I have no doubt you will I want to see
you so much the Chrildren are all well the baby cannot walk yet all it can step around enny thing by
holding on it is very much like Agnes I mus bring my letter to Close as I have no newes to write you mus
write soon and say when you think you Can Come.