robbery

In thinking of America, I sometimes find myself admiring her bright blue sky _ her grand old woods _ her fertile fields _ her beautiful rivers _ her mighty lakes, and star-crowned mountains. But my rapture is soon checked, my joy is soon turned to mourning. When I remember that all is cursed with the infernal actions of slaveholding, robbery and wrong, _ when I remember that with the waters of her noblest rivers, the tears of my brethren are borne to the ocean, disregarded and forgotten, and that her most fertile fields drink daily of the warm blood of my outraged sisters, I am filled with unutterable loathing.

The petty thief is imprisoned but the big thief becomes a feudal lord.

Falsehoods, rob the good in the hood, of the good wood. The good wood, that the good in the hood are descended from, is their birthright.