mpt to liberate his people,
however drastic the means. His act, which would have been heralded as
the noblest heroism if perpetrated by a white man, was called religious
fanaticism and fiendish brutality.

Turner called but few into his confidence, and foolhardy and unpromising
as the attempt may have been, it had the ring of an heroic purpose that
gave a Bossarius to Greece, and a Washington to America. A purpose "not
born to die," but to live on in every age and clime, stimulating
endeavors to attain the blessings of civil liberty.

It was an incident as unexpected in its advent as startling in its
terrors. Slavery, ever the preponderance of force, had hitherto reveled
in a luxury heightened by a sense of security. Now, in the moaning of
the wind, the rustling of the leaves or the shadows of the moon, was
heard or seen a liberator. Nor was this uneasiness confined to the
South, for in the border free States there were many that in whole or in
part owned plantations stocked with slaves.

In Philadelphia, so near the line, excitement ran high. The intense
interest depicted in the face of my mother and her colored neighbors;
the guarded whisperings, the denunciations of slavery, the hope defeated
of a successful revolution keenly affected my juvenile mind, and stamped
my soul with hatred to slavery.

At 12 years of age I was employed at the residence of Sydney Fisher, a
prominent Philadelphia lawyer, who was one of the class above mentioned,
living north and owning a plantation in the State of Maryland. Over a
good road of 30 miles one summer's day, he took me to his plantation. I
had never before been that distance from home and had anticipated my
long ride with childish interest and pleasure. After crossing the line
and entering "the land of cotton and the corn," a new and strange
panorama began to open, and continued to enfold the vast fields bedecked
in the snowy whiteness of their fruitage. While over gangs of slaves in
row and furrough were drivers with their scourging whip in hand. I
looked upon the scene with curious wonder. Three score of years and more
have passed, but I still see that sad and humbled throng, working close
to the roadway, no head daring to uplift, no eye to enquiringly gaze.
During all those miles of drive that bordered on plantations, as
machines they acted, as machines they looked. My curiosity and youthful
impulse ignoring that reticence becoming a servant, I said: "Mr. Fisher,
who are t