then been transferred to Putnam Moore, and then to his present owner. He
had, by his own account, felt himself singled out from childhood for some
great work; and he had some peculiar marks on his person, which, joined
to his mental precocity, were enough to occasion, among his youthful
companions, a superstitious faith in his gifts and destiny. He had some
mechanical ingenuity also; experimentalized very early in making paper,
gunpowder, pottery, and in other arts, which, in later life, he was found
thoroughly to understand. His moral faculties appeared strong, so that
white witnesses admitted that he had never been known to swear an oath,
to drink a drop of spirits, or to commit a theft. And, in general, so
marked were his early peculiarities that people said "he had too much
sense to be raised; and, if he was, he would never be of any use as a
slave." This impression of personal destiny grew with his growth: he
fasted, prayed, preached, read the Bible, heard voices when he walked
behind his plough, and communicated his revelations to the awe-struck
slaves. They told him, in return, that, "if they had his sense, they
would not serve any master in the world."

The biographies of slaves can hardly be individualized; they belong to
the class. We know bare facts; it is only the general experience of human
beings in like condition which can clothe them with life. The outlines
are certain, the details are inferential. Thus, for instance, we know
that Nat Turner's young wife was a slave; we know that she belonged to a
different master from himself; we know little more than this, but this is
much. For this is equivalent to saying, that, by day or by night, her
husband had no more power to protect her than the man who lies bound upon
a plundered vessel's deck has power to protect his wife on board the
pirate schooner disappearing in the horizon. She may be well treated, she
may be outraged; it is in the powerlessness that the agony lies. There
is, indeed, one thing more which we do know of this young woman: the