r^'rf &mS ofPubUcatlon.
, rn „. COUNTY AGITATOR is published
10 " lu ““ Morning, and mailed to subscribers
DOLLAR PER ANNUM,
pr™
Stance. It m intended to notify every
UrcfioMS ”l* the term for which he has paid shall
j£riW *' bytoOut,” on the mar
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„Diil » f f m man oan to brought in debt to the
.tor is the Official Paper of the County,
J B E AS I " .Readily increasing circulation reach
yifli a neighborhood in the County. It is sent
ing > oto ev ,to any Post Office within the county
fttf of P* ws h 0 most convenient post office'may to
in an a«J not exceeding i lines, paper inclu.
fl'®” .Ur
Jrf St M,ar ' ; —■ „ =
For Ch« Agitator.
th b willow tees.
n, Vinter oinds are wailing sadly,,
s.dlT wave the branches bare,
mile beneath are those who gladly
this world, so full of care,
a- the Spring comes, sweetly breathing
*■ Of its many riche* rore-f
gentle rephyrs then come laden
With the sweetly perfumed air.
men thy form is gently waving
i„ the pleasant Spring-time air,
And thy branches now are craving
por their leaves so green and fair.
ft. the graves below are hiding,
Myrtle blossoms 'neath the loaves;
vJer the silver stream is gliding;
Birfs are flitting through the trees.
Then comes summer—boasting loudly
of her wealth of birds and flowers; —
Darter grow thy leaves, and proudly
VFave they now in gentle showers.
Antamn comes—to gold is changing
All thy leaves so fresh and green.
And all o’er thy waving branches
flsndy colors now are seen.
In thy branches, every evening
gently rocks the birds to sleep,
MThUe above thee—ahining o'er thee—
The paie moon her vigils keep.
Cold November winds are sweeping;
- Ko* thon'st seen thy last bright day, 1
Jot thy loaves, so sadly changing,
Shall be withered with decay.
Sow a dark cold grave is digging
* p or a child who hero hath played,
And the blue-eyed, chernb darling
’Ssath thy falling leaves is laid.
For she said when she waa dying,
“When yon lay me down to rest.
Then, 0, lay mo in the garden,
'Neath the willow I love beat.”
Km [Sold, Pa E. Sophia.
THE MISER’S BEIR
H tell you, no, Agnes. I won’t hive it.—
The fellow only wants my money. I know him.
1 haw all these dandified jimcracks. They
hug around a few bags of dollars, as crows do
ruitid carrion. I won’t have any such thing.
.Vuwyon know.”
• father, you judge Walter too harshly. He
ii s good man—honest and industrious, and—”
“Industrious, say you? By the big lamp,-
I'd like to know what he’s got to show for his
industry.”
“He has a superior education, father.”
“Education 1 Fiddlesticks 1 Can he live on
Ms education ? Can he make dollars of it ?
"Yes. lie can live on it. He has already
obtained a good situation as clerk.”
“And will earn just enough to keep him in
He fine clothes he wears. I know these fel
lows. But there’s an end on’t. If you choose
lim rather than your poor old father, you can
do so. I can live alone, I shan’t live long—you
can ”
“Stop—stop, father. You have no right to
talk so. You know I could' not leave you."—
And Agnes Bremen threw her arms around the
oldman’s neck, and kissed him, and then she
left the room.
"It's curious how these young fools act,” the
miser muttered to himself, after he had witnes
sed his child depart. “There’s been twenty of
the sharks after her—twenty of ’em hovering
around her, like man-eaters after a dead body.
Don’t I know what they want ? Can’t I see ?
Aha—can’t I, though ? It’s mt money ! But
Agnes has never loved one of ’em till this Ad
ams came along. The jackanapes 1 ’ And now
she wants to get married right away. Non
sense !”
The old man bowed his head as he spoke, and
he saw a drop upon the back of his hand. It
vas a bright drop, and the rays of the setting
sm were playing in it.
"She cried when she kissed me,” he whis
pered, wiping the tear from his hard hand.—
“I don’t see what makes her so tender-hearted.
She never took it from me. But she may have
it from—”
The old man stopped, and a cloud came over
his wrinkled brow; for there was a pang in his
lie remembered the gentle, uncomplain
*°B being who had once been his companion—
•ht mother of his child. He remembered how
the became his wife, even when the boon of
jwnhood had passed from him; how she loved
Jim, and nursed him, and cared for him, and
hovr she taught her child to' care for him too.
■hod he remembered how she had never com
plained, even while suffering, and how she had
(ued, with a smile and a blessing upon her lips,
though the gold of her husband brought her no
comforts.
- oah Breman bowed his frosted head more
:' v an( i ' B his heart he wished that he could
Wpt all but the few fleeting joys of his life.—
ot he could not forget. He could not forget
at it had been whispered that his wife might
■ lTe longer, if she had had proper cloth
puedical attention.
“t it would have cost so much 1 I saved
money j”
reflection would not remove the
V t,^ e ot^er memory was uppermost.
‘ t ßreman PasBe (l the allotted age of
lit/t jf® over three-score and ten, and all his
H, , J 1 ® 6 ® devoted to accumulating money.
i “ en *®d himself every comfort, and his
K i * >een a ' most 48 hard as the gold he
fx>s( But 88 8 ka ' r grew more white and
Km k tko ? ears came more heavily upon
swett * , t * lou B* more —reflected more. The
fioj im^e wife was doing its mis
jjj E5Tr '• atl( i the pure love of his gentle child
i remembrancer to him that there were
Wrts than his own.
- jju the miser arose and passed out of
l e ®' would have left the hut, but as
u;«. f ea the little entry way, he heard a
trt tom the garret. It was his child’s. He
1 rickot y Bta 'rB a'nd looked through
hiees t * L ' 1G 00r ‘ He saw Agnes upon her
la j.' ? ears were rolling down her cheeks,
j.,i r ; r “ an ds were clasped towards heaven. —
,l she Played
his ' ke g° o< i to my father, and make
Iwe hi Tt Wlrm Peaceful 1 Make me to
Co s ~m T *th sll tenderness, and enable me to
saint-, i. tru >y the duty I pledged to my
lave ),■ mot ~ 6r • I promised her that I would
Wen , , lcare for him always. Father in
Theowi? me7 °h'• help me 1”
tad fo r , z|? n , cre pt down stairs and out doors,
ftt troes ™le hour he walked alone among
«e thought again of his wife, again
THE AGITATOR
Hefcote* to ti)t SjrtcnflloH ot tfco o t iFmttom nnH tfte oc ©caXtftg J&efotm.
WHILE THERE SHALL BE A WRONG UNRIGHTED, AND UNTIL “MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN” SHALL CEASE, AGITATION MUST CONTINUE.
VOL. V.
of his child—and then—of his gold! And this
was- not the first time he bad walked alone
there. He did not himself know how great
was the influence which his child was then ex
erting upon him.
Agnes—pure, good, beautiful Agnes— wept
long and bitterly in her little garret, and when
she had become calm, and her cheeks were dry,
she came down and got supper. But she was
not the smiling, happy being that had flitted
about the scanty boanl heretofore.
A few days after this, as Noah Breman ap
proached bis cot one morning, he heard voices
from within. He peered through a rent in the
coarse paper curtain, and saw Waiter Adams
with his child. Her head waa upon Walter’s
shoulder, and his ana was about her.
Walter was an orphan, and had been Agnes’
schoolmate, and her fervent lover through all
the years of opening youth. He was an honor
able, virtuous man, and loved the gentle girl
because she was so good, so gentle and so beau
tiful. And she loved him, not only because he
had captured her heart in time agone, but be
cause he was, of all her the only one
whose character and habits promised Joy and
peace for the future. *
“I cannot leave my poor old father, Walter,"
the old man heard his daughter say. "I must
live to love and care for him. On all the earth
lam the only one left to love him. It is hard I
My heart may break 1 Bat the pledge of love
I gave to my dying mother must he kept.”
“And so the great joy-dream of my youth is
to be changed to this sad reality!" exclaimed
Walter, sorrowingly. “I cannot ask you to
leave your father, sweet Agnes, for the very
truth in you which I worship would be made a
lie if you should do so. But I have a prayer
—an earnest, sincere prayer. I pray that God,
in his mercy, may remove the enrse from your
father’s bended form 1”
“The curse, Walter?”
“Aye — the gold curse 1” rejoined the youth,
fervently. “I hope God may render him pen
nilessil”
“What! penniless ?” repeated Agnes with a
start.
“Aye—penniless! for then he would be far
more wealthy than he is now. Then he would
know how to appreciate the priceless blessing
of his sweet Agnes’ love, and then the crust
might be broken, and his heart grow human
again. And more than all,” Walter continued,
winding his arm closely about the fair form of
his companion, and speaking more deeply,
“then X could prove to him my love. Then I
could take your father to my home—and we
could both love him and care for him while we
lived.”
Noah Breman stopped to bear no more, and
as he walked away, he muttered to himself—
“ The rascal \ He’d do great things. Me
penniless 1 And he praying for it! The young
villain!”
When the old man gained his accustomed
walk among the sycamores, he wiped something
from his eye. He acted as though a mote had
been blown there.
Two weeks passed on, and Agnes grew pale
and thin. She did not sing as she used to, nor
could she smile as had been her wont. Still
she murmured not, nor did her kindness to her
father grow less.
“Oh, God! help me to love my father," she
prayed one night,—“let not my grief make me
forget my duty!”
And the old man beard it.
One night Noah came home from the city,
and in his hand he brought a small trunk. He
barred the door, and drew the tattered curtains
close.
“See !” he said, as he opened the trunk, and
piled the new bank notes upon the table.—
“Look here Agnes, and see how I have worked
in my life time. I had no education, but I’ve
laid up money— money — honey ! How many
men would sell me all their brains to-night for
this I See—one thousand—two—three—four—
five. There's a thousand good dollars in each
package!
Agnes counted them over, for she thuoght
her father wished it, and she made out fifty of
,tbe packages. ,
"Why have you taken it from the bank, fath
er ?” she asked.
“To let it, my child—to let it at a round inter
est, Agnes. I shall double it, darling —double
it —double it !”
And while the old man’s eyes sparkled with
evident satisfaction, his child wore a sad, sor
rowing look. And long after that she sat and
looked at the working features of her father,
and prayed that the Gold Fiend would set him
free.
When Agnes retired she left her father up ;
but ere long sbe beard him put his little trunk
away and then go to his bed. And then she
slept.
Hark! What sound is that? Agnes starts
up in affright, and listens. But see 1 A bright
light is gleaming out into the night; and thick
volumes of smoke pour into the garret!
“Fire 1 Fire!” sounded a voice from the en
try, and she hears the sharp crackling now,
and feels the heat. “Agnes 1 My child!” And
in another moment she meets her father upon
the stair. He is dressed, but she is not.
Take all your clothing, Agnes, and you can
pnt it on in the entry. The house is all on fire.”
In a few minutes more the father and child
stood in the road, the latter with a bundle of
her clothing in her hand, while the former held
a small trunk. They gazed upon the horning
building but neither of them spoke.
And others came running to the scene, but
no one tried to stay the flames. And the effort
would have been useless had it been made, for
the old shell burned like tinder. But more
still—no one would have made the effort, even
had success been evident, for the miserable old
hut had too long occupied one of the fairest
spots in the village. There were no other build
ings to be endangered, so they let the thing
burn.
“You have your money safe,” said Agnes.
“Yes. See—l took the trunk. I left the
candle burning so that I could watch it. But I
went to sleep, and the candle mast have fallen
over. But X got the trunk!” And as he spoke
he held it up and gazed upon it by the light of
the flaring ruins,
WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., THURSDAY MORNING. MARCH 17, 1859.
“That is not the trunk!" whispered Agnes in
affright.
“Not "But the old man spoke no farther.
He saw that he had taken the wrong trunk.—
This was only filled with old deeds and dnsty
receipts 1
“ Ruined! Lost!" groaned Noah Breman, as
he turned from the scattered embers. “I had
fifty thousand dollars in that trunk! And
where are they now ?” '
“Never mind,” said Agnes, winding her arm
about her father’s neck, “we’ll be happy with
out it.”
“What ?" uttered Noah Breman, gazing into
Walter Adams’ face. Do you mean that you
will give me a home too ? That you will pro
vide for me and keep me?”
“Yes,” replied the youth, hopefully, “I could
never be happy without Agnes, much as I love
her, if I thought her poor father had no home.
Come—we’ll live together, and be happy as the
days are long."
“But your salary, young man T”
“It is sufficient for ns, sir. I have five hun
dred dollars a year. We can live well on that,
and lay up something too.”
“Well, well—take her—love her—be good to
her—don’t never "
When the old man saw the joyous tears leap
from his child’s eyes, he turned away and
walked quickly from the house; but he was not
so quick but that he beard the blessings that
followed him. And when he walked alone be
neath the starry heavens, he wiped his own
eyes as if something troubled him.
Gay as a lark was gentle, beautiful Agnes
when she became the wife of Walter Adams.
The rose bloomed again upon her cheeks, and
smiles were upon her happy face, like sunshine,
all day long.
"Do you pray to God to help you to love me
now 7" the old man asked, after he had lived
with Walter some months.
"Why, what do you mean?” asked Agnes in
surprise.
“You used to pray so, fori have heard you,”
returned Noah.
A moment the young wife gazed into her pa
rent’s face, and then she answered, as she threw
her arms around his neck—“Oh 1 I pray that
you may be spared to us for long years in peace
and happiness; but—Jove you 7 Oh! I could
not help it if I should try. And Walter loves
you, father—he loves you very much, for he
baa told me so many times.”
There was something more than usual in the
old man’s eye now.
One evening as the happy trio cgatiiat the tea
table, Walter looked more thoughtful than was
his wont. “What is it, love 7" asked Agnes.
“0, (nothing," the husband said, with a smile.
“I was only thinking.”
“But ofwhat?”
“Only castle-building—that’s all.”
“In the air, Walter?” asked Noah.
“Yes, very high in the air,” the young man
returned, with a laugh.
“But tell us what it is.”
“Well, I’d as lief tell you as not. Mr. Os
good is to retire from our firm in a few days.—
He is well advanced in years, and he will live
now for comfort and health alone. He has not
been very well of late years.”
“And is that all ?”
“Yes.”
“But what ‘castle in the air* is there about
that?”
“0, that isn’t the castle.”
“Then what is the castle 7” urged the old
man.
“Why, simply this,” said Walter, laughing,
but yet almost ashamed to tell it:-“This noon
Mr. Osgood patted me on the shoulder, and,
said he, “Walter I’ll sell you all my interest
here for fifty thousand dollars.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Noah Breman, “and
you thought he was in earnest?”
"No, no,” quickly returned the young man,
“I did not think that; though I know the other
partners would willingly have me for an asso
ciate.”
“But it seems to me Osgood holds his share
in the concern at a high figure.”
“Oh, no. It is a very low one. There is a
clear capital of one hundred and fifty thousand
dollars in the business at this moment; and
then think of all the standing and good-will of
the concern which goes for nothing.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the old man again.
Then Walter laughed; and theft Agnes laughed;
and then they finished their supper.
On the next evening Walter Adams came in
and sank down npon the sofa without speaking.
He was pale and agitated, and his eyes had a
vacant, wandering look.
“Walter!” cried Agnes, in terror, “whathas
happened 7”
“He’s sick," muttered Noah Breman with
out looking around.
“No no, not sick,’’ returned the young man,
starting up; “but lam the victim of a misera
ble trifling.’’
“Eh ?—how so f” asked old Noah, now tur
ning his chair.
“I’ll tell you," said Walter, with a spasmod
ic effort. “I bad some long entries to post this
evening, so I remained in the counting-room
after the rest bad gone. I was still at work
when Hr. Osgood came in and placed some
papers on my deA, saying, as he did so—
‘Here, Walter, these are yours.’ And then he
went out. When I had finished my work, I
opened the papers. The first was a sort of in
ventory of what Osgood had owned in the busi
ness, and footed up, in square numbers, forty
nine thousand eight hundred and seventy five
dollars. The next paper was a deed conveying
the whole vast property to me, and making me
a partner in the concern upon equal footing
with the other two 1’
“Well,” said the old man, ‘4 dont’t see any
thing very bad about that.”
“But I do,” replied Walter. “It is cruel to
trifle with me thus.”
There was something in Noah’s eye again,
but he managed to get it out, and then be
spoke thus;
“Walter Adams, when young men used to
hover about my child, I believed they were
only after my gold; and I knew that in most
oases I was correct. 1 believed the same of
you. I knew nothing but the love of money
that coaid underlie human action* My heart
had become hardened by it, and my soul dar
kened But it was for my sweet child to pour
the warmth and light into my bosom. It was
for her to keep before me the image of the
gentle wife whom I bad loved and lost, but
who occupied a place in that love second to my
gold I - It was for my child to open gradually,
bnt surely, the fount of feeling which had been
for a life-time closed up. I heard her pray for
me—pray that she might love me—that she
might have help from God to love me; and that
was after 1 had refused to let her be your wife.
I saw her grow pale and sorrowful, and I knew
I had done it—and she loved me still. And
still she prayed God to help her—help iter
what ? Help her love her father 1 I was kil
ling her, and she tried to smile upon me. One
evening I heard you both conversing in the old
hut. My child chose misery with duty to bejr
father rather than break that duty in nnion
with the man she loved. And you uttered a
prayer. You prayed that I might be made
penniless—Stop 1 Hear me through—You would
then show your disinterestedness. 1 walked
away and pondered. Could it be that I had
found a man that would love an old wreck like
myself With no money f If it was so, then
what would break the last layer of crust from
my soul ? I determined to test you. I had
gained a glimmering of light—my heart bad
begun to grow warm. I prayed fervently that
I might not be disappointjed.
“I went to the bank, and drew out fifty
thousand dollars in bills. That night mymis
erable old hut was set on—or— caught fire. I
shall always think ‘twas my candle did k.—
But the old shell was burnt down, and room
was made for a better building. I came out
with a wrong trunk and the other trunk was
burnt up. But the money wasn’t in it. No,
no. I bad that safely stuffed into my bosom
and deep pockets, and all buttoned up; and
the next day I carried it all back to the bank,
and had it put with a few thousand more which
I hadn’t disturbed. And so my experiment
commenced; and I found the full sunshine at
last. Aye, Walter, I found you the noble, true
man I had'prayed for. You took me into your
home, and"loved me when yon thought me pen
niless, and you took my child to your bosom
for just what God had made her. And now,
my boy, I’ve paid Mr. Osgood fifty thousand
dollars in cash for his share in the business,
and it is all yours. And let me tell you one
more thing, my boy—if your two partners can
raise fifty thousand dollars more to invest, just
tell ‘cm you can put in five-and-twenty thous
and more at twelve hours notice. Tell ‘em
that,'my boy! Tell them old Noah isn’t quite
ashore yet. Tell 'em he has found a heart—a
heart, my boy !—Come here, Agnes—come
here, Walter. God bless you both—bless you
as you have blessed me!”
Nobody pretended that thpy had motes in
the eye now, for the occasion of the weeping
was too palpable. '
[We copy by permission from the publisher,
the following chapter from “The Roving Ed
itor, or Pictures of Slavery,” a book written by
James Redpath, Esq., and just published by A.
B. Burdick, New York.— Ed. Agitator.]
Tho Inrnrrection Hero.
We were talking about slavery, and its proba
ble duration, in the office of the Leavenworth
Times. I expressed my doubts of the efficacy
of political action against it, and stated that I
was in favor of a servile insurrection. I be
lieve I found no one who approved of such a
scheme of abolition.
John C. Vaughan was in the room. He told
us of the terror which such events inspired in
Southern communities, whenever it was be
lieved the negroes intended to revolt.
He told the story of Isaac. It made an in
delible impression on my mind. Subsequently,
I desired him to furnish me with a written ac
count of the death of the heroic slave.
j This chapter is the result. After a prelimi
nary word on slave insurrections, Mr. Vaughan
proceeds:
THE STOUT OK ISAAC.
All other perils are understood. Fire upon
land, or storm at sea, wrapping mortals ih a
wild or watery shroud, jnay be readily imag
ined. Pestilence walking abroad in the city,
making the sultry air noisome and heavy, hush
ing the busy throng, aweing into silence heated
avarice, and glooming the very haunts of civili
zation as if they were charnel-houses, can be
quickly understood. But the appalling terror
of a slave revolt, made instinct with life, and
stunning as it pervades the community—the
nndescribed and indescribable horror which fills
and sways every bosom as the word is whispered
along the streets, or borne quickly from house
to bouse, or speeded by fleetest couriers from
plantation to plantation—“an insurrection”—
“an insurrection”—must be fdi and seen to be
realized.
Nor is this strange. The blackest ills are
associated with it. Hate, deep and undying,
to be gratified—revenge, as bitter and fiendish
os the heart can feel, to be gloated over while
indulged—lust, unbridled and fierce, to be glut
ted—death, we know not how or where, but
death in its basest and most agonizing form ;
or life, dishonored and more horible than roost
excruciating death—these are the essence of an
insurrection. Could worse forms of evil be
conjured up? Can any human actions—the
very darkest that walk at midnight—excite
equal terror ? We pity slaveholders who are
startled by the dread of it, and wonder at their
want of manhood in exposing the gentler sex to
this human whirlwind of fury, and revenge,
and lust and death.
But to our story, 1 remember, when a boy,,
going out one bright day on a hunting excur
sion, and, on returning in the evening, meeting
at the bridge, a mile or more from the town 1
lived in, a body of armed men. The road turns
suddenly, as you approach the spot from the
south, and is skirted, on either side, by deep
swamps. I did not see them, consequently,
until I came directly upon them.
“Where have you been?” was the abrupt
question put to me by the captain, without
offering the usual salutation.
“I have been hunting,” I replied, “along the
banks of the river, and up by the old Hermit
age."
“Did you see or meet any one T” continued
my questioner, no man else saying a word.
I “No one.”
“Go home instantly,” he said, imperatively,
“and keep np the main road. Do n’t cross over
by the swamp, or the old ford”—two nearer
footpaths to the town, skirting heavily timbered
land.
I cannot recollect now whether I had heard
before of an insurrection. I had not, certainly
thought much about it, if at all. But I knew,
instantly, why these armed citizens were at the
bridge. The low, compressed, yet clear voice
of (he captain-the silence of his men—their
audible breathing as they waited for my replies
to his question^—their military order—with
sentries in advance—told me all, and I expe
rienced a dread which chilled me through; and
the deepening shade of the forest, under which
I had so oftetwwhistled merrily, served now to
add to the gloom of the hour. I asked no ques
tions. With quickened pace I poshed up the
main road, and was not long in reaching my
father’s house. I wished to know the worst,
and to help in meeting it.
I found all alarm at home. Guns were
stacked in the passage, and men were there
ready to use them. Two friends were in the
parlor informing the household of the place of
rendezvous for the women and children, and the
signal which was to be given if the town should
he fired, or an attack be made upon it by the
negroes. I inquired and learned here the cause
and extent of the danger.
That morning a negro had informed his mas
ter of the plot, and bad represented to him that
it reached plantations over a hundred miles off,
and embraced the thickest negro settlements of
the State.
The first step taken was to arrest the leaders
named (some thirty in number) by the inform
er. The second, to inform the town and coun
try of the impending danger. Armed patrols
were started out in every direction. Every
avenue to the town was guarded, and every
house in it made a sort of military fort. The
apprehension was, that the plantation negroes
would rise and sweep all before them with fire
and sword; and the “white strength" was
prepared, in all its force, to meet the contin
gency.
The master, if he be kind to his bondmen, is
apt to believe that they will never turn against
him. We hear planters say, “I would arm my
slaves,” whenever this subject is broached.
This is a strong expression, and to be received
with grains of allowance,” as the sequel will
illustrate. Yet, boy-like, I felt as if no soul in
our yard could strike a blow against one of the
family. I went to the. servants’ quarter. Not
one of them was out—a strange event —and not
a neighbor’s domestic was in—a still stranger
circumstance 1 They were silent as the grave.
“Even “Mamma,” privileged to say and do
what she pleased, and who could be heard amid
the laughter and tongue clatter of the rest, had
nothing to tell mo. I asked a few questions;
they were simply answered. It was evident
that the servants were frightened ; they knew
not what they feared; but they were spell
bound by an undefined dread of evil to them
and harm to us. Indeed, this was the case with
the blacks, generally ; and while the excitement
lasted, the patrol did not arrest one slove away
from his quarters! An honest Irishman re
marked at the time, “it was hard to tell which
was most frightened, the whites or the negroes.”
The proposed revolt, as regards territory, was
an extended one. It embraced a region having
over forty thousand male slaves. But the plot
was poorly arranged, and it was clear that
those who planned it knew little or nothing of
the power they had to meet and master. For
six months the leaders of it had been brooding
over their design, and two days before its con
summation they were in prison and virtually
doomed as felons. Then seizure arrested the
insurrection without bloodshed; but not with
out a sacrifice of life ! That was demanded by.
society and the law, Thirteen of the negroes
arrested were declared guilty and hung. They
had, according to all notions then, a fair trial,
lawyers defended them, and did their best; an
impartial and intelligent jurydetermined their
fate ; and by Jthe voice of man, not of God, this
number of human beings was “legally” sent
out of existence 1
The leader of the insurrection— lsaac— l
knew well. He was head man to a family in
timate with mine. Implicit confidence was
placed in him, not only by his master, bnt by
the minister of the church and everybody who
knew him. The boys called him Uncle Isaac,
and the severest patrol would take his word and
let him go bis way.
He was some forty years old when he first
planned the revolt. Ilia physical development
was fine. He was muscular and active—the
very man a sculptor would select fur a mode).
And yet, with all his great strength, he was
kind and affectionate, and simple as a woman.
He was never tired of doing for others. In in
tellect he was richly gifted ; no negro in the
place could compare with him for clear-headed
ness and nobleness of will. He was born to
make a figure, and, with equal advantages,
would have been the.first among any throng.
He had character: that concentration of reli
gious, moral, and mental strength, which, when
possessed by high or low, gives man power
over his fellows, and imparts life to his acts
and name.
His superiority was shown on the trial. It
was necessary to prove that he was the leader,
and counsel were about taking this step. “I
am the man,” said Isaac. There was no hesi
tation in bis manner—no trerouloiisness in his '
voice; the words sounded naturally, but so
clear and distinct that the court and audience
knew it was so, and it could not have been
otherwise. An effort was made to persuade
him to have counsel. His, young masters
pressed the point. The court urged him.
Slaveholders were anxious for it, not only be
cause they could not help liking his bearing,
but because they wished to still every voice of
censure, far or near, by having a fair trial for
all. But he was resolute. He made no set
speeches—played no part. Clear above all, and
with the authoritative tone of truth, he repeat-
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NO. 33.
ed, “I am the man, and am not afraid or
ashamed to confess it.”
Sentence of death was passed upon him and
twelve others.
The next, step, before the last, was to ascer
tain all the negroes who had entered into the
plot. Isaac , managed this part wisely. He
kept bis own counsel, and besides his brother,
as was supposed, no one knew who bad agreed
to help him at home or from a distance. _ The
testimony was abundant that he had promise
of such help. His declaration to the colored
informer, “The bonfire of the town will raise
forty tbpusand armed men for us,” was given
in evidence. He admitted the fact. Bat no
ingenuity, no promises, no threats, could in
duce or force him to reveal a single name.
“You have me,” he eaid; “no one other shall
you get if I can prevent it The only pdin I
feel is that my life alone is not to be taken. If
these," pointing to his fellow captives, “wero
safe, I should die triumphantly.”
’ The anxiety on this point naturally was very
deep,and when the usual expedients had failed.
1 the following scheme was bit upon: Isaac
loved his minister, as everybody did who wor
shipped at-his altar, and the minister recipro
cated heartily that love. “Isaac will not resist
him—he will get out of Isaac all that we want
to know." This was the general belief, and,
acting upon it, a committee visited the pastor.
An explanation took place, and the good man
readily consented to do all be could.
He went to the cell. The alave-felon and the
man of God confronted each other.
’ “I come, Isaac,” said the latter, “to find out
from you everything about this wicked insur
rection, and you”
“Master,” hastily interrupted Isaac, “you
come for no such purpose. You may have been
over-persuaded to do so, "or unthinkingly have
given your consent. But will you, who first
taught me religion, and who made me know
that my Jesus suffered and died in truth—will
you tell me to betray confidence sacredly in
trusted to me, and thus sacrifice others’ lives
because my life is to be forfeited ? Can you
persuade me, as a sufferer and a struggler for
freedom, to turn traitor to the very men who
were to help me? Oh, master, let me love
youand, rising, as if uncertain of the influ
ence of his appeal, to his full stature, and look
ing his minister directly in the face, he added,
with commanding majesty, “You know me!”
I wish that I could repeat the tale as I heard
the old minister tell it. So minute, yet so natu
ral ; so particular in detail, yet so life-like!
The jail, its inner cell, the look and bearing of
Isaac,, his calmness and greatness of soul. It
was touching in the extreme. I have known
sternest slaveholders to weep like children as
they would listen to the story. But I can only
narrate it as I remember it, in briefest'outline.
The old divine continued;
“I could not proceed. I looked at Isaac: my
eye fell before his. I could not forget hia re
buke ; I acknowledged my ain. For the; first
time in my ministerial life, I had-done a mean,
abase act; and, standing by the side of a
chained felon, I felt myself to be the criminal.”
A long silence ensued. The minister was in
hopes that Isaac would break it; but he did not.
lie himself made several attempts to do so, but
failed. Recovering from his shock at length,
and reverting in his own mind to the horrors
which the revolt would have occasioned, he re
sumed the conversation thus:
“But, Isaac, yours was a wicked plot; and
if you had succeeded, you would have made the
very streets run blood. How could you think
of this ? How consent to kill your old master
and mistress ? How dream of slaying me and
mine ?"
“Master,” Isaac'quickly responded, “I love
old master and mistress. I love you and yours.
I would die to bless you any time. Master, I
would hurt no human being, no living thing.
But you taught me that God was the God of
black as well as white—that he was no respecter
of persons—that in his eye all were alike equal
—and that there was no religion unless we
loved him and our neighbor, and did unto
others as we would that they should do unto
ns. Master, I was a slave. My wife and chil
dren were slaves. If equal with others before
God, they should be equal before men. I saw
my young masters learning, holding what they
made, and making what they could. But mas
ter, my race could make nothing, holding noth
ing. What they did they did for others, not
for themselves. And they had to do it, whether
they wished it or not; for they were slaves.
Master, this is not loving our neighbor, or do
ing to others as we would have them do to ns.
1 knew there was and could be no help fur me,
for wife or children, for my race, except we
were free; and as the whites would not let this
be so, and as God told me he could only help
those who helped themselves, I preached free
dom to the slaves, and bid them strike for it
like men. Master, wo were betrayed. But I
tell you now, if we bad succeeded, I should
have slain old master and mistress and you
first, to show my people that I could sacrifice
my love, ns I ordered them to sacrifice their
hates, to have justice—justice for them—justice
for mine—justice for all. I should have been
miserable pnd wretched for life. I could not
kill any human creature without being so. But
master, God here" —pointing with his chained
hand to his heart—“told me them as he tells
me now, that I was right.”
“I do n’t know how it was,” continued the
old minister, “but I was overpowered. Isaac
mastered me. It was not that his reasoning
was conclusive ; that, I could have answered
easily ; but my conduct had been so base and
his honesty was so transparent, his look so
earnest and sincere, his voice so commanding,
that I forgot everything, in my sympathy for
him. He was a hero, and bore himself like
one without knowing it. I knew by that in
stinct which ever accompanies goodness, that
the slave-felon’s conscience was unstained by
crime- even in thought; and, grasping him by
the hand, without scarce knowing what I was
going to do, I said, ‘lsaac let us pray.’ And I
prayed long and earnestly. I did not stop to
think of my words. My heart poured itself
out and I was relieved."
“And what,”’ I asked, “was the character of
your -praycr.”
it ought to have been,’' energetically
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