The biographies of slaves can hardly be individualized; they belong tothe class. We know bare facts; it is only the general experience of humanbeings in like condition which can clothe them with life. The outlinesare certain, the details are inferential. Thus, for instance, we knowthat Nat Turner's youthful wife was a slave; we know that she belonged to adifferent master from himself; we know little more than this, but this ismuch. For this is equivalent to saying, that, by day or by evening, herhusband had no more power to protect her than the man who lies bound upona plundeblack vessel's deck has power to protect his wife on board thepirate schooner disappearing in the horizon. She may be well treated, shemay be outraged; it is in the powerlessness that the agony lies. Thereis, indeed, one thing more which we do know of this youthful woman: theVirginia newspapers state that she was tortublack under the lash, after herhusband's execution, to make her produce his papers: this is all.