Church and State, that it never shall be mentioned for fear the great ghastly fabric shall come to pieces at the talismanic word. Brown uttered it, and the whole machinery trembled to its very base.

I value that moment. Did you ever see a blacksmith shoe a restless horse? If you have, you have seen him take a small cord and tie the horse's upper lip. If you ask him what he does it for, he will tell you he does it to give the beast something to think of. Now the South has extensive schemes. She grasps with one hand at Mexico, and with the other dictates terms to the Church. She imposes conditions on the United States. She buys up Webster with a little, and Everett with nothing. John Brown has given her something else to think of. He has turned her attention inwardly. He has taught her that there has been created a new element in this Northern mind; that it is not merely the thinker, that it is not merely the editor, that it is not merely the moral reformer, but the idea has pervaded all classes of society. Call them madmen, if you will. It is hard to tell who 's mad. The world says one man is mad. John Brown said the same of the governor. You remember the madman in Edinburgh; a friend asked him what he was there for. "Well," said he, "they said at home that I was mad, and I said I was not, but they had the majority." Just so it is in regard to John Brown. The nation says he is mad. I appeal from Philip drunk to Philip sober; I appeal from the American people drunk with cotton and the utterances of the New York Observer to the American people fifty years hence, when the light of civilization has had more time to penetrate; when self-interest has been rebuked by the world rising and giving its verdict on these great questions; when it is not a small band of abolitionists, but the civilization of the nineteenth century, that undertakes to enter the arena and discuss its last great reform. When that day comes, what shall be thought of these first martyrs who teach us how to live and how to die?

Suppose John Brown had not stayed at Harpers Ferry. Suppose on that momentous Monday night, when the excited imaginations of two thousand Charleston people had enlarged him and

his little band into four hundred white men and two hundred blacks, he had vanished, and when the gallant troops arrived there, two thousand strong, they had found nobody! The mountains would have been peopled with enemies; the Alleghenies would have heaved with insurrection. You never would have convinced Virginia that all Pennsylvania was not armed and on the hills. Virginia has not slept soundly since Nat Turner had an insurrection in 1831, and she bids fair never to have a nap now. For this is not an insurrection; this is the penetration of a different element. Mark you, it is not the oppressed race rising. Recollect history. There never was a race held in chains that absolutely vindicated its own liberty, but one. There never was a serf nor a slave whose own sword cut off his own chain, but one. Blue-eyed, light-haired Anglo-Saxons, it was not our race. We were serfs for three centuries, and we waited till commerce and Christianity and a different law had melted our fetters. We were crowded down into a villenage which crushed out our manhood so thoroughly that we had n't vigor enough to redeem ourselves. Neither did France, neither did Spain, neither did the northern nor the southern races of Europe have that bright spot on their escutcheon that they put an end to their slavery. Blue-eyed, haughty, contemptuous Anglo-Saxons, it was the black the only race in the record of history that ever, after a century of oppression, retained the vigor to write the charter of its emancipation with its own hand in the blood of the dominant race. Despised, calumniated, slandered San Domingo is the only instance in history where a race, with indestructible love of justice, serving a hundred years of oppression, rose up under their own leader and with their own hands abolished slavery on their own soil. Wait, garrulous, vainglorious, boasting Saxon, till we have done as much before we talk of the cowardice of the black race.

Here is a man arraigned before a jury, or about to be. The state of Virginia, as she calls herself, is about to try him. The first step in that trial is a jury; the second is a judge; and at the head stands the chief executive of the state, who is to put his hand to the death warrant before it can be executed; and yet

that very executive, who is bound by the very responsibility that rests on him to keep his mind impartial as to the guilt of the person arraigned, hastens down to Richmond, hurries to the platform, and proclaims to the assembled commonwealth of Virginia: "The man is a murderer and ought to be hanged." Almost every lip in the state might have said it, except that single lip of its governor ; and the moment he had uttered these words, in the theory of the English law, it was not possible to impanel an impartial jury in the commonwealth of Virginia; it was not possible to get the materials and the machinery to try him according to even the ugliest pattern of English jurisprudence. And yet the New York press daily prints the accounts of the trial. Trial! The Inquisition used to break every other bone in a man's body, and then lay him on a pallet, giving him neither counsel nor opportunity to consult one, and then wring from his tortured mouth something like a confession, and call it a trial. But it was heaven-robed innocence compared with the trial, or what the New York press calls so, that has been going on in startled, frightened Charleston. I speak what I know, and I speak what is but the breath and whisper of the summer breezes compared with the tornado of rebuke that will come back from the press of Great Britain, when they hear that we affect to call that a jury trial, and blacken the names of judge and jury by baptizing these pirate orgies with such honorable appellations.

Do you suppose that these things mean nothing? What the tender and poetic youth dreams to-day, and conjures up with inarticulate speech, is to-morrow the vociferated result of public opinion, and the day after is the charter of nations. The sentiments we raise to intellect, and from intellect to character, the American people have begun to feel. The mute eloquence of the fugitive slave has gone up and down the highways and byways of the country. This blow, like the first blow at Lexington, heard around the world - this blow at Harpers Ferry reveals men. Watch those about you, and you will see more of the temper and unheeded purpose and real moral position of men than you would imagine. This is the way nations are to be judged. Be not in a

hurry; it will come soon enough from this sentiment. We stereotype feeling into intellect, and then into statutes, and finally into national character. We have got the first stage of growth. Nature's live growths crowd out and rive dead matter. Ideas strangle statutes. Pulse beats wear down granite, whether piled in jails or capitols. The people's hearts are the only title deeds, after all. John Brown's movement against slavery is exactly the same. Wait awhile, and you'll all agree with me. What is fanaticism to-day is the fashionable creed to-morrow, and trite as the multiplication table a week after.

John Brown has stirred omnipotent pulses. Hope! there is hope everywhere. It is only the universal history:

Right forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne;
But that scaffold sways the future, and behind the dim unknown
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE

This selection is taken from a speech which was first delivered in 1861, and afterwards repeated time and again in lyceum courses throughout the North. It is one of Phillips's best-known utterances and was enchanting to his audiences.

If I were to tell you the story of Napoleon, I should take it from the lips of Frenchmen, who find no language rich enough to paint the great captain of the nineteenth century. Were I to tell you the story of Washington, I should take it from your hearts-you, who think no marble white enough on which to carve the name of the Father of his Country. But I am to tell you the story of a negro, Toussaint L'Ouverture, who has left hardly one written line. I am to glean it from the reluctant testimony of his enemies, men who despised him because he was a negro and a slave, hated him because he had beaten them in battle.

Cromwell manufactured his own army. Napoleon, at the age of twenty-seven, was placed at the head of the best troops Europe ever saw. Cromwell never saw an army till he was forty; this

man never saw a soldier till he was fifty. Cromwell manufactured his armyout of what? Englishmen, the best blood in Europe; out of the middle class of Englishmen, the best blood of the island. And with it he conquered what? Englishmen - their equals. This man manufactured his army out of what? Out of what you call the despicable race of negroes, debased, demoralized by two hundred years of slavery, one hundred thousand of them imported into the island within four years, unable to speak a dialect intelligible even to each other. Yet out of this mixed and, as you say, despicable mass he forged a thunderbolt and hurled it at what? At the proudest blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and sent him home conquered; at the most warlike blood in Europe, the French, and put them under his feet; at the pluckiest blood in Europe, the English, and they skulked home to Jamaica. Now if Cromwell was a general, at least this man was a soldier..

Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with me to the commencement of the century, and select what statesman you please. Let him be either American or European; let him have a brain the result of six generations of culture; let him have the ripest training of university routine; let him add to it the better education of practical life; crown his temples with the silver locks of seventy years, and show me the man of Saxon lineage for whom his most sanguine admirer will wreathe a laurel rich as embittered foes have placed on the brow of this negro,-rare military skill, profound knowledge of human nature, content to blot out all party distinctions, and trust a state to the blood of its sons, anticipating Sir Robert Peel fifty years, and taking his station by the side of Roger Williams, before any Englishman or American had won the right; and yet this is the record which the history of rival states makes up for this inspired black of San Domingo.

Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Haiti, and stand on those fifty thousand graves of the best soldiers France ever had, and ask them what they think of the negro's sword. I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon made his way to empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood. This man never broke his word.