Those little necessary displays over, the honourable sheriff invites his distinguished friends to "have a cigar round;" having satisfied their taste in gymnastarising the property. Romescos, however, thinks he has not quite satisfied his feelings; he is very dogged on nigger flesh. The other gentlemen may smoke their cigars; Mr. Romescos thinks he will enjoy the exercise of his skill in testing the tenacity of negroes' chests; which he does by administering heavy blows, which make them groan out now and then. Groans, however, don't amount to much; they are only nigger groans. Again Mr. Romescos applies the full force of his hands upon their ears; then he will just pull them systematically. "Nice property!" he says, telling the forbearing creatures not to mind the pain.

Messrs. Graspum and Romescos will make a close inspection of a few pieces. Here, several men and women are led into a basement cell, under the veranda, and stript most rudely. No discrimination is permitted. Happy freedom! What a boon is liberty! Mr. Romescos views their nice firm bodies, and their ebony black skins, with great skill and precaution; his object is to prove the disposition of the articles,—strong evidence being absence of scars. He lays his bony fingers on their left shoulders-they being compelled to stand in a recumbent position-tracing their bodies to the hips and thighs. Here the process ends. Mr. Romescos has satisfied his very nice judgment on the solidity of the human-flesh-property-he has put their bodies through other disgusting inspections-they belong to the trade-which cannot be told here; but he finds clean skins, very smooth, without scars or cuts, or dangerous diseases. He laughs exultingly, orders the people to stow themselves in their clothes again, and relights his cigar. "If it 'ant a tall lot!" he whispers to Graspum, and gives him a significant touch with his elbow. "Bright-smooth as a leather ninepence; han't had a lash-Marston was a fool, or his niggers are angels, rather black, though-couldn't start up a scar on their flesh. A little trimmin' down-it wants it, you see!-to make it show off; must have it-eh! Graspum, old feller? It only wants a little, though, and them dandy niggers, and that slap-up preacher, will bring a smart price fixed up. Great institution! The preacher's got knowin'; can discourse like a college-made deacon, and can convert a whole plantation with his nigger eloquence. A nigger preacher with Bible knowin, when it's smart, is right valuable when ye want to keep the pious of a plantation straight. And then! when the preacher 'ant got a notion a' runnin away in him." Romescos crooks his finger upon Graspum's arm, whispers cautiously in his ear.

"There 'll be a sharp bidding for some of it; they 'll run up some on the preacher. He 'll be a capital investment,—pay more than thirty per cent. insinuates another gentleman-a small inquisitive looking dealer in articles of the nigger line. When a planter's got a big gang a' niggers, and is just fool enough to keep such a thing for the special purpose of making pious valuable in 'um," Mr. Romescos rejoins, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing his little hawk's eyes, and looking seriously indifferent. Romescos gives wonderful evidence of his "first best cunning propensities;" and here he fancies he has pronounced an opinion that will be taken as profound. He affects heedlessness of everything, is quite disinterested, and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, assumes an air of dignity that would not unbecome my Lord Chief Justice.

"Let us see them two bits of disputed property,—where are they?" inquires Graspum, turning half round, and addressing himself to the gaoler.

"In the close cells," is the quick reply,—"through the narrow vault, up the stone passage, and on the right, in the arched cell."

The gaoler-good, honest-hearted man-leads the way, through a chilly vault, up the narrow passage, to the left wing of the building. The air is pestiferous; warm and diseased, it fans us as we approach. The gaoler puts his face to the grating, and in a guttural voice, says, "You're wanted, young uns." They understand the summons; they come forward as if released from torture to enjoy the pure air of heaven. Confinement, dreary and damp, has worn deep into their systems.

Annette speaks feebly, looks pale and sickly. Her flaxen curls still dangle prettily upon her shoulders. She expected her mother; that mother has not come. The picture seems strange; she looks childishly and vacantly round,—at the dealers, at Graspum, at the sheriff, at the familiar faces of the old plantation people. She recognizes Harry, and would fain leap into his arms. Nicholas, less moved by what is going on around him, hangs reluctantly behind, holding by the skirt of Annette's frock. He has lost that vivacity and pertness so characteristic on the plantation. Happy picture of freedom's love! Happy picture of immortalised injustice! Happy picture of everything that is unhappy! How modest is the boast that we live to be free; and that in our virtuous freedom a child's mother has been sold for losing her mind: a faithful divine, strong with love for his fellow divines, is to be sold for his faith; the child-the daughter of the democrat-they say, will be sold from her democratic father. The death-stinging enemy Washington and Jefferson sought to slaughter-to lay ever dead at their feet, has risen to life again. Annette's mother has fled to escape its poison. We must pause! we must not discourse thus in our day, when the sordid web of trade is being drawn over the land by King Cotton.

The children, like all such doubtful stock, are considered very fancy, very choice of their kind. It must be dressed in style to suit nice eyes at the shambles.

"Well! ye'r right interesting looking," says the sheriff—Messrs. Graspum and Co. look upon them with great concern, now and then interrupting with some observations upon their pedigree,—taking them by the arms, and again rumpling their hair by rubbing his hands over their heads. "Fix it up, trim; we must put them up along with the rest to-day. It 'll make Marston—I pity the poor fellow—show his hand on the question of their freedom. Mr. sheriff, being sufficiently secured against harm, is quite indifferent about the latent phases of the suit. He remarks, with great legal logic—we mean legal slave logic—that Marston must object to the sale when the children are on the stand. It is very pretty kind a' property, very like Marston—will be as handsome as pictures when they grow up," he says, ordering it put back to be got ready.

"Why didn't my mother come?" the child whimpers, dewy tears decorating her eyes. "Why won't she come back and take me to the plantation again? I want her to come back; I've waited so long." As she turns to follow the gaoler—Nicholas still holds her by the skirt of her frock—her flaxen curls again wave to and fro upon her shoulders, adding beauty to her childlike simplicity. "You'll grow to be something, one of these days, won't ye, little dear?" says the gaoler, taking her by the hand. She replies in those silent and touching arguments of the soul; she raises her soft blue eyes, and heaven fills them with tears, which she lifts her tiny hands to wipe away.

Nicholas tremblingly-he cannot understand the strange movement-follows them through the vault; he looks up submissively, and with instinctive sympathy commences a loud blubbering. "You're going to be sold, little uns! but, don't roar about it; there's no use in that," says the gaoler, inclining to sympathy.

Nicholas does'nt comprehend it; he looks up to Annette, plaintively, and, forgetting his own tears, says, in a whisper, "Don't cry, Annette; they 'll let us go and see mother, and mother will be so kind to us-."

"It does seem a pity to sell ye, young 'uns; ye'r such nice 'uns,—have so much interestin' in yer little skins!" interrupts the gaoler, suddenly. The man of keys could unfold a strange history of misery, suffering, and death, if fear of popular opinion, illustrated in popular liberty, did not seal his lips. He admits the present to be

We are narrating a scene related to us by the very gaoler we here describe, and as nearly as possible in his own language. rather an uncommon case, says it makes a body feel kind a' unhinged about the heart, which heart, however rocky at times, will have its own way when little children are sorrowing. "And then, to know their parents! that's what tells deeper on a body's feeling,—it makes a body look into the hereafter." The man of keys and shackles would be a father, if the law did but let him. There is a monster power over him, a power he dreads-it is the power of unbending democracy, moved alone by fretful painstakers of their own freedom.

"Poor little things! ye 'r most white, yes!-suddenly changing-just as white as white need be. Property's property, though, all over the world. What's sanctioned by the constitution, and protected by the spirit and wisdom of Congress, must be right, and maintained," the gaoler concludes. His heart is at war with his head; but the head has the power, and he must protect the rights of an unrighteous system. They have arrived at a flight of steps, up which they ascend, and are soon lost in its windings. They are going to be dressed for the market.

The sheriff is in the yard, awaiting the preparation of the property. Even he-iron-hearted, they say-gives them a look of generous solicitude, as they pass out. He really feels there is a point, no less in the scale of slave dealing, beyond which there is something so repugnant that hell itself might frown upon it. "It's a phase too hard, touches a body's conscience," he says, not observing Romescos at his elbow.

"Conscience!" interrupts Romescos, his eyes flashing like meteors of red fire, "the article don't belong to the philosophy of our business. Establish conscience-let us, gentlemen, give way to our feelins, and trade in nigger property 'd be deader than Chatham's statue, what was pulled through our streets by the neck. The great obstacle, however, is only this-it is profitable in its way!" Romescos cautiously attempts to shield this, but it will not do.

The gaoler, protruding his head from a second-story window, like a mop in a rain storm, enquires if it is requisite to dress the children in their very best shine. It is evident he merely views them as two bales of merchandise.

The sheriff, angrily, says, "Yes! I told you that already. Make them look as bright as two new pins." His honour has been contemplating how they will be mere pins in the market,—pins to bolt the doors of justice, pins to play men into Congress, pins to play men out of Congress, pins to play a President into the White House.

An old negress, one of the plantation nurses, is called into service. She commences the process of preparing them for market. They are nicely washed, dressed in clean clothes; they shine out as bright and white as anybody's children. Their heads look so sleek, their hair is so nicely combed, so nicely parted, so nicely curled. The old slave loves them,—she loved their father. Her skill has been lavished upon them,—they look as choice and interesting as the human property of any democratic gentleman can be expected to do. Let us be patriotic, let us be law-loving, patient law-abiding citizens, loving that law of our free country which puts them under the man-vender's hammer,—say our peace-abiding neighbours.

The gaoler has not been long in getting Annette and Nicholas ready. He brings them forward, so neatly and prettily dressed: he places them among the "gang." But they are disputed property: hence all that ingenuity which the system engenders for the advancement of dealers is brought into use to defeat the attempt to assert their freedom. Romescos declares it no difficult matter to do this: he has the deadly weapon in his possession; he can work (shuffle) the debt into Graspum's hands, and he can supply the proof to convict. By this very desirable arrangement the thing may be made nicely profitable.

No sooner has Aunt Rachel seen the children in their neat and familiar attire, than her feelings bound with joy,—she cannot longer restrain them. She has watched Marston's moral delinquencies with suspicion; but she loves the children none the less. And with honest negro nature she runs to them, clasps them to her bosom, fondles them, and kisses them like a fond mother. The happy associations of the past, contrasted with their present unhappy condition, unbind the fountain of her solicitude,—she pours it upon them, warm and fervent. "Gwine t' sell ye, too! Mas'r, poor old Mas'r, would'nt sell ye, no how! that he don't. But poor old Boss hab 'e trouble now, God bless 'em," she says, again pressing Annette to her bosom, nearer and nearer, with fondest, simplest, holiest affection. Looking intently in the child's face, she laughs with the bounding joy of her soul; then she smooths its hair with her brawny black hands: they contrast strangely with the pure carnatic of the child's cheek.

"Lor! good Lor, Mas'r Buckra," aunt Rachel exclaims, "if eber de Lor' smote 'e vengence on yeh, 't'll be fo' sellin' de likes o' dese. Old Mas'r tinks much on 'em, fo' true. Gwine t' sell dem what Mas'r be so fond on? Hard tellin' what Buckra don't sell win i' makes money on him. Neber mind, children; de Lor' aint so unsartin as white man. He,—da'h good Mas'r yonder in the clouds,—save ye yet; he'll make white man gin ye back when de day o' judgment come." Aunt Rachel has an instinctive knowledge of the errors, accidents, and delays which have brought about this sad event,—she becomes absorbed in their cares, as she loses sight of her own trouble.

All ready for the market, they are chained together in pairs, men and women, as if the wrongs they bore had made them untrustworthy.

Romescos, ever employed in his favourite trade, is busily engaged chaining up-assorting the pairs! One by one they quietly submit to the proceeding, until he reaches Harry. That minister-of-the-gospel piece of property thinks,—that is, is foolish enough to think,—his nigger religion a sufficient guarantee against any inert propensity to run away. "Now, good master, save my hands from irons, and my heart from pain. Trust me, let me go unbound; my old Master trust me wid 'is life-"

"Halloo!" says Romescos, quickly interrupting, and beginning to bristle with rage; "preach about old Master here you'll get the tinglers, I reckon. Put 'em on-not a grunt-or you'll get thirty more-yes, a collar on yer neck." Holding a heavy stick over the poor victim's head, for several minutes with one hand, he rubs the other, clenched, several times across his nose. Graspum interposes by reminding the minister that it is for his interest to be very careful how he makes any reply to white gentlemen.

"Why, massa, I'ze the minister on de plantation. My old master wouldn't sell-wouldn't do so wid me. Master knows I love God, am honest and peaceable. Why chain the honest? why chain the peaceable? why chain the innocent? They need no fetters, no poisoning shackles. The guilty only fear the hand of retribution," says Harry, a curl of contempt on his lip. He takes a step backwards as Romescos holds the heavy irons before him.

"You don't come nigger preacher over this ar' child; 't'ant what's crack'd up to be. I larns niggers to preach different tunes. Don't spoil prime stock for such nonsense-"

"Master Sheriff will stand answerable for me," interrupts Harry, turning to that honourable functionary, and claiming his protection. That gentleman says it is rather out of his line to interfere.

"Not a preacher trick, I say again-Romescos evinces signs of increasing temper-ya' black theologin. Preachers can't put on such dignity when they'r property." Preachers of colour must be doubly humbled: they must be humble before God, humbled before King Cotton, humbled before the king dealer, who will sell them for their dollars' worth. Harry must do the bidding of his king master; his monkey tricks won't shine with such a philosopher as Romescos. The man of bones, blood, and flesh, can tell him to sell a nigger preacher to his brother of the ministry, and make it very profitable. He assures Harry, while holding the shackles in his hands, that he may put on just as much of the preacher as he can get, when he gets to the shambles, and hears the fives and tens bidding on his black hide.

Harry must submit; he does it with pain and reluctance. He is chained to his wife-a favour suggested by the sheriff-with whom he can walk the streets of a free country,—but they must be bound in freedom's iron fellowship. The iron shackle clasps his wrist; the lock ticks as Romescos turns the key: it vibrates to his very heart. With a sigh he says, "Ours is a life of sorrow, streaming its dark way along a dangerous path. It will ebb into the bright and beautiful of heaven; that heaven wherein we put our trust-where our hopes are strengthened. O! come the day when we shall be borne to the realms of joy-joy celestial! There no unholy shade of birth-unholy only to man-shall doom us; the colour of our skin will not there be our misfortune-"

"What!" quickly interrupts Romescos, "what's that?" The property minister, thus circumstanced, must not show belligerent feelings. Romescos simply, but very skilfully, draws his club; measures him an unamiable blow on the head, fells him to the ground. The poor wretch struggles a few moments, raises his manacled hands to his face as his wife falls weeping upon his shuddering body. She supplicates mercy at the hands of the ruffian-the ruffian torturer. "Quietly, mas'r; my man 'ill go wid me," says the woman, interposing her hand to prevent a second blow.

Harry opens his eyes imploringly, casts a look of pity upon the man standing over him. Romescos is in the attitude of dealing him another blow. The wretch stays his hand. "Do with me as you please, master; you are over me. My hope will be my protector when your pleasure will have its reward."

A second thought has struck Romescos; the nigger isn't so bad, after all. "Well, reckon how nobody won't have no objection to ya'r thinking just as ya'v mind to; but ya' can't talk ya'r own way, nor ya' can't have ya'r own way with this child. A nigger what puts on parson airs-if it is a progressive age nigger-musn't put on fast notions to a white gentleman of my standing! If he does, we just take 'em out on him by the process of a small quantity of first- rate knockin down," says Romescos, amiably lending him a hand to get up. Graspum and the honourable sheriff are measuredly pacing up and down the yard, talking over affairs of state, and the singular purity of their own southern democracy-that democracy which will surely elect the next President. Stepping aside in one of his sallies, Graspum, in a half whisper, reminds Romescos that, now the nigger has shown symptoms of disobedience, he had better prove the safety of the shackles. "Right! right! all right!" the man of chains responds; he had forgot this very necessary piece of amusement. He places both hands upon the shackles; grasps them firmly; places his left foot against Harry's stomach; and then, uttering a fierce imprecation, makes his victim pull with might and main while he braces against him with full power. The victim, groaning under the pain, begs for mercy. Mercy was not made for him. Freedom and mercy, in this our land of greatness, have been betrayed.

Harry, made willing property, is now placed by the side of his wife, as four small children—the youngest not more than two years old—cling at the skirts of her gown. The children are scarcely old enough to chain; their strong affections for poor chained mother and father are quite enough to guarantee against their running away. Romescos, in his ample kindness, will allow them to toddle their way to market. They are not dangerous property;—they have their feelings, and will go to market to be sold, without running away.

The gang is ready. The gaoler, nearly out of breath, congratulates himself upon the manner of dispatching business at his establishment. Romescos will put them through a few evolutions before marching in the street; so, placing himself at their right, and the gaoler at their left flank, they are made to march and counter-march several times round the yard. This done, the generous gaoler invites the gentlemen into his office: he has a good glass of whiskey waiting their superior tastes.

The ward gates are opened; the great gate is withdrawn; the property, linked in iron fellowship,—the gentlemen having taken their whiskey,—are all ready for the word, march! This significant admonition the sheriff gives, and the property sets off in solemn procession, like wanderers bound on a pilgrimage. Tramp, tramp, tramp, their footsteps fall in dull tones as they sally forth, in broken file, through the long aisles. Romescos is in high glee,—his feelings bound with exultation, he marches along, twirling a stick over his head. They are soon in the street, where he invites them to strike up a lively song—"Jim crack corn, and I don't care, fo'h Mas'r's gone away!" he shouts; and several strike up, the rest joining in the old plantation chorus—"Away! away! away! Mas'r's gone away." Thus, with jingling chorus and seemingly joyous hearts, they march down to the man-market. The two children, Annette and Nicholas, trail behind, in charge of the sheriff, whose better feelings seem to be troubling him very much. Every now and then, as they walk by his side, he casts a serious look at Annette, as if conscience, speaking in deep pulsations, said it wasn't just right to sell such an interesting little creature. Onward they marched, his head and heart warring the while. "There's something about it that does'nt seem to come just right in a fellow's feelins," keeps working itself in his mind, until at length he mutters the words. It is the natural will to do good, struggling against the privileges which a government gives ungovernable men to do wrong.



CHAPTER XVIII.

LET US FOLLOW POOR HUMAN NATURE TO THE MAN SHAMBLES.



GENTLEMEN dealers in want of human property,—planters in want of a few prime people,—brokers who have large transactions in such articles,—and factors who, being rather sensitive of their dignity, give to others the negotiation of their business,—are assembled in and around the mart, a covered shed, somewhat resembling those used by railroad companies for the storing of coarse merchandise. Marston's negroes are to be sold. Suspicious circumstances are connected with his sudden decline: rumour has sounded her seven-tongued symbols upon it, and loud are the speculations. The cholera has made mighty ravages; but the cholera could not have done all. Graspum has grasped the plantation, quietly and adroitly, but he has not raised the veil of mystery that hangs over the process. There must be long explanations before the obdurate creditors are satisfied.

The irons have been removed from the property, who are crouched round the stand-an elevated platform-in a forlorn group, where sundry customers can scrutinize their proportions. Being little or no fancy among it, the fast young gentlemen of the town, finding nothing worthy their attention and taste, make a few cursory observations, and slowly swagger out of the ring. The children are wonderfully attractive and promising; they are generally admired by the customers, who view them with suspicious glances. Annette's clean white skin and fine features are remarkably promising,—much valued as articles of merchandise,—and will, in time, pay good interest. Her youth, however, saves her from present sacrifice,—it thwarts that spirited competition which older property of the same quality produces when about to be knocked down under the hammer of freedom.

It is a great day, a day of tribulation, with the once happy people of Marston's plantation. No prayer is offered up for them, their souls being only embodied in their market value. Prayers are not known at the man shambles, though the hammer of the vender seals with death the lives of many. No gentleman in modest black cares aught for such death. The dealer will not pay the service fee! Good master is no longer their protector; his familiar face, so buoyant with joy and affection, has passed from them. No more will that strong attachment manifest itself in their greetings. Fathers will be fathers no longer-it is unlawful. Mothers cannot longer clasp their children in their arms with warm affections. Children will no longer cling around their mothers,—no longer fondle in that bosom where once they toyed and joyed.

The articles murmur among themselves, cast longing glances at each other, meet the gaze of their purchasers, with pain and distrust brooding over their countenances. They would seem to trace the character-cruel or gentle-of each in his look.

Was it that God ordained one man thus to doom another? No! the very thought repulsed the plea. He never made one man's life to be sorrow and fear-to be the basest object, upon which blighting strife for gold fills the passions of tyrants. He never made man to be a dealer in his own kind. He never made man after his own image to imprecate the wrath of heaven by blackening earth with his foul deeds. He never made man to blacken this fair portion of earth with storms of contention, nor to overthrow the principles that gave it greatness. He never made man to fill the cup that makes the grim oppressor fierce in his triumphs over right.

Come reader-come with us: let us look around the pale of these common man shambles. Here a venerable father sits, a bale of merchandise, moved with the quick pulsation of human senses. He looks around him as the storm of resentment seems ready to burst forth: his wrinkled brow and haggard face in vain ask for sympathy. A little further on, and a mother leans over her child,—tremblingly draws it to her side; presses it nearer and nearer to her bosom. Near her, feeding a child with crumbs of bread, is a coarse negro, whose rough exterior covers a good heart. He gives a glance of hate and scorn at those who are soon to tear from him his nearest and dearest. A gloomy ring of sullen faces encircle us: hope, fear, and contempt are pictured in each countenance. Anxious to know its doom, the pent-up soul burns madly within their breasts; no tears can quench the fire-freedom only can extinguish it. But, what are such things? mere trifles when the soul loves only gold. What are they to men who buy such human trifles? who buy and sell mankind, with feelings as unmoved as the virgin heart that knows no guilt?

Various are the remarks made by those who are taking a cursory view of the people; very learned in nigger nature are many; their sayings evince great profoundness. A question seems to be the separating of wenches from their young 'uns. This is soon settled. Graspum, who has made his appearance, and is very quaintly and slowly making his apprehensions known, informs the doubting spectators that Romescos, being well skilled, will do that little affair right up for a mere trifle. It takes him to bring the nonsense out of nigger wenches. This statement being quite satisfactory, the gentlemen purchasers are at rest on that point.

The hour of sale has arrived,—the crier rings his bell, the purchasers crowd up to the stand, the motley group of negroes take the alarm, and seem inclined to close in towards a centre as the vender mounts the stand. The bell, with the sharp clanking sound, rings their funeral knell; they startle, as with terror; they listen with subdued anxiety; they wait the result in painful suspense. How little we would recognise the picture from abroad. The vender, an amiable gentleman dressed in modest black, and whose cheerful countenance, graced with the blandest smile, betokens the antipodes of his inhuman traffic, holding his hat in his left hand, and a long paper in his right, makes an obsequious bow to those who have honoured him with their company. He views them for a few moments, smiles, casts his eye over the paper again,—it sets forth age and quality—and then at his marketable people. The invoice is complete; the goods correspond exactly. The texture and quality have been appraised by good judges. Being specified, he commences reading the summons and writs, and concludes with other preliminaries of the sale.

"Now, gentlemen," says Mr. Forshou—for such is his name—as he adjusts his hat, lays the document on the desk at his right hand, pulls up the point of his shirt-collar, sets his neatly-trimmed whiskers a point forward, and smooths his well-oiled hair: "We-will-proceed-with-the-sale-of this lot of negroes, according to the directions of the sheriff of the county. And if no restrictions are imposed, gentlemen can make their selection of old or young to suit their choice or necessities! Gentlemen, however, will be expected to pay for separating." Mr. Forshou, by way of interpolation, reminds his friends that, seeing many of his very best customers present, he expects sharp and healthy bids. He will further remind them (smiling and fretting his hands, as if to show the number of diamond rings he can afford to wear), that the property has been well raised, is well known, and ranges from the brightest and most interesting, to the commonest black field hand. "Yes, gentlemen," he adds, "by the fortune of this unfortunate sale we can accommodate you with anything in the line of negro property. We can sell you a Church and a preacher-a dance-house and a fiddler-a cook and an oyster-shop. Anything! All sold for no fault; and warranted as sound as a roach. The honourable sheriff will gives titles-that functionary being present signifies his willingness-and every man purchasing is expected to have his shiners ready, so that he can plunk down cash in ten days. I need not recount the circumstances under which this property is offered for sale; it is enough to say that it is offered; but, let me say, gentlemen, to enlarge upon it would be painful to my feelings. I will merely read the schedule, and, after selling the people, put up the oxen, mules, and farming utensils." Mr. Forshou, with easy contentment, takes up the list and reads at the top of his voice. The names of heads of families are announced one by one; they answer the call promptly. He continues till he reaches Annette and Nicholas, and here he pauses for a few moments, turning from the paper to them, as if he one minute saw them on the paper and the next on the floor. "Here, gentlemen," he ejaculates, in a half guttural voice-something he could not account for touched his conscience at the moment-holding the paper nearer his eye-glass, "there is two bits of property bordering on the sublime. It dazzles-seems almost too interesting to sell. It makes a feller's heart feel as if it warn't stuck in the right place." Mr. Forshou casts another irresistible look at the children; his countenance changes; he says he is very sensitive, and shows it in his blushes. He might have saved his blushes for the benefit of the State. The State is careful of its blushes; it has none to sell-none to bestow on a child's sorrow!

Annette returns his somewhat touching manifestation of remorse with a childlike smile.

"Well! I reckon how folks is gettin' tenderish, now a' days. Who'd thought the major had such touchy kind a' feelins? Anything wrong just about yer goggler?" interrupts Romescos, giving the vender a quizzical look, and a "half-way wink." Then, setting his slouch hat on an extra poise, he contorts his face into a dozen grimaces. "Keep conscience down, and strike up trade," he says, very coolly, drawing a large piece of tobacco from his breast-pocket and filling his mouth to its utmost capacity.

"Feelings are over all things," responds the sheriff, who stands by, and will speak for the vender, who is less accustomed to speaking for himself. "Feelings bring up recollections of things one never thought of before,—of the happiest days of our happiest home. 'Tain't much, no, nothing at all, to sell regular black and coloured property; but there's a sort of cross-grained mythology about the business when it comes to selling such clear grain as this."

The vender relieves the honourable sheriff from all further display of sympathy, by saying that he feels the truth of all the honourable and learned gentleman has said, "which has 'most made the inward virtue of his heart come right up." He leans over the desk, extends his hand, helps himself to a generous piece of Romescos' tobacco.

Romescos rejoins in a subdued voice-"He thinks a man what loves dimes like the major cannot be modest in nigger business, because modesty ain't trade commodity. It cannot be; the man who thinks of such nonsense should sell out-should go north and join the humane society. Folks are all saints, he feels sure, down north yander; wouldn't sell nigger property;—they only send south right smart preachers to keep up the dignity of the institution; to do the peculiar religion of the very peculiar institution. No objection to that; nor hain't no objection to their feelin' bad about the poor niggers, so long as they like our cash and take our cotton. That's where the pin's drove in; while it hangs they wouldn't be bad friends with us for the world."

"You may, Mr. Romescos, suspend your remarks," says the vender, looking indignant, as he thrusts his right hand into his bosom, and attempts a word of introduction.

Romescos must have his last word; he never says die while he has a word at hand. "The major's love must be credited, gentlemen; he's a modest auctioneer,—a gentleman what don't feel just right when white property's for sale," he whispers, sarcastically.

Another pause, then a hearty laughing, and the man commences to sell his people. He has uttered but a few words, when Marston's attorney, stepping into the centre of the ring, and near the vender, draws a paper from his pocket, and commences reading in a loud tone. It is a copy of the notice he had previously served on the sheriff, setting forth in legal phraseology the freedom of the children, "And therfo'h this is t' stay proceedings until further orders from the honourable Court of Common Pleas," is audible at the conclusion. The company are not much surprised. There is not much to be surprised at, when slave law and common law come in contact. With Marston's sudden decline and unfathomable connection with Graspum, there is nothing left to make the reading of the notice interesting.

"You hear this, gentlemen?" says the vender, biting his lips: "the sale of this very interesting portion of this very interesting property is objected to by the attorney for the defendant at law. They must, therefore, be remanded to the custody of the sheriff, to await the decision of court." That court of strange judgments! The sheriff, that wonderful medium of slaveocratic power, comes forward, muttering a word of consolation; he will take them away. He passes them over to an attendant, who conducts them to their dark chilly cells.

"All right!" says Graspum, moving aside to let the children pass out. "No more than might have been expected; it's no use, though. Marston will settle that little affair in a very quiet way." He gives the man-vender a look of approval; the very celebrated Mr. Graspum has self-confidence enough for "six folks what don't deal in niggers." A bystander touching him on the arm, he gives his head a cunning shake, crooks his finger on his red nose. "Just a thing of that kind," he whispers, making some very delicate legal gesticulations with the fore-finger of his right hand in the palm of his left; then, with great gravity, he discusses some very nice points of nigger law. He is heard to say it will only be a waste of time, and make some profitable rascality for the lawyers. He could have settled the whole on't in seven minutes. "Better give them up honourably, and let them be sold with the rest. Property's property all over the world; and we must abide by the laws, or what's the good of the constitution? To feel bad about one's own folly! The idea of taking advantage of it at this late hour won't hold good in law. How contemptibly silly! men feeling fatherly after they have made property of their own children! Poor, conscientious fools, how they whine at times, never thinking how they would let their womanish feelings cheat their creditors. There's no honour in that."

"Gentlemen!" interrupts the vender, "we have had enough discussion, moral, legal, and otherwise. We will now have some selling."

The honourable sheriff desires to say a word or two upon points not yet advanced. "The sheriff! the sheriff!" is exclaimed by several voices. He speaks, having first adjusted his spectacles, and relieved himself of three troublesome coughs. "The institution-I mean, gentlemen, the peculiar institution-must be preserved; we cannot, must not, violate statutes to accommodate good-feeling people. My friend Graspum is right, bob and sinker; we'd get ourselves into an everlasting snarl, if we did. I am done!" The sheriff withdraws his spectacles, places them very carefully in a little case, wipes his mouth modestly, and walks away humming an air.

"Now, gentlemen," says the vender, bristling with renewed animation "seeing how you've all recovered from a small shock of conscience, we will commence the sale."

Aunt Rachel is now placed upon the stand. Her huge person, cleanly appearance-Auntie has got her bandana tied with exquisite knot-and very motherly countenance excite general admiration, as on an elevated stand she looms up before her audience. Mr. Forshou, the very gentlemanly vender, taking up the paper, proceeds to describe Aunt Rachel's qualities, according to the style and manner of a celebrated race-horse. Auntie doesn't like this,—her dignity is touched; she honours him with an angry frown. Then she appeals to the amiable gentleman; "come, mas'r, sell 'um quick; don' hab no nonsense wid dis child! Sell 'um to some mas'r what make I housekeeper. Old mas'r,—good old Boss,—know I fus' rate at dat. Let 'um done gone, mas'r, fo'h soon." Rachel is decidedly opposed to long drawn-out humbuggery.

The bids now commence; Rachel, in mute anxiety, tremblingly watches the lips they fall from.

"Give you a first best title to this ar' old critter, gentlemen!" says the vender, affecting much dignity, as he holds up his baton of the trade in flesh. "Anybody wanting a good old mother on a plantation where little niggers are raised will find the thing in the old institution before you. The value is not so much in the size of her, as in her glorious disposition." Aunt Rachel makes three or four turns, like a peacock on a pedestal, to amuse her admirers. Again, Mr. Wormlock intimates, in a tone that the vender may hear, that she has some grit, for he sees it in her demeanour, which is assuming the tragic. Her eyes, as she turns, rest upon the crispy face of Romescos. She views him for a few moments-she fears he will become her purchaser. Her lip curls with contempt, as she turns from his gaze and recognises an old acquaintance, whom she at once singles out, accosts and invites beseechingly to be her purchaser, "to save her from dat man!" She points to Romescos.

Her friend shakes his head unwillingly. Fearing he may become an object of derision, he will not come forward. Poor old slave! faithful from her childhood up, she has reached an age where few find it profitable to listen to her supplications. The black veil of slavery has shut out the past good of her life,—all her faithfulness has gone for nothing; she has passed into that channel where only the man-dealer seeks her for the few dollars worth of labour left in a once powerful body. Oh! valuable remnant of a life, how soon it may be exhausted-forgotten!

Bidders have some doubts about the amount of labour she can yet perform; and, after much manifest hesitancy, she is knocked down to Romescos for the sum of two hundred and seventy dollars. "There! 'tain't a bad price for ye, nohow!" says the vender, laconically. "Get down, old woman." Rachel moves to the steps, and is received by Romescos, who, taking his purchase by the arm, very mechanically sets it on one side. "Come, Auntie, we'll make a corn-cracker a' you, until such time as we can put yer old bones in trim to send south. Generousness, ye see, made me gin more nor ye war' worth-not much work in ye when ye take it on the square;—but a feller what understands the trimmin' a' niggers like I can do ye up young, and put an honest face on while he's cheatin' some green chap with yer old bones." Romescos, very clever in his profession, is not quite sure that his newly-purchased property will "stay put." He turns about suddenly, approaches Rachel-crouched in a corner-mumbling over some incomprehensible jargon, evidently very much disturbed in her feelings, saying, "I kind a' think I see devil in yer eye, old woman." Rachel turns her head aside, but makes no answer. Mr. Romescos will make everything certain; so, drawing a cord, similar to a small sized clothes line, from his pocket, she holds up her hands at his bidding: he winds it several times round her wrists, then ties it securely. "The property's all safe now," he whispers, and returns to attend the bidding arrangements.

One by one-mothers, fathers, and single property, old and young, as may be-are put upon the stand; sold for the various uses of manifest democracy. Harry,—the thinking property, whose sense-keeping has betrayed the philosophy of profound democracy,—is a preacher, and, by the value of his theological capacity, attracts more than ordinary attention. But his life has been a failure,—a mere experiment in divinity struggling with the sensitive power of model democracy. He now seems impatient to know that doom to which the freedom of an enlightened age has consigned him. One minute some cheering hope of his getting a good master presents itself in a familiar face; then it turns away, and with it vanishes his hope. Another comes forward, but it is merely to view his fine proportions.

Harry has feelings, and is strongly inclined to cling to the opinion that those who know his character and talents, will be inclined to purchase. Will they save him from the cruelties of ordinary plantation life?

"Now for the preacher!"-Mr. Forshou touches his hat, politely. "Gentlemen purchasing, and wanting a church can be accommodated with that article to-morrow. Come, boy, mount up here!" The preaching article draws his steps reluctantly, gets up, and there stands,—a black divine: anybody may look at him, anybody may examine him, anybody may kick him; anybody may buy him, body, soul, and theology. How pleasing, how charmingly liberal, is the democracy that grants the sweet privilege of doing all these things! Harry has a few simple requests to make, which his black sense might have told him the democracy could not grant. He requests (referring to his position as a minister of the gospel) that good master-the vender-will sell him with his poor old woman, and that he do not separate him from his dear children. In support of his appeal he sets forth, in language that would be impressive were it from white lips, that he wants to teach his little ones in the ways of the Lord. "Do, mas'r! try sell us so we live together, where my heart can feel and my eyes see my children," he concludes, pointing to his children (living emblems of an oppressed race), who, with his hapless wife, are brought forward and placed on the stand at his feet. Harry (the vender pausing a moment) reaches out his hand (that hand so feared and yet so harmless), and affectionately places it on the head of his youngest child; then, taking it up, he places it in the arms of his wife,—perhaps not long to be so,—who stands trembling and sobbing at his side. Behold how picturesque is the fruit of democracy! Three small children, clinging round the skirts of a mother's garment, casting sly peeps at purchasers as if they had an instinctive knowledge of their fate. They must be sold for the satisfaction of sundry debts held by sundry democratic creditors. How we affect to scorn the tyranny of Russia, because of her serfdom! Would to God there were truth and virtue in the scorn!

Mr. Forshou, the very sensitive and gentlemanly vender-he has dropped the title of honourable, which was given him on account of his having been a member of the State Senate-takes Harry by the right hand, and leads him round, where, at the front of the tribune, customers may have a much better opportunity of seeing for themselves.

"Yes! he's a swell-a right good fellow." Mr. Forshou turns to his schedule, glancing his eye up and down. "I see; it's put down here in the invoice: a minister-warranted sound in every respect. It does seem to me, gentlemen, that here 's a right smart chance for a planter who 'tends to the pious of his niggers, giving them a little preaching once in a while. Now, let the generous move; shake your dimes; let us turn a point, and see what can be done in the way of selling the lot,—preacher, wife, and family. The boy, Harry, is a preacher by nature; has by some unknown process tumbled into the profession. He's a methodist, I reckon! But there's choice field property in him; and his wife, one of the primest wenches in the gang, never says die when there's plenty of cotton to pick. As for the young uns, they are pure stock. You must remember, gentlemen, preachers are not in the market every day; and when one's to be got that'll preach the right stripe, there's no knowing the value of him-"

"We don't want so much of this," interrupts a voice in the crowd.

"Rather anxious to buy the feller," Mr. Forshou replies, affecting much indifference. He will say a few words more. "Think the matter over, upon strict principles of political economy, and you'll find, gentlemen, he's just the article for big planters. I am happy to see the calm and serene faces of three of my friends of the clergy present; will they not take an interest for a fellow-worker in a righteous cause?" The vender smiles, seems inclined to jocularity, to which the gentlemen in black are unwilling to submit. They have not been moving among dealers, and examining a piece of property here and there, with any sinecure motive. They view the vender's remarks as exceedingly offensive, return a look of indignation, and slowly, as if with wounded piety, walk away. The gentlemen in black are most sensitive when any comparison is made between them and a black brother. How horible shocked they seem, as, with white neckerchiefs so modest, they look back as they merge from the mart into the street!

It is a question whether these sensitive divines were shocked at the affectation and cold indifference manifested by legitimate dealers, or at the vender's very impertinent remarks. We will not charge aught against our brethren of the clergy: no, we will leave the question open to the reader. We love them as good men who might labour for a better cause; we will leave them valiant defenders of southern chivalry, southern generosity, southern affability, and southern injustice. To be offended at so small an affair as selling a brother clergyman,—to make the insinuation that they are not humane, cause of insult,—is, indeed, the very essence of absurdity.

The vender makes a few side-motions with his thumbs, winks to several of his customers, and gives a significant nod, as the gentlemen in black pass out of the insulting establishment. "Well, gentlemen, I'm sorry if I've offended anybody; but there's a deep-rooted principle in what I've said, nor do I think it christian for the clergy to clear out in that shape. However, God bless 'em; let 'em go on their way rejoicing. Here's the boy-he turns and puts his hand kindly on Harry's shoulder-and his wench, and his young uns,—a minister and family, put down in the invoice as genuine prime. Our worthy sheriff's a good judge of deacons-the sheriff-high functionary-acknowledges the compliment by respectfully nodding-and my opinion is that the boy'll make a good bishop yet: he only wants an apron and a fair showing." He touches Harry under the chin, laughing heartily the while.

"Yes, master," replies Harry-he has little of the negro accent-quieting his feelings; "what I larn is all from the Bible, while master slept. Sell my old woman and little ones with me; my heart is in their welfare-"

"Don't trifle with the poor fellow's feelings; put him up and sell him to the best advantage. There's nobody here that wants a preacher and family. It's only depreciating the value of the property to sell it in the lot," says Graspum, in a firm voice. He has been standing as unmoved as a stoic, seeing nothing but property in the wretch of a clergyman, whose natural affections, pictured in his imploring looks, might have touched some tender chord of his feelings.

After several attempts, it is found impossible to sell the minister and his family in one lot. Hence, by the force of necessity, his agonising beseechings pouring forth, he is put up like other single bales of merchandise, and sold to Mr. M'Fadden, of A—district. The minister brought eleven hundred dollars, ready money down! The purchaser is a well-known planter; he has worked his way up in the world, is a rigid disciplinarian, measuring the square inches of labour in his property, and adapting the best process of bringing it all out.

"He's all I want," says M'Fadden, making a move outward, and edging his way through the crowd.

"A moment with my poor old woman, master, if you please?" says Harry, turning round to his wife.

"None of your black humbugging; there's wives enough on my place, and a parson can have his choice out of fifty," returns M'Fadden, dragging him along by the arm. The scene that here ensues is harrowing in the extreme. The cries and sobs of children,—the solicitude and affection of his poor wife, as she throws her arms about her husband's neck,—his falling tears of sorrow, as one by one he snatches up his children and kisses them,—are painfully touching. It is the purest, simplest, holiest of love, gushing forth from nature's fountain. It were well if we could but cherish its heavenly worth. That woman, the degraded of a despised race, her arms round a fond husband's neck, struggling with death-like grasp, and imploring them not to take him from her. The men who have made him merchandise,—who have trodden his race in the dust,—look on unmoved as the unfeeling purchaser drags him from the embrace of all that is near and dear to him on earth. Here, in this boasted freest country the sun shines on-where freedom was bequeathed by our brave forefathers,—where the complex tyranny of an old world was overthrown,—such scenes violate no law. When will the glorious, the happy day of their death come? When shall the land be free?

M'Fadden, having paid the price of his clergyman, drags him to the door. "Once more, master," mutters the victim, looking back with fear and hope pictured on his imploring face. M'Fadden has no patience with such useless implorings, and orders him to move along. "I will see them once more!" the man exclaims, "I will! Good bye! may Heaven bless you on earth, my little ones!-God will protect us when we meet again!" The tears course down his cheeks.

"None of that ar' kind of nonsense! Shut down yer tear-trap," says M'Fadden, calling an attendant, and, drawing a pair of irons from his pocket, placing them about Harry's hands. Mr. M'Fadden's property shows signs of being somewhat belligerent: to obviate any further nonsense, and to make short work of the thing, Mr. M'Fadden calls in aid, throws his property on the ground, ties its legs with a piece of rope, places it upon a drag, and orders it to be conveyed to the depot, from whence it will be despatched by rail for a new home.

This little ceremony over, the wife and children (Romescos and M'Fadden, not very good friends, were competitors for the preacher property) are put up and sold to Romescos. That skilful and very adroit gentleman is engaged to do the exciting business of separating, which he is progressing with very coolly and cleverly. The whole scene closes with selling the animal property and farming utensils. Happy Christian brothers are they who would spread the wings of their Christianity over such scenes!



CHAPTER XX.

A FATHER'S TRIALS.



IF modern Christianity, as improved in our southern world-we mean our world of slavery-had blushes, it might improve the use of them were we to recount in detail the many painful incidents which the improved and very christianly process of separating husbands from wives, parents from children, brothers from sisters, and friends from all the ties and associations the heart, gives birth to. Negroes have tender sympathies, strong loves. Reader, we will save your feelings,—we will not recount them; our aim is not to excite undue feeling, but to relate every-day scenes.

Days and weeks pass on drearily with Marston. Unhappy, forlorn, driven to the last extremity by obdurate creditors, he waits the tardy process of the law. He seldom appears in public; for those who professed to be his best friends have become his coldest acquaintances. But he has two friends left,—friends whose pure friendship is like sweetest dew-drops: they are Franconia and Daddy Bob. The rusty old servant is faithful, full of benevolence, gratitude, and unshaken fidelity; the other is the generous woman, in whose bosom beat the tender impulses of a noble soul. Those impulses have been moved to action in defence of the innocent; they never can be defeated. Bob is poor, abject, and old with toil. He cares not to be free,—he wants mas'r free. But there yet remains some value in Bob; and he has secreted himself, in hopes of escaping the man-dealer, and sharing his earnings in the support of old mas'r. Franconia is differently situated; yet she can only take advantage of circumstances which yet depend upon the caprice of a subtle-minded husband. Over both these friends of the unfortunate, slavery has stretched its giant arms, confusing the social system, uprooting the integrity of men, weakening respect for law, violating the best precepts of nature, substituting passion for principle, confounding reason, and enslaving public opinion.

Under the above disorganising state of the social compact, the children, known to be Marston's, are pursued as property belonging to the bankrupt estate. When the law has made it such, it must be sold in satisfaction of Marston's debts.

Seven months have passed since they were shut up in a felon's cell. They have been visited by Marston; he has been kind to them,—kind as a father could be under such circumstances. Franconia has not forgotten them: she sends many little things to lighten the gloom of their confinement; but society closes her lips, and will frown upon any disclosure she may make of their parentage. Were she to disclose it to Colonel M'Carstrow, the effect would be doubtful: it might add to the suspicious circumstances already excited against her unfortunate uncle. The paramount question-whether they are hereafter to be chattel slaves, or human beings with inalienable rights-must be submitted to the decision of a judicial tribunal. It is by no means an uncommon case, but very full of interest. It will merely be interesting-not as involving any new question of law, nor presenting new phases of southern jurisprudence-in showing what very notorious dealers in human kind, and lawyers of great legal ability, can morally and legally perform. It will show how great men figure in the arena of legal degradation, how they unravel the mystery of slave power.

Graspum, professedly uninterested, has purchased the claims, and will pursue the payment in the name of the original plaintiffs. With Romescos's cunning aid, of course the trial will be a perfect farce, the only exception being that the very profound Mr. Graspum will exhibit a degree of great sincerity on his part.

The sessions are sitting; the day for the trial of this important case has arrived; the little dingy court-room is early crowded to excess, but there is not much expression of anxiety. Men speak lightly of the issue, as if some simple game were to be played. The judge, a grave-looking gentleman of no ordinary mien, in whose full countenance sternness is predominant in the well-displayed estimation in which he holds his important self, walks measuredly into court-the lacqueys of the law crying "Court! court!" to which he bows-and takes his seat upon an elevated tribune. There is great solemnity preserved at the opening: the sheriff, with well-ordained costume and sword, sits at his honour's left, his deputy on the right, and the very honourable clerk of the court just below, where there can be no impediment during the process of feeding "the Court" on very legal points of "nigger law." In truth, the solemnity of this court, to those unacquainted with the tenor of legal proceedings at the south, might have been misconstrued for something more in keeping with justice.

The legal gentlemen, most modest of face, are seated round the bar-a semicircular railing dividing their dignity from the common spectator-waiting the reading of the docket. The clerk takes his time about that, and seems a great favourite with the spectators, who applaud his rising. He reads, the sheriff crying "order! order!" while the judge learnedly examines his notes. Some consultation takes place between several of the attorneys, which is interlarded with remarks from the judge, who, with seeming satisfaction to all parties, orders the case of B. C. R. K. Marston's writ of replevin to be called and proceeded with. "As there are three fi fas," says the junior attorney for the defendants, a very lean strippling of the law, just working his way up in the world, "I object to the manner of procedure; the case only involves a question of law, and should be submitted to the special decision of the Court. It is not a matter for a jury to decide upon," he concludes. The judge has listened to his remarks, objections, and disclaimers, with marked attention; nevertheless, he is compelled to overrule them, and order the case to proceed. Upon this it is agreed among the attorneys-happy fellows, always ready to agree or disagree-that a decision taken upon one fi fa shall be held as establishing a decision for all the cases at issue.

The children are now brought into Court, and seated near one of the attorneys. Marston stands, almost motionless, a few steps back, gazing upon them as intently and solicitously as if the issue were life or death. Deacon Rosebrook, his good lady, and Franconia, have been summoned as witnesses, and sit by the side of each other on a bench within the bar. We hear a voice here and there among the crowd of spectators expressing sympathy for the children; others say they are only "niggers," and can't be aught else, if it be proved that Marston bought the mother. And there is Mr. Scranton! He is well seated among the gentlemen of the legal profession, for whom he has a strong fellow feeling. He sits, unmoved, in his wonted moodiness; now and then he gives the children a sly look of commiseration, as if the screws of his feelings were unloosing. They-the little property-look so interesting, so innocent, so worthy of being something more than merchandise in a land of liberty, that Mr. Scranton's heart has become irresistibly softened. It gets a few degrees above Mr. Scranton's constitutional scruples. "Painful affair this! What do you think of it, Mr. Scranton?" enquires a member of the profession, touching his arm.

"It is the fruit of Marston's weakness, you see!-don't feel just straight, I reckon. Didn't understand the philosophy of the law, neither; and finds himself pinched up by a sort of humanity that won't pass for a legal tender in business-"

"Ah! we cannot always look into the future," interrupts the attorney.

Mr. Scranton holds that whatever is constitutional must be right and abidable; that one's feelings never should joggle our better understanding when these little curiosities come in the way. He admits, however, that they are strange attendants coming up once in a while, like the fluctuations of an occult science. With him, the constitution gives an indisputable right to overlook every outrage upon natural law; and, while it exists in full force, though it may strip one half the human race of rights, he has no right to complain so long as it does not interfere with him. It strikes Mr. Scranton that people who differ with him in opinion must have been educated under the teaching of a bad philosophy. Great governments, he holds, often nurture the greatest errors. It matters not how much they feel their magnitude; often, the more they do, the least inclined are they to correct them. Others fear the constitutional structure so much, that they stand trembling lest the slightest correction totter it to the ground. Great governments, too, are most likely to stand on small points when these errors are pointed out. Mr. Scranton declares, with great emphasis, that all these things are most legally true, perfectly natural: they follow in man as well as governments.

With all due deference to Mr. Scranton's opinion, so much demanded among his admiring neighbours, it must be said that he never could bring his mind to understand the difference between natural philosophy and his own constitutional scruples, and was very apt to commit himself in argument, forgetting that the evil was in the fruits of a bad system, bringing disgrace upon his countrymen, corrupting the moral foundation of society, spreading vice around the domestic fireside, and giving to base-minded men power to speculate in the foulness of their own crimes.

The case is opened by the attorney for the plaintiff, who makes a great many direct and indirect remarks, and then calls witnesses. "Marco Graspum!" the clerk exclaims. That gentleman comes forward, takes his place, calmly, upon the witnesses' stand. At first he affects to know but little; then suddenly remembers that he has heard Marston call their mothers property. Further, he has heard him, while extolling their qualities, state the purchase to have been made of one Silenus, a trader.

"He stated-be sure now!-to you, that he purchased them of one Silenus, a trader?" interpolates the judge, raising his glasses, and advancing his ear, with his hand raised at its side.

Yes, yer honour!" "Please observe this testimony," rejoins the attorney, quickly. He bows; says that is enough. The opposing attorney has no question to put on cross-examination: he knows Graspum too well. Being quite at home with the gentlemen of the legal profession, they know his cool nonchalance never can be shaken upon a point of testimony.

"Any questions to put?" asks the legal opponent, with an air of indifference.

"No, nothing," is the reply.

His brother of special pleas smiles, gives a cunning glance at Graspum, and wipes his face with a very white handkerchief. He is conscious of the character of his man; it saves all further trouble. "When we know who we have to deal with, we know how to deal," he mutters, as he sits down.

Graspum retires from the stand, and takes his seat among the witnesses. "We will now call Anthony Romescos," says the attorney. A few minutes' pause, and that individual rolls out in all his independence, takes his place on the stand. He goes through a long series of questioning and cross-questioning, answers for which he seems to have well studied.

The whole amounts to nothing more than a corroboration of Graspum's testimony. He has heard Marston call their mothers property: once, he thinks, but would hesitate before pledging his honour, that Marston offered to him the woman Clotilda. Yes; it was her!

Considerable excitement is now apparent; the auditory whisper among themselves, attorneys put their heads together, turn and turn over the leaves of their statutes. His honour, the Court, looks wiser still. Marston trembles and turns pale; his soul is pinioned between hope and fear. Romescos has told something more than he knows, and continues, at random, recounting a dozen or more irrelevant things. The court, at length, deems it necessary to stop his voluntary testimony, orders that he only answer such questions as are put to him.

"There's no harm in a feller tellin' what he knows, eh! judge?" returns Romescos, dropping a quid of tobacco at his side, bowing sarcastically to the judge, and drawing his face into a comical picture.

Mr. Romescos is told that he can stand aside. At this seemingly acceptable announcement, he bristles his crispy red hair with his fingers, shrugs his shoulders, winks at two or three of the jurymen, pats Graspum on the shoulder as he passes him, and takes his seat.

"We will close the case here, but reserve the right of introducing further testimony, if necessary," says the learned and very honourable counsel.

The defence here rises, and states the means by which his client intends to prove the freedom of the children; and concludes by calling over the names of the witnesses. Franconia! Franconia! we hear that name called; it sounds high above the others, and falls upon our ear most mournfully. Franconia, that sweet creature of grace and delicacy, brought into a court where the scales of injustice are made to serve iniquity!

Franconia's reserve and modesty put legal gentlemen's gallantry to the test. One looks over the pages of his reports, another casts a sly look as she sweeps by to take that place the basest of men has just left. The interested spectators stretch their persons anxiously, to get a look at the two pretty children, honourable and legal gentlemen are straining their ability to reduce to property. There stands the blushing woman, calm and beautiful, a virtuous rebuke to curious spectators, mercenary slave dealers, the very learned gentlemen of the bar, and his enthroned honour, the Court! She will give testimony that makes nature frown at its own degradation. Not far from Franconia sits the very constitutional Mr. Scranton, casting side glances now and then. Our philosopher certainly thinks, though he will not admit it, the chivalry is overtaxing itself; there was no occasion for compelling so fair a creature to come into court, and hear base testimony before a base crowd,—to aid a base law in securing base ends. And then, just think and blush, ye who have blushes to spare.

"Will the learned gentleman proceed with the examination of this witness?" says his honour, who, pen in hand, has been waiting several minutes to take down her testimony. Court and audience, without knowing why, have come to an unconscious pause.

"Will the witness state to the court in what relation she stands to the gentleman who defends title freedom of the children,—Mr. Hugh Marston?" says the attorney, addressing his bland words to Franconia, somewhat nervously.

"He—he—he—is my—," she mutters, and stops. Her face turns pale; then suddenly changes to glowing crimson. She rests her left hand on the rail, while the judge, as if suddenly moved by a generous impulse, suggests that the attorney pause a moment, until the deputy provides a chair for the lady. She is quiet again. Calmly and modestly, as her soft, meaning eyes wander over the scene before her, compelled to encounter its piercing gaze, the crystal tears leave their wet courses on her blushing cheeks. Her feelings are too delicate, too sensitive, to withstand the sharp and deadly poison of liberty's framework of black laws. She sees her uncle, so kind, so fond of her and her absent brother; her eye meets his in kindred sympathy, imagination wings its way through recollections of the past, draws forth its pleasures with touching sensations, and fills the cup too full. That cup is the fountain of the soul, from which trouble draws its draughts. She watches her uncle as he turns toward the children; she knows they are his; she feels how much he loves them.

The attorney—the man of duty—is somewhat affected. "I have a duty to perform," he says, looking at the court, at the witness, at the children, at the very red-faced clerk, at the opposing counsel, and anything within the precincts of the court-room. We see his lips move; he hesitates, makes slight gesticulations, turns and turns a volume of Blackstone with his hands, and mutters something we cannot understand. The devil is doing battle with his heart-a heart bound with the iron strings of the black law. At length, in broken accents, we catch the following remarks, which the learned gentleman thinks it necessary to make in order to save his gallantry:—"I am sorry—extremely sorry, to see the witness, a lady so touchingly sensitive, somewhat affected; but, nevertheless" (the gentleman bows to the judge, and says the Court will understand his position!) "it is one of those cases which the demands of the profession at times find us engaged in. As such we are bound, morally, let me say, as well as legally, to protect the interests of our clients. In doing so, we are often compelled to encounter those delicate irregularities to which the laws governing our peculiar institutions are liable. I may say that they are so interwoven with our peculiar institution, that to act in accordance with our duty makes it a painful task to our feelings. We—I may appeal to the court for corroboration—can scarcely pursue an analysation of these cases without pain; I may say, remorse of conscience." Mr. Petterwester, for such is his name, is evidently touched with that sense of shame which the disclosures of the black system bring upon his profession. This is aided by the fascinating appearance of the witness on the stand. It is irresistible because it is at variance with those legal proceedings, those horrors of southern jurisprudence, which he is pressing for the benefit of his clients. Again he attempts to put another question, but is seized with a tremor; he blushes, is nervous and confused, casts a doubting look at the judge. That functionary is indeed very grave—unmoved. The responsibility of the peculiar institution sorely hardened the war of heart against head that was waging among the learned gentlemen; but the institution must be preserved, for its political power works wonders, and its legal power is wondrously curious. "Please tell the court and jury what you know about the relation in which these children stand to the gentleman who asserts their freedom, dear madam? We will not trouble you with questions; make a statement," says Mr. Petterwester, with great sincerity of manner. Indeed, Mr. Petterwester has been highly spoken of among the very oldest, most respectable, and best kind of female society, for his gallantry.

The brother opposite, a small gentleman, with an exceedingly studious countenance, dressed in shining black, and a profusion of glossy hair falling upon his shoulders, rises with great legal calmness, and objects to the manner of procedure, describing it as contrary to the well-established rules of the bar. The court interpolates a few remarks, and then intimates that it very seriously thinks gentlemen better waive the points,—better come to an understanding to let the lady make her statements! Courtesy entitles her, as a lady, to every respect and consideration. The gentlemen, having whispered a few words together, bow assent to the high functionary's intimation.

Franconia proceeds. She asserts that Hugh Marston (pointing to him) is her uncle; that she knows little or nothing of his business affairs, cannot tell why her brother left the country so suddenly; she knew Clotilda and Ellen Juvarna, mothers of the children. They never were considered among the property of the plantation. Her short story is told in touching tones. The learned and gallant attorney, esteeming it indispensable, puts a question or two as to whether anything was ever said about selling them in consequence of certain jealousies. Before the brother can object, she answers them evasively, and the testimony amounts to just no testimony at all. The court, bowing respectfully, informs the lady she can get down from the stand.

The next witness called is Mrs. Rosebrook. This good and benevolent lady is more resolute and determined. The gentlemen of the bar find her quite clever enough for them. Approaching the stand with a firm step, she takes her place as if determined upon rescuing the children. Her answers come rather faster than is compatible with the dignity of the learned gentlemen of the bar. She knows Marston, knows Franconia, knows the old plantation, has spent many happy hours upon it, is sorry to see the old proprietor reduced to this state of things. She knows the two children,—dear creatures,—has always had a kindly feeling for them; knew their poor mothers, has befriended them since Marston's troubles began. She always-her large, loving eyes glowing with the kindness of her soul-heard Marston say they were just as free as people could be, and they should be free, too! Some people did'nt look at the moral obligation of the thing. Here, the good lady, blushing, draws the veil over her face. There is something more she would like to disclose if modesty did not forbid.

"Nothing direct in such testimony, your honour will perceive!" says Mr. Petterwester, directing himself to the judge.

"Is there any question with regard to the father of the children?" enquires his honour, again placing his hand to his ear and leaning forward inquisitively. His honour suddenly forgot himself.

"Ah, ha'h, he-em! The question, so buried under a mountain of complexity, requires very nice legal discrimination to define it properly. However, we must be governed by distinct pleadings, and I think that, in this case, this specific question is not material; nor do my brother colleagues of the Bench think it would be advisable to establish such questions, lest they affect the moral purity of the atmosphere we live in."

"If your honour will permit it, I may say it will only be necessary in this case to establish the fact of property existing in the mothers. That will settle the whole question; fathers, as you are aware, not being embraced in the law regulating this species of property;" the learned gentleman instructs the court.

His honour, rejoining with a few very grave and very legal remarks, says they look very much alike, and are of one mother. He is a little undecided, however, takes another good stare at them, and then adds his glasses, that the affinity may be more clear. Turning again to his book, he examines his pages, vacantly. A legal wag, who has been watching the trial for mere amusement, whispering in the ear of his brother, insinuates that the presiding functionary is meditating some problem of speculation, and has forgotten the point at issue.

"No!" interrupts Mr. Petterwester, "your honour is curiously labouring under an error; they have two mothers, both of the same tenour in life—that is"—Mr. Petterwester corrects himself—"embodying the same questions of property. The issue of the case now on is taken as final over the rest."

"Ah! bless me, now-I-rather-see-into it. The clerk will hand me Cobb's Georgia Reports. A late case, curiously serious, there recorded, may lead me to gather a parallel. Believe me, gentlemen, my feelings are not so dead-his honour addresses himself to the bar in general—that I cannot perceive it to be one of those very delicate necessities of our law which so embarrasses the gallantry of the profession at times—"

"Yes! yer honour," the attorney for the defence suddenly interrupts, "and which renders it no less a disgrace to drag ladies of high rank into a court of this kind—."

His honour can assure the learned gentleman that this court has very high functions, and can administer justice equal to anything this side of divine power,—his honour interrupts, indignantly.

"The court misunderstood the counsel,—he had no reference to the unquestioned high authority of the tribunal; it was only the character of the trials brought before it. When, notwithstanding our boasts of chivalry, delicate ladies are dragged before it in this manner, they must not only endure the painful tenour of the evidence, but submit to the insolence of men who would plunder nature of its right—"

"I shall claim the protection of the court against such unprofessional imputations," his brother of the opposite interrupts, rising and affecting an air of indignation. The court, quite bewildered, turns a listening ear to his remarks—"Hopes the learned gentlemen will not disgrace themselves."

Order! order! order! demands the sheriff, making a flourish with his sword. The spectators, rising on tip-toe, express their anxiety to have the case proceed. They whisper, shake their heads, and are heard to say that it will be utterly useless to attempt anything against the testimony of Graspum and Romescos. Mr. Graspum, in the fulness of his slavish and impudent pedantry, feeling secure in the possession of his victims, sits within the bar, seeming to feel his position elevated a few degrees above his highness the judge.

"I do hope the interposition of this Court will not be necessary in this case. Gentlemen of the learned profession should settle those differences more like gentlemen," says his honour, looking down upon his minions with a frown of contempt.

"The matter is one entirely of a professional nature, yer honour!" responds the scion of the law, quickly, first addressing himself to the judge, and then to the jury. "If the testimony we have already adduced—direct as it is—be not sufficient to establish the existence of property in these children" (Romescos has just whispered something in his ear) "we will produce other testimony of the most conclusive character. However, we will yield all further cross-questioning the ladies; and I now suggest that they be relieved from the painful position of appearing before this court again."

Mrs. Rosebrook descends from the stand amidst murmurs and applause. Some amount of legal tact now ensues; the attorney for the prosecution displays an earnestness amounting to personal interest.

Here the counsel for the defence steps forward, whispers to the clerk, and gives notice that he shall call witnesses to impeach the characters of Graspum and Romescos. These two high dignitaries, sitting together, express the utmost surprise at such an insinuation. The character of neither is sacred material, nor will it stand even in a southern atmosphere. They have been pronounced legally impure many years ago.

Just at this juncture there is quite an excitement in the court-room. Romescos, like a disfigured statue, rises from among his legal friends and addresses the court on the independent principle. "Well now, Squire, if ya'r goin' to play that ar' lawyer game on a feller what don't understand the dodge, I'll just put a settler on't; I'll put a settler on't what ya' won't get over. My word's my honour; didn't come into this establishment to do swarin' cos I wanted to; seein' how, when a feller's summoned by the Boss Squire, he's got to walk up and tell the truth and nothin' shorter. I knows ya' don't feel right about it; and it kind a hurts a feller's feelins to make property of such nice young uns, especially when one knows how nice they've been brought up. This aint the thing, though; 'taint the way to get along in the world; and seein' I'm a man of honour, and wouldn't do a crooked thing nohow-"

His honour the Sheriff, being somewhat impressed with the fact that Mr. Romescos is rather transgressing the rules of the court, interposes. His defence of his honour cannot longer be tolerated; and yet, very much after the fashion of great outlaws, who, when arraigned for their crimes, think themselves very badly used men, Romescos has the most exalted opinion of himself; never for a moment entertains a doubt of his own integrity.

He reaches over the bar; places his lips to the attorney's ear; is about to whisper something. That gentleman quickly draws back, as if his presence were repulsive. Not the least offended, Romescos winks significantly, crooks the fore-finger of his right hand, and says-"something that'll put the stopper on." The legal gentleman seems reconciled; listens attentively to the important information. "All right! nothing more is needed," he says, rising from his seat, and asking permission to introduce proof which will render it quite unnecessary to proceed with anything that may have for its object the impeachment of the witnesses.

The attorney for the defence objects to this mode of procedure; and the judge, having sustained the objections, orders the counsel to proceed with his witnesses. Several persons, said to be of very high standing, are now called. They successively depose that they would not believe Romescos nor Graspum upon oath; notwithstanding, both may be very honourable and respectable gentlemen. Thus invalidating the testimony of these high functionaries of the peculiar institution, the gentleman of the prosecution has an opportunity of producing his conclusive proof. Romescos has been seen passing him a very suspicious-looking document.

All attention is now directed to the children; they sit pensively, unconscious of the dread fate hanging over them. "What can this testimony be?" rings in whispers about the court-room. Some deep intrigue is going on; it is some unforeseen movement of the slave-dealers, not comprehended by the spectators. Can the bon-fide creditors be implicated? Even Mr. Scranton feels that his knowledge of the philosophy of slave power is completely at fault.

"Now, your honour, and gentlemen of the jury," says the gentleman of the prosecution, "I am fully aware of the painful suspense in which this case has kept the court, the jury, and the very respectable persons I see assembled; but, notwithstanding the respectability and well-known position of my clients and witnesses, the defence in this case has succeeded in expunging the testimony, and compelling us to bring forward such proof as cannot be impeached." Here the legal gentleman draws from his pocket a stained and coloured paper, saying, "Will the gentlemen of the jury be kind enough to minutely examine that instrument." He passes it to the foreman.

"What is the purport of the instrument?" his honour enquires.

"The bill of sale, your honour."

Foreman has examined it satisfactorily; passes it to several of his fellows. All are satisfied. He returns it to the learned gentleman. That very important and chivalrous individual throws it upon the table with great self-confidence.

His honour would like to scan over its details. It is passed to the little fat clerk, and by that gentleman to his honour. "Very, singularly strong!" his honour says, giving his head a very wise shake.

"When the court gets through," says the advocate for the defence, rising and placing his hand on the clerk's desk.

"The gentleman can examine," replies the court, passing it coldly to the Sheriff, who politely forwards it.

He turns it and turns it; reads it slowly; examines the dates minutely. "How did the prosecution come in possession of this document?"

His brother of the law objects, "That's not an admissible question. If the defence will institute an action against the parties for unlawfully procuring it, we will take great pleasure in showing our hands. It may be, however, well to say, that Mr. Marston and Mr. Graspum have always been on the most friendly terms; but the former gentleman forgot to take care of this very essential document," he continues, taking it from the hand of his professional brother, and turning toward the spectators, his countenance glowing with exultation. The pride of his ambition is served. The profession has honourably sustained itself through the wonderful abilities of this learned brother, who, holding the paper in his hand, awaits the gracious applause of the assembled spectators. There is some applause, some murmuring, much whispering.

The court, in coldly measured words, hopes the audience will evince no excitement pro or con.

Some persons declare the bill of sale a forgery,—that Romescos has tried that very same trick twice before. Others say it matters but little on that score,—that all the law in the country won't restrain Graspum; if he sets at it in good earnest he can turn any sort of people into property. A third whispers that the present order of things must be changed, or nobody's children will be safe. Legal gentlemen, not interested in the suit, shake their heads, and successively whisper, "The prosecution never came by that bill of sale honestly." Creditors, not parties to this suit, and brokers who now and then do something in the trade of human beings, say, "If this be the way Marston's going to play the dodge with his property, we will see if there be not some more under the same shaded protection."

"Will the counsel for the defence permit his client to inspect this instrument?" says the learned gentleman, passing it across the table.

Marston's face flushes with shame; he is overcome; he extends his trembling hand and takes the fatal document. It is, to him, his children's death-warrant. A cloud of darkness overshadows his hopes; he would question the signature, but the signer, Silenus, is dead,—as dead as the justice of the law by which the children are being tried. And there is the bond attached to it! Again the thought flashed through his mind, that he had sold Ellen Juvarna to Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy. However much he might struggle to save his children-however much a father's obligations might force themselves upon him-however much he might acknowledge them the offspring of his own body, they were property in the law-property in the hands of Graspum; and, with the forethought of that honourable gentleman opposed to him—as it evidently was—his efforts and pleadings would not only prove futile, but tend to expose Lorenzo's crime.

"The philosophy of the thing is coming out, just as I said-precisely," ejaculates Mr. Scranton, raising his methodical eyes, and whispering to a legal gentleman who sits at his right.

"Serious philosophy, that embraces and sanctions the sale of such lovely children,—making property of one's children against his wishes! I'm a great Southern rights man, but this is shaving the intermixture a little too close," rejoins the other, casting a solicitous look at Marston, who has been intently and nervously examining the bill of sale.

"Any objections to make to it?" says the learned gentleman, bowing politely and extending his hand, as he concludes by inquiring how it happened, in the face of such an array of evidence, that he sold the girl, Ellen Juvarna?

"No objection, none!" is Marston's quick response. His head droops; he wipes the tears from his eyes; he leaves the court in silence, amid murmurs from the crowd. The female witnesses left before him; it was well they did so.

That this is the original bill of sale, from one Silenus to Hugh Marston, has been fully established. However painful the issue, nothing remained but to give the case to the jury. All is silent for several minutes. The judge has rarely sat upon a case of this kind. He sits unnerved, the pen in his hand refusing to write as his thoughts wander into the wondrous vortex of the future of slavery. But the spell has passed; his face shades with pallor as slowly he rises to address the jury. He has but few words to say; they fall like death-knells on the ears of his listeners. Some touching words escape his hesitating lips; but duty, enforced by the iron rod of slave power, demands him to sustain the laws of the land. He sets forth the undisputed evidence contained in the bill of sale, the unmistakeable bond, the singular and very high-handed attempt to conceal it from the honest creditors, and the necessity of jurymen restraining their sympathies for the children while performing a duty to the laws of the land. Having thus made his brief address, he sits down; the sheriff shoulders his tip-staff, and the august twelve, with papers provided, are marched into the jury-room, as the court orders that the case of Dunton v. Higgins be called.

Five minutes have intervened; the clerk calling the case s interrupted by a knocking at the jury-room door; he stops his reading, the door is opened, and the sheriff conducts his twelve gentlemen back to their seats. Not a whisper is heard; the stillness of the tomb reigns over this high judicial scene. The sheriff receives a packet of papers from the foreman's hands, and passes them to the clerk.

"Gentlemen of the jury will please stand up," says that very amiable functionary. "Have you agreed on your verdict?" The foreman bows assent.

"Guilty or not guilty, gentlemen?"

"Guilty," says the former, in tones like church-yard wailings: "Guilty. I suppose that's the style we must render the verdict in?" The foreman is at a loss to know what style of verdict is necessary.

"Yes," returns the clerk, bowing; and the gentlemen of the jury well complimented by the judge, are discharged until to-morrow. The attorney for the defence made a noble, generous, and touching appeal to the fatherly twelve; but his appeal fell like dull mist before the majesty of slavery. Guilty! O heavens, that ever the innocent should be made guilty of being born of a mother! That a mother-that name so holy-should be stained with the crime of bearing her child to criminal life!

Two children, fair and beautiful, are judged by a jury of twelve-perhaps all good and kind fathers, free and enlightened citizens of a free and happy republic-guilty of the crime of being born of a slave mother. Can this inquiring jury, this thinking twelve, feel as fathers only can feel when their children are on the precipice of danger? Could they but break over that seeming invulnerable power of slavery which crushes humanity, freezes up the souls of men, and makes the lives of millions but a blight of misery, and behold with the honesty of the heart what a picture of misery their voice "Guilty!" spreads before these unfortunate children, how changed would be the result!

A judge, endeared to his own children by the kindest affections, feels no compunction of conscience while administering the law which denies a father his own children-which commands those children to be sold with the beasts of the field! Mark the slender cord upon which the fate of these unfortunates turns; mark the suffering through which they must pass.

The hand on the clock's pale face marks four. His honour reminds gentlemen of the bar that it is time to adjourn court. Court is accordingly adjourned. The crowd disperse in silence. Gentlemen of the legal profession are satisfied the majesty of the law has been sustained.

Hence the guilty children, scions of rights-loving democracy, like two pieces of valuable merchandise judicially decreed upon, are led back to prison, where they will await sale. Annette has caught the sound of "Guilty!"-she mutters it while being taken home from the court, in the arms of an old slave. May heaven forgive the guilt we inherit from a mother, in this our land of freedom!



CHAPTER XXI.

WE CHANGE WITH FORTUNE.



BUT a few months have passed since the popularly called gallant M'Carstrow led the fair Franconia to the hymeneal altar; and, now that he has taken up his residence in the city, the excitement of the honeymoon is waning, and he has betaken himself to his more congenial associations. The beautiful Franconia for him had but transient charms, which he now views as he would objects necessary to the gratifications of his coarse passions. His feelings have not been softened with those finer associations which make man the kind patron of domestic life; nor is his mind capable of appreciating that respect for a wife which makes her an ornament of her circle. Saloons, race-courses, and nameless places, have superior attractions for him: home is become but endurable.

In truth, Franconia, compelled to marry in deference to fortune, finds she is ensnared into misfortunes. M'Carstrow (Colonel by courtesy) had fifteen hundred dollars, cash down, to pay for Clotilda: this sad grievance excites his feelings, inasmuch as it was all owing to his wife's whims, and the poverty of her relations. The verdict of the jury, recently rendered, was to his mind a strictly correct one; but he cannot forget the insane manner in which the responsibility was fastened upon him, and the hard cash-which might have made two handsome stakes on the turf-drawn from his pocket. His wife's poverty-stricken relations he now detests, and can tolerate them best when farthest away from him. But Franconia does not forget that he is her husband; no, night after night she sits at the window until midnight, waiting his return. Feeble and weary with anxiety, she will despatch a negro on a hopeless errand of search; he, true to his charge, returns with the confidential intelligence of finding Mas'r in a place less reputable than it is proper to mention. Such is our southern society,—very hospitable in language, chivalrous in memory,—base in morals! Some- times the gallant colonel deems it necessary to remain until daylight, lest, in returning by night, the pavement may annoy his understanding. Of this, however, he felt the world knew but little. Now and then, merely to keep up the luxury of southern life, the colonel finds it gratifying to his feelings, on returning home at night, to order a bed to be made for him in one of the yard-houses, in such manner as to give the deepest pain to his Franconia. Coarse and dissolute, indifference follows, cold and cutting; she finds herself a mere instrument of baser purpose in the hands of one she knows only as a ruffian-she loathes! Thus driven under the burden of trouble, she begins to express her unhappiness, to remonstrate against his associations, to plead with him against his course of life. He jeers at this, scouts such prudery, proclaims it far beneath the dignity of his standing as a southern gentleman.

The generous woman could have endured his dissipation-she might have tolerated his licentiousness, but his arbitrary and very uncalled-for remarks upon the misfortunes of her family are more than she can bear. She has tried to respect him-love him she cannot-and yet her sensitive nature recoils at the thought of being attached to one whose feelings and associations are so at variance with her own. Her impulsive spirit quails under the bitterness of her lot; she sees the dreary waste of trouble before her only to envy the happiness of those days of rural life spent on the old plantation. That she should become fretful and unhappy is a natural consequence.