THE VENDUE.
“A queen on a scaffold is not so pitiful a sight as a woman on the
auction-block.”—_Charles Sumner._
“Slavery gratifies at once the love of power, the love of money, and the
love of ease; it finds a victim for anger who cannot smite back his
oppressor, and it offers to all, without measure, the seductive
privileges which the Mormon gospel reserves for the true believers on
earth, and the Bible of Mahomet only dares promise to the saints in
heaven.”—_O. W. Holmes._
About a month after the explosion of the Pontiac, a select company were
assembled, one beautiful morning in June, under a stately palmetto-tree
in front of the auction store of Messrs. Ripper & Co. in New Orleans,
and on the shady side of the street. There was to be a sale of prime
slaves that day. A chair with a table before it, flanked on either side
by a bale of cotton, afforded accommodations for the ceremony. Mr.
Ripper, the auctioneer, was a young man, rather handsome, and well
dressed, but with that flushed complexion and telltale expression of the
eyes which a habit of dissipation generally imparts to its victims.
The company numbered some fifty. They were lounging about in groups, and
were nearly all of them smoking cigars. Some were attired in thin
grass-cloth coats and pantaloons, some in the perpetual black broadcloth
to which Americans adhere so pertinaciously, even when the thermometer
is at ninety. There was but one woman present; and she was a
strong-minded widow, a Mrs. Barkdale, who by the death of her husband
had come into the possession of a plantation, and now, instead of
sending her overseer, had come herself, to bid off a likely field-hand.
The negroes to be sold, about a dozen in number, were in the warehouse.
Mr. Ripper paced the sidewalk, looking now and then impatiently at his
watch. The sale was to begin at ten. Suddenly a tall, angular,
ill-formed man, dressed in a light homespun suit, came up to Ripper and
drew him aside to where a young man, dressed in black and wearing a
white neckcloth, stood bracing his back up against a tree. His swarthy
complexion, dark eyes, and long nose made it doubtful whether the
Caucasian, the Jewish, or the African blood predominated in his veins. A
general languor and unsteadiness of body showed that he had been
indulging in the “ardent.”
To this individual the tall man led up the auctioneer, and said: “The
Reverend Quattles, Mr. Ripper; Mr. Ripper, the Reverend Quattles.
Gemmlemen, yer both know _me_. I’m Delancy Hyde,—Virginia-born, be Gawd.
(’Scuze me, Reverend sir.) None of your Puritan scum! My ahnces’tor,
Delancy Hyde, kum over with Pocahontas and John Smith; my gra’ffther
owned more niggers nor ’ary other man in the county; my father was
cheated and broke up by a damned Yankee judge, sir; that’s why the
family acres ain’t mine.”
“I’ve but five minutes more,” interposed Mr. Ripper, impatiently.
“Wall, sir,” continued the Colonel, “this gemmleman, as I war tellin’
yer, is the Reverend Quattles of Alabamy.”
The Reverend Quattles bowed, and, with fishy eyes and a maudlin smile,
put his hand on his heart.
“The little nig I’ve brung yer ter sell, Mr. Ripper, b’longs ter the
Reverend Quattles’s brother, a high-tone gemmleman, who lives in Mobile,
but has been unfortnit in business, and has had ter sell off his
niggers. An’ as I was goin’ ter Noo Orleenz, he puts this little colored
gal in my hands ter sell. The Reverend Quattles wanted ter buy her, but
was too poor. He then said he’d go with me ter see she mowt fall inter
the right hahnds. In puttin’ her up, yer must say ’t was a great
’fliction, and all that, ter part with her; that the Reverend Quattles,
ruther nor see her fall inter the wrong hands, would sell his library,
and so on; that she’s the child of a quadroon as has been in the family
all her life, and as is a sort of half-sister of the Reverend Quattles.”
“O yes! I understand all that game,” said Ripper, knocking with his
little finger the ashes from his cigar.
The Colonel, in an _aside_ to the auctioneer, now remarked: “The
Reverend Quattles, in tryin’ to stiddy his narves for the scene, has tuk
too stiff a horn, yer see.”
“Yes; take him where he can sleep it off. It’s time for the sale to
begin. Remember your lot is Number 12, and will be struck off last.”
The auctioneer then made his way across the street, jumped on one of the
cotton-bales, and thence into the chair placed near the table.
“Come, Quattles,” said Hyde, “we’ve time for another horn afore we’re
wanted.”
“No yer don’t, Kunnle!” exclaimed Quattles, throwing off that worthy’s
arm from his shoulder. “I tell yer this is too cussed mean a business
for any white man; I tell yer I won’t give inter it.”
“Hush! Don’t bawl so,” pleaded the Colonel.
“I _will_ bawl. Yer think yer’ve got me so drunk I hain’t no conscience
left. But I tell yer, I woan’t give in. I tell yer, I’ll ’xpose the hull
trick!”
“Hush! hush!” said the Colonel, patting him as he might a restive beast.
“Arter the sale’s over, we’ll have a fust-rate dinner all by ou’selves
at the St. Charles. Terrapin soup and pompinoe! Champagne and juleps!
Ice-cream and jelly! A reg’lar blow-out! Think of that, Quattles! Think
of that!”
“Cuss the vittles! O, I’m a poor, mis’able, used-up, good-for-northin’
creetur, wuss nor a nigger!—yes, wuss nor a nigger!” said Quattles,
bursting into maudlin sobs and weeping. The Colonel walked him away into
a contiguous drinking-saloon.
“Brandy-smashes for two,” said the Colonel.
The decoctions were brewed, and the tumblers slid along the marble
counter, with the despatch of a man who takes pride in his vocation.
They were as quickly emptied. Quattles gulped down his liquor eagerly.
The Colonel then hired a room containing a sofa, and, seeing his
companion safely bestowed there, made his own way back to the auction.
On one of the cotton-bales stood a prime article called a negro-wench.
This was Lot Number 3. She was clad in an old faded and filthy calico
dress that had apparently been made for a girl half her size. A small
bundle containing the rest of her wardrobe lay at her feet. Her bare
arms, neck, and breasts were conspicuously displayed, and her knees were
hardly covered by the stinted skirt. Without shame she stood there, as
if used to the scene, and rather flattered by the glib commendations of
the auctioneer.
“Look at her, gentlemen!” said he. “All her pints good. Fust-rate stock
to breed from. Only twenty-three years old, and has had five children
already. And thar’s no reason why she shouldn’t have a dozen more. I’m
only bid eight hunderd dollars for this most valubble brood-wench. Only
eight hunderd dollars for this superior article. Thank you, sir; you’ve
an eye for good pints. I’m offered eight hunderd and twenty-five. Only
eight hunderd and twenty-five for this most useful hand. Jest look at
her, sir. Limbs straight; teeth all sound; wool thick, though she has
had five children. All livin’, too; ain’t they, Portia?”
“Yes, massa, all sole ter Massa Wade down thar in Texas. He’m gwoin’ ter
raise de hull lot.”
“You hear, gentlemen. Thar’s nothin’ vicious about her. Makes no fuss
because her young ones are carried off. Knows they’ll be taken good care
of. A good, reasonable, pleasant-tempered wench as ever lived. And now
I’m offered only eight hunderd and—Did I hear fifty? Thank you, sir.
Eight hunderd and fifty dollars is bid. Is thar nary a man har that
knows the valoo of a prime article like this? Eight hunderd and fifty
dollars. Goin’ for eight hunderd and fifty! Goin’! Gone! For eight
hunderd and fifty dollars. Gentlemen, you must be calculating on the
opening of the slave-trade, if you’ll stand by and see niggers
sacrificed in this way. Pass up the next lot.”
The next “lot” was a man, a sulky, discontented-looking creature, but
large, erect, and with shoulders that would have made his fortune as a
hotel-porter. Laying down his bundle, he mounted the cotton-bale with a
weary, desponding air, as if he had begun to think there was no good in
reserve for him, either on the earth or in the heavens.
“Lot Number 4 is Ike,” said the auctioneer. “A fust-rate field-hand.
Will hoe more cotton in three hours than a common nigger will in ten.
Ike is pious, and has been a famous exhorter among the niggers; belongs
to the Baptist church. You all know, gentlemen, the advantage of piety
in a nigger. Ike’s piety ought to add thirty per cent to his wuth. I’m
offered nine hunderd dollars for Ike. Nine hunderd dollars!”
Here a squinting, hatchet-faced fellow in a broad-brimmed straw hat, who
had been making quite a puddle of tobacco-juice on the ground, leaped
upon the bale, and lifted the slave’s faded baize shirt so as to get a
look at his back. Then, putting his finger on the side of his nose, the
examiner winked at Ripper, and jumped down.
“Scored?” asked an anxious inquirer.
“Scored? Wall, stranger, he’s been scored, then put under a harrer, then
paddled an’ burnt. A hard ticket that.”
The nine hundred dollar bid was as yet in the imagination of the
auctioneer. But, with the quick penetration of his craft, he saw the
strong-minded widow standing on tiptoe, her face eager with the
excitement of bidding, and her words only checked by the desire to judge
from the amount of competition whether the article were a desirable one.
“A thousand and ten! Thank you, sir, thank you!” said Ripper, bowing to
a gentleman he had seen only in his mind’s eye. Nobody could dispute the
bid, all eyes being directed toward the auctioneer.
“A thousand and twenty-five,” continued Ripper, turning in an opposite
direction, and bowing to an equally imaginary bidder. Then, apparently
catching the eye of the competing customer, “A thousand and forty!” he
exclaimed; and so, see-sawing from one chimerical gentleman to the
other, he carried the sham bidding up to a thousand and seventy-five.
At this point Mrs. Barkdale, pale, and following with swayings of her
own body the motions of the auctioneer, her heart in her mouth almost
depriving her of speech, waved her hand to attract his attention, and,
rising on tiptoe, gasped forth, “A thousand and eighty!”
“Thank you, madam,” said Ripper, politely touching his hat. Then,
apparently catching the eye of his imaginary bidder on the right,
“Monsieur Dupré,” he said, “you won’t allow such a bargain to slip
through your hands, will you? _Voyez! Où trouverez-vous un mieux?_ Thank
you, sir; thank you! A thousand and ninety,—I’m offered a thousand and
ninety for this superior field-hand. Goin’,—goin’. Thank you, madam.
Eleven hunderd dollars; only eleven hunderd dollars for this most
valubble piece of property. I assure you, gentlemen, ‘t is not often
you’ve such a chance. Goin’ for eleven hunderd dollars! Are you all
done? Eleven hunderd dollars. Goin’! Gone! You were too late, sir. To
Mrs. Barkdale for eleven hunderd dollars.”
The widow, almost ready to faint, made her way to her carriage, and was
driven off. Some of the company shrugged their shoulders, while others
uttered a low, significant whistle. Ike, who maintained his dogged,
sulky look, picked up his bundle, and was remanded to the warehouse,
there to be kept till claimed.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “I have to call your attention to
the primest fancy article that it has ever been my good fortin to put
under the hammer. Lot Number 5 is the quadroon gal, Nelly. Bring her
on.”
Here a negro assistant led out, with his hand on her shoulder, a girl
apparently not more than eighteen years of age, and helped her on the
cotton-bale. She was modestly clad in an old but neatly-fitting black
silk gown, and, notwithstanding the heat, wore round her shoulders a
checked woollen shawl. Her hair was straight. Evidently she derived her
blood chiefly from white ancestors. She was very pretty; and had a neat,
compact figure, in which the tendency to plumpness, common among the
quadroons, was not yet too marked for grace.
It was apparently the first time she had ever been put up for sale; for
she had a scared, deprecatory look, strangely accompanied with a smile
put on for the purpose of propitiating some well-disposed master, if
such there might be among the crowd.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Ripper, “here is Lot Number 5. It speaks for
itself, and needs no puffin’ from me. But thar is a little story
connected with Nelly. She was the property of Miss Pettigrew, down in
Plaquemine, and always thought she’d be free as soon as her missis died.
But her missis fell under conviction jest afore her death, and ordered
in her will that Nelly should be sold, and the proceeds paid over to the
fund for the support of indigent young men studyin’ for the ministry.
So, gentlemen, in biddin’ lib’rally for this superior lot, you’ll have
the satisfaction of forruding a most-er praiseworthy and pious objek.”
“Make her drop her shawl,” said a gray-haired man, with a blotched,
unwholesome skin, and with dirty deposits of stale tobacco-juice at the
corners of his mouth.
“Certainly, Mr. Tibbs,” said Ripper, pulling off the girl’s shawl as if
he had been uncovering a sample of Sea-Island cotton.
“She has been a lady’s maid, and nothin’ else, I can assure you,
gentlemen. Small hands and feet, yer see. Look at that neck and them
shoulders! Her missis has kept her very strict; and the executor, by
whose order she is sold, warrants you, gentlemen, she has never been
_enceinte_. A very nice, good-natured, correct, and capable gal. Will
never give her owner any trouble, and will ollerz do her best to please.
Shall I start her at a thousand dollars?”
Here Mr. Tibbs and two other men jumped on the bale, and began to give a
closer examination to the article. One pinched the flesh of its smooth
and well-rounded shoulders. Another stretched its lips apart so as to
get a sight of its teeth. Mr. Tibbs pulled at the bosom of its dress in
order to draw certain physiological conclusions as to the truth of the
auctioneer’s warranty.
“Please don’t,” expostulated the girl, putting away his hand, and with
her scared look trying hard to smile, but showing in the act a set of
teeth that at once added twenty per cent to her value in the estimation
of the beholder.
“You see her, gentlemen,” said Ripper. “She’s just what she appears to
be. No sham about her. No paddin’. All wholesome flesh and blood. What
shall I have for Nelly?”
“A thousand dollars,” said Tibbs.
“You hear the bid, gentlemen. I’m offered a thousand dollars for this
_very_ superior article. Only a thousand dollars.”
“Eleven hundred,” said Jarvey, the well-known keeper of a
gambling-saloon.
Tibbs glanced angrily at the audacious competitor, then nodded to the
auctioneer.
“Eleven hundred and fifty is what I’m offered for Lot Number 5.
Gentlemen, bar in mind, that you air servin’ a pious cause in helpin’ me
to git the full valoo of this most-er excellent article. Remember the
proceeds go to edicate indigent young men for the ministry. Mr. Jarvey,
can’t you do su’thin’ for the church?”
“Twelve hundred,” said Jarvey.
“Twelve fifty,” exclaimed Tibbs, abruptly, in a tone sharp with
exasperation and malevolence.
Nelly, seeing that the bidding was confined to these two, looked from
the one to the other with an expression of deepest solicitude, as if
scanning their countenances for some way of hope. Alas! there was not
much to choose. To Jarvey, as the less ill-favored, she evidently
inclined; but Tibbs had plainly made up his mind to “go his pile” on the
purchase, and the article was finally knocked down to him for fifteen
hundred dollars.
“You owt to be proud to bring sich a price as that, my gal,” said
Ripper, in a tone of congratulation. Nelly made a piteous, frightened
attempt at a smile, then burst into tears, and got down from the bale,
stumbling in her confusion so as to fall on her hands to the ground,
much to the amusement of the spectators.
The lots from six to eleven inclusive did not excite much competition.
They were mostly field-hands, coarse and stolid in feature, and showing
a cerebral development of the most rudimental kind. They brought prices
ranging from seven hundred to nine hundred dollars.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Ripper, “I have one little fancy article to offer
you, and then the sale will be closed. Bring on Number 12.”
The colored assistant here issued from the warehouse and crossed the
street, bearing a little quadroon girl and her bundle in his arms.
Simultaneously a new and elegant barouche, drawn by two sleek horses,
and having two blacks in livery on the driver’s box, stopped in the rear
of the crowd. The occupant got out, and strolled toward the stand. He
was a middle-aged man, with well-formed features, a smooth, florid
complexion, and a figure inclining to portliness. Apparently a
gentleman, were it not for that imperious, aggressive air, which the
habit of domineering from infancy over slaves generally imparts. He
carried a riding-whip, with which he carelessly switched his legs.
As he drew near the stand, the auctioneer’s assistant placed on the
cotton-bale the little quadroon girl. She was almost an infant,
evidently not three years old, with very black hair and eyebrows, though
her eyes did not harmonize with the hue. She was naked even to her feet,
with the exception of a little chemise that did not reach to her thighs.
Her figure promised grace and health for the future. In the shape of her
features there was no sign of the African intermixture indicated in the
hue of her skin. With a wondering, anxious look she regarded the scene
before her, and was making an obvious effort to keep from crying.
“Now here is Number 12, gentlemen,” said Ripper. “Jest look at the
little lady! Thar she is. Fust-rate stock. Look at her hands and feet.
Belonged to the Quattles family of Mobile, and I’m charged by the Rev.
Mr. Quattles to knock her down to himself (though he can’t afford to buy
her), rather than have her go into the wrong hands. She’s the child of
his half-sister, yer see, gentlemen. What am I offered for this little
lady?”
“A hundred dollars,” said a voice from the crowd.
“I’m offered two hunderd dollars for this little tidbit,” said Ripper,
pretending to have misunderstood the bid.
Colonel Delancy Hyde stepped forward, and, taking a position at the side
of the auctioneer, addressed the crowd: “I know the Quattles family,
gentlemen. It’s an unfort’nit family, and they’d never have put this
yere child under the hammer if so be they hadn’t been forced right up
ter it by starn necessity.”
“Who the hell are you?” asked a tall, lank, defiant-looking gentleman,
who seemed to be disgusted at the Colonel’s interference.
“Who am I? I’ll tell yer who am I,” cried the latter. “I’m Colonel
Delancy Hyde. Anything to say agin that? Virginia-born, be Gawd! My
father was Virginia-born afore me, and his father afore him, and they
owned more niggers nor you ever looked at. Anything to say agin that,
yer despisable corn-cracker, yer!”
“Hold yer tongue, Colonel; you’re drivin’ off a bidder,” whispered
Ripper. The Colonel collapsed at once, quelling his indignation.
“I’m offered two hunderd dollars for Number 12,” exclaimed the
auctioneer, putting his hand on the little girl’s head. “If there’s any
good judge here of figger an’ face, he won’t see this article sacrificed
for such a trifle.”
“Two twenty-five,” said Tibbs.
The gentleman who had descended from the barouche here drew nearer, and
examined the form and features of the little girl with a closer
scrutiny.
“Two fifty,” said he, as the result of his inspection.
Tibbs, irritated by the competition, made his bid three hundred.
“Four hundred!” said the man with the riding-whip.
“Five hundred!” retorted Tibbs, ejecting the words with a vicious snort.
“Six hundred,” returned his competitor, with perfect nonchalance.
“Seven hundred and fifty,” shrieked Tibbs.
“A thousand,” said the other, playing with his whip.
Tibbs did not venture further. Mortified and angry, he turned away, and
consoled himself with an enormous cut of tobacco.
“Cash takes it,” said the successful bidder, putting his finger to his
lips by way of caution to the auctioneer, and then beckoning him to come
down. Ripper exchanged a few words with him in a whisper, and told his
assistant to put the little girl with her bundle into the barouche, and
throw a carriage-shawl over her.
As the barouche drove off, Hyde asked, “Who is he?”
“Cash,” replied Ripper. “Didn’t you hear? I reckon you see more of
overseers than of planters. You’ve done amazin’ well, Colonel, gittin’
such a price fur that little concern.”
“Yes,” said Hyde; “Mr. Cash is a high-tone one, that’s a fak. I should
know him agin ’mong a thousand.”
The company dispersed, the auctioneer settled with his customers, and
Hyde went to find Quattles, and give him the jackal’s share of the
spoils.
Let us follow the barouche. Leaving the business streets, it rolled on
till, in about a quarter of an hour, it stopped before a respectable
brick house, on the door of which was the sign, “Mrs. Gentry’s Seminary
for Young Ladies.” Here the gentleman got out and rang the bell.
“Is Mrs. Gentry at home?”
“Yes, sir. Walk in. I will take your card.”
He was ushered into a parlor. In five minutes the lady appeared,—a tall,
erect person with prominent features, a sallow complexion, and dry puffs
of iron-gray hair parted over her forehead. A Southern judge’s daughter
and a widow, Mrs. Gentry kept one of the best private schools in the
city. On seeing the name of Carberry Ratcliff on the card, which
Tarquin, the colored servant, had handed to her, she went with alacrity
to her mirror, and, after a little pranking, descended to greet her
distinguished visitor.
“Perhaps you have heard of me before,” began Mr. Ratcliff.
“Often, sir. Be seated,” said the lady, charmed at the idea of having a
visit from the lord of a thousand slaves.
“I have in my barouche, madam, a little girl I wish to leave with you.
She is my property, and I want her well taken care of. Can you receive
her?”
Mrs. Gentry looked significantly at the gentleman, and he, as if
anticipating her interrogatory, replied: “The child came into my
possession only within this hour. I bought her quite accidentally at
auction. She has none of my blood in her veins, I assure you.”
“Can I see her?”
“Yes”; and, walking to the window, Ratcliff motioned to one of his
negroes to bring the child in. This was done; and the infant was placed
on the floor with her little bundle by her side, and nude as she was
when exposed on the auction-block.
“A quadroon, I should think,” said Mrs. Gentry.
“I really don’t know what she is,” replied Ratcliff. “I want you,
however, to take her into your family, and raise her as carefully as if
you knew her to be my daughter. You shall be liberally paid for your
trouble.”
“Is she to know that she is a slave?”
“As to that I can instruct you hereafter. Meanwhile keep the fact a
secret, and mention my name to no one in connection with her. You can
occasionally send me a daguerrotype, that I may see if her looks fulfil
her promise. I wish you to be particular about her music and French,
also her dancing. Let her understand all about dress too. You can draw
upon me as often as you choose for the amount we fix upon; and the
probability is, I shall not wish to see her till she reaches her
fifteenth or sixteenth year. I rely upon you to keep her strictly, and,
as she grows older, to guard her against making acquaintances with any
of the other sex. Will seven hundred dollars a year pay you for your
trouble?”
“Amply, sir,” said the gratified lady. “I will do my best to carry out
your wishes.”
“You need not write me oftener than once a year,” said Ratcliff.
“Not if she were dangerously ill?”
“No; not even then. You could take better care of her than I; and all my
interest in her is _in futuro_.”
“I think I understand, sir,” said Mrs. Gentry; “and I will at once make
a note of what you say.”
“Here is payment for the first half-year in advance,” said Ratcliff.
“Thank you, sir,” returned the lady, quite overwhelmed at the great
planter’s munificence. “Shall I write you a receipt?”
“It is superfluous, madam.”
All this while the child, with a seriousness strangely at variance with
her infantile appearance, sat on the floor, looking intently first at
the woman, then at the man, and evidently striving to understand what
they were saying. Ratcliff now took his leave; but Mrs. Gentry called
him back before he had reached the door.
“Excuse me, sir, there is something I wished to ask you? What was it?
Oh! By what name shall we call the child?”
“Upon my word,” said Ratcliff, “I have forgotten the name the auctioneer
gave her. No matter! Call her anything you please.”
“Well, then, Estelle is a pretty name. Shall I call her Estelle?”
Ratcliff started, came close up to Mrs. Gentry, looked her steadily in
the face, and asked, “What put that name into your head?”
“I don’t know. Probably I have seen it in some novel.”
“Well, don’t call her Estelle. Call her Ellen Murray.”
“I will remember.”
And the interview closed.
After the gentleman had gone, the child, with an anxious and grieved
expression of face, tried to articulate an inquiry which Mrs. Gentry
found it difficult to understand. At last she concluded it was an
attempt to say, “Where’s Hatty?”
Mrs. Gentry rang the bell, and it was answered by a colored woman of
large, stately figure, whose peculiar hue and straight black hair showed
that she was descended from some tribe distinct from ordinary Africans.
“Where’s the chambermaid?” asked Mrs. Gentry.
“O missis, dat Deely’s neber on de spot when she’s wanted. De Lord lub
us, what hab we here?”
“A new inmate of the family, Esha. I’ve taken her to bring up.”
“Some rich man’s lub-child, I reckon, missis. But ain’t she a little
darlin’?” And Esha took her up from the floor, and kissed her. The
child, feeling she had at last found a friend, threw its arms about the
woman’s neck, and broke into a low, plaintive sobbing, as if her little
heart were overfull of long-suppressed grief.
“Thar! thar!” said Esha, soothing her; “she mustn’t greeb nebber no
more. Ole Esha will lub her dearly!”
Mrs. Gentry opened the bundle, and was surprised to see several articles
of clothing of a rich and fine texture, all neatly marked, though
somewhat soiled.
“There, Esha,” she said, “take the poor little thing and her bundle
up-stairs, and dress her. To-morrow I’ll get her some new clothes.”
Esha obeyed, and the child thenceforth clung to her as to a mother. To
the servant’s surprise, when she came to wash away the little one’s
tears, the skin parted with its tawny hue, and showed white and fair. On
examining the child’s hair, too, it was found to be dyed. What could be
the object of this? It never occurred to Esha that the little waif might
be a slave, and that a white slave was not so salable as a colored.
Mrs. Gentry communicated the phenomenon at once to Mr. Ratcliff, but he
never alluded to it in any subsequent letter or conversation.