No. 61. Fine, his wife--(wife? yes, as long as her master will permit
her to remain such!) age 19, and
No. 62. Collar, a plump, little boy of 3 years. The last bid for
them is $3050. Hear what the man behind my chair says to his
companion:--‘Splendid family that! Very likely girl--fine child--but he
paid a good deal of cash for them three black animals.’
‘Yes, Bob,’ says the other, ‘he spends plenty of money, but he will
make ’em work! Holy Tschoupitoulas! they will get more lickings than
tomatoes and bacon.’
Collar’s mother presses her little boy to her bosom; she casts her
tearful eyes towards heaven. But even heaven seems to be closed to her
prayers and to her tears. Shall she doubt that there is a just God
above the clouds? Must her faith in the precious redemption of mankind,
through the Savior, be destroyed in this dreadful hour? Can she still
believe in the Lord and Master of her soul, when her tormentors call
themselves disciples of this same Lord? Christian reader, will you not
mourn while so many thousands of your humble fellow-men are groaning in
chains? Can you sing and pray with a joyful heart in the house of the
Lord, when you know that the cross of your Savior is trodden upon by
the feet of ‘Christian slave-drivers’?
Nations, mourn! for justice is dead, and crime is triumphant!
Let us return to the ‘hall of perdition,’ in mourning apparel.