No. 90. Her child, a babe.
Louisa is a splendid young woman, of about 21. Her stately form and
noble features will make you believe that she is a descendant of pure
royal African blood. She is, perhaps, the grand-daughter of some
princess, who was stolen from her native country by some pirate
who called himself a Christian! Her splendid black eyes are proudly
surveying the sitting assemblage, as if scorning the power of those
dealers in human souls. But, suddenly, their flashing light is gone;
she casts them down, and large drops are falling upon her darling
babe in her arms. Picture a sleeping babe and its mother for sale at
auction! To you, gentle mothers of darling babes, I am now addressing
my simple words. If the heart of man should be cast of iron, or carved
out of granite, a loving mother’s heart is soft, like pure melted
wax, and always susceptible to every impression of goodness and of
compassion. She alone can tell how great is the pain to see her
darling babe suffer. She alone can understand the sufferings of other
unfortunate mothers.
Mothers! which among you could bear to see your own dear babe torn
from your arms? But poor Louisa is forced to see it! Can she bear the
dreadful thought? Why is she a Christian? Can that faith be a true
one--can it be a just one--when they who sell her and her babe call
themselves Christians? Can she still believe in the Savior of mankind?
But, be silent, and take a glance at that poor mother! Though sold for
$1275, she presses her babe closer to her beating bosom; she raises her
large tearful eyes towards heaven, from whence salvation shall come;
for she believes in her Savior upon the Cross, in that Savior who shed
his blood for the everlasting freedom of all human beings.
Reader, a loving mother is a prophetess; and although she foresees the
dangers that shall befall her darling babe, she also recognizes its
deliverance, and its final happiness, through the almighty hand of the
Lord, who is the Savior of little babes, as well as the Savior of men
and women.
No. 91. Yellow John, field hand, 28 years, and his companion in his
life of misery--
No. 92. Martha. Both were sold for $1800.
The kind reader will please enter a magnificent castle, situated in a
romantic province, upon the charming borders of the river Seine. The
noble Count is sitting upon a richly gilded fauteuil, leaning with his
arms upon a small table of rosewood. A golden goblet and two sealed
bottles of the first quality of old ‘Chateau-Haut-Briou’ are placed
before him upon the table. A footman, dressed in glittering livery,
is awaiting his orders. But the Count remains silent; his eyes are
wandering out through the arched window, until they are fixed upon
the sublime scenery before them. The setting sun is casting its mild
rays upon the beautiful landscape. The soft waves of the river are
reflecting the light with the brilliancy of an ocean of diamonds. The
deep blue sky is partly painted with purple, green and violet, shining
with a celestial splendor. Droves of cows and flocks of sheep are
descending the fair hills, and are making for home. Bright and lovely
maidens, wearing upon their black, curled hair beautiful wreaths of
flowers, are dancing like so many fairies upon the green, flowery turf
of the pasture ground, above the stream.
Sir Count! do you not enjoy the lovely scene before your eyes? Are you
not a happy man, to be the owner of so much beauty?
But the Count hears nothing--sees nothing; his mind is absent; he is
dreaming of by-gone days. Suddenly, his face seems to be troubled
with a strange thought--his lips are audibly uttering the words, ‘La
Louisiane! Mon Dieu, que j’étais fou! Pauvre Jeannette! Comment? Non,
non, c’est impossible! Ça se ne peut pas!’
What is he saying? Is he not speaking of Louisiana? He says: ‘My God,
what a fool I was! Poor Jane! How? No, no, it is not possible--it
cannot be so!’
What cannot be so? Who is Jane? Didn’t they call John’s mother
Jeannette, or Jane? Yes, Count! Indeed, it can be! Noble Count, while
you are living in riches and plenty, master of a proud and magnificent
castle, your son--yes, Count! your only son, is a miserable slave! He
is standing, this very hour, upon the platform of a slave-auction room!
He, your own flesh and blood! Listen, O Count! listen to the terrible
story! He--your son--is sold to the highest bidder like a brute!
Count! if your heart is able to feel--if you are not a lump of ice,
like the heart of yonder unfeeling slave-driver--fly from your splendid
castle, and go to parts unknown; for the terrible vision of the
dreadful calamity that awaits your only son will haunt you from the
saloon to the sleeping apartment, and from the garden to the pinnacle
of the tower.
But John, the young Count of Chateau-Brillant, is forced to await the
orders of his new master--for he is a slave!
No. 93. Moses, field hand, 35;
No. 94. Matilda, 30;
No. 95. Richard, 9;
No. 96. Mike, a bright little boy of 6.
Again a splendid family, all the members of which are ‘very likely’;
so says the auctioneer. ‘Superior to all sold heretofore.’ Moses, a
strong, healthy and intelligent-looking man, is standing upon the
platform, with the feelings of a father whose dear ones and himself
are disposed of like dogs. See, he is strong; he is able to fight
for his freedom, and no doubt could overpower half a dozen of those
sickly-looking slave-drivers. Well, why don’t he fight to gain his
liberty, and, consequently, be regarded as a man, and not as a mule?
Because he is well aware that he has no power as a single man, and
that he cannot combine with his other unfortunate brothers to break
the yoke, as did his great namesake of old several thousand years
ago. Is he afraid of death? O no, for he knows perfectly well that
his body is not his own; that the bodies of his beloved ones do not
belong to themselves. Who then would suffer, in case of his death,
but his money-making master? But Moses has two reasons for not
avenging himself. The first is, he is sure that the attempt to excite
his brothers in bondage to revolt against their masters, would not
only imperil their lives, but in all probability subject them to
an awful death upon the burning wood-pile. Moses is not afraid of
any wood-pile, whether burning or not; but he has a good-natured
disposition, and therefore shrinks from involving his brethren in so
awful a catastrophe. He will continue to suffer under the whip, rather
than cause the death of his fellows upon the funeral pile.
His second reason is, because he is a Christian.
Every slaveholder knows perfectly well that a Christian slave is worth
much more than one who has no faith at all. Many of them are sagacious
enough to teach their slaves the gospel, and particularly those words
of the apostle Paul: ‘Servants, be obedient to them that are your
masters, according to the flesh, with fear and trembling.’ Ephes. vi.
5. Here and there, a slaveholder will forbid his slaves to attend
religious exercises; but he is a fool, and he will surely suffer for it.
I happened once to get acquainted with a Frenchman, an owner of slaves,
who said to me, ‘Doctor, I will be obliged to you if you will teach my
slaves your religious opinions; for though they are to me ridiculous, I
know very well that my slaves, once believing in your nonsense, will be
worth more to me than they are now.’
Alas! poor Moses will remain a slave until death shall break his
chains! But, no! His chains shall be broken before! God grant it!
No. 94. Matilda, wife of Moses, (though she is never regarded as a
wife by the slave code,) seems to be a very good creature. While she
is weeping silently, she presses her last-born, her darling boy, her
Mike, close to her bosom. Poor child! Bitter, yes, very bitter are the
tears thy unfortunate mother is weeping over thee! Alas! she fears that
thou mayest be sold to a man whose gospel is ‘money.’ O Mike! will he
order you to his infamous gambling saloon? Will you learn his tricks,
and will he poison your pure innocent heart with his blasphemies? Is it
his intention to make you a deceiver, a thief, a robber, a murderer?
Dreadful thought! that child of affliction and of prayers shall perhaps
become a candidate for the gallows! And why? For money’s sake! Yes, to
fill a villain’s pockets with money!
And Richard--the noble, the smart, the truth-loving boy, with those
clear innocent eyes--what shall become of him when his new master shall
prove to be man of dissolute habits?
Mourn again, reader! for virtue and justice shall succumb, and crime
shall be triumphant. That family brings a good price. These Christians
are sold for $3000; and with them their hope, their virtue, their
faith, all that they possess in this world. The curtain falls--the
tragedy closes.