Part 3

No. 85. Who is No. 85? Ay, there we find poor old Betsy, kind old soul! She labored more than 40 years in her master’s house. She had sung and cradled the children to sleep, carefully protecting them from all harm. She watched over those children like a mother; and if there were some particularly fine, golden oranges hanging over the porch, she had to get them down for her darling boy, her master’s child. And this very child, now a full-grown man, is selling her to-day at auction for $100.

No. 86. John Jones, field hand, (suffers from slight hernia,) 23 years old, and

No. 87. Anna Kentuck, 22 years, and

No. 88. Her little boy, Armstead, 3 years. All together were sold for $1950. But the stranger who had the last bid is not able to give the requisite security, nor is he in possession of cash; and the poor family is placed again upon the platform, to be resold. The torture begins anew; they have again to feel the mortification of being placed in the same category with cattle. Armstead, the poor little boy, will give you the best proof that even little children can feel the atrocity of being thus sold. He begins to cry most pitifully, and hides his face under the white apron of his weeping mother.

No. 89. Louisa, and

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.

No. 97. Jerry, field hand, 42 years, and

No. 98. Molly, 40 years. An old looking couple, but a kind, a true-hearted one.

‘Gentlemen,’ says the auctioneer----. But before I proceed, the reader will give me permission to mention that the four ladies, present at the commencement of this auction sale, did not bid, nor did they remain for more than half an hour. For the honor of their sex, I am bound to mention that they (though most probably themselves owners of slaves,) seemed to feel very uneasy while present. I believe that there is a certain natural feeling with the great majority of the gentler sex, which is more just, and more open to the truths of the gospel, than we of the masculine race are able to comprehend.

‘Gentlemen,’ says the auctioneer, ‘Jerry and Molly are the last couple to be sold to-day; for it is late, and we have to close. To-morrow at 12 M., the rest of the slaves, belonging to this gang, fifty-one very valuable, sound and likely negroes, will be sold to the highest bidder for cash and approved paper.’

I intend,--_Deo volente_,--to delineate at some future time the proceedings of ‘the sale of to-morrow.’ Let us close, for the present, with poor Jerry and unfortunate Molly, who were sold to a not very kind looking man for $1125.

The chattels are sold. There were ninety-eight large and small articles--Christian goods--bringing to their former owner the snug little sum of $80,890. Will that sum be sufficient to buy ninety-eight souls of men, baptized in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit? Friends! eighty millions will never buy them from their Father in heaven, for they have been ‘bought with a price’--with the precious blood of the Son of God!

Surely, if we are convinced that the institution of slavery is a great wrong against humanity, and a heavy curse to Christianity, we shall seek to abolish it without delay.

But how can we do it? By what means can we induce the slaveholders in the South to give up their ‘property,’ their ‘wealth,’ their ‘merchandise,’ their ‘valuable goods?’ Shall we invade the Slave States with a large army, and liberate the slaves by means of revolvers, knives, swords, and Sharp’s or Minnie rifles? I know the Southerners too well, not to be convinced that every one of them would fight to the death--that they would lose every drop of their blood, rather than consent to give up their slaves. The Southerner is no coward; he is brave in battle, and faces death without fear. But, suppose that the whole body of the oppressed slaves should rise as one man, and strike for their liberty--would not their victory be certain? Yes, but what a victory! Streams of blood would stain the ever-blooming soil of the South, and legions of corpses would become a prey to the vultures. And whose blood would flow? That only of mean and cruel slave-drivers? Oh, no! Many thousand corpses of innocent babes would point up to heaven for vengeance! Thousands of blooming young maidens would be slaughtered, causing the blood-stained soil to remain a curse for many centuries!

No, my friends! No revolver, no rifle, no knife, no bloodshed nor slaughter shall be necessary to metamorphose slaves into freemen. No war is able to abolish the institution of slavery. There is a standard which is bound to be victorious in the hottest of battles--a standard, before the glory of which, the most stubborn of slave-drivers shall be forced to fall upon his knees, crying, ‘Lord! what shall I do to be saved?’ That standard is the Cross of the Redeemer of mankind! If the slaveholders will truly believe in the powerful supremacy of that standard, it will be impossible for them to keep any longer their colored brethren in so shameful a bondage as Slavery. If the slaveholder of the South would call himself a Christian, without being a hypocrite, he will be obliged to do away with Slave laws, Slave markets, and Slave auctions--in fact, TO ABOLISH SLAVERY.

THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

[In a publication of L. F. TASISTRO, ‘Random Shots and Southern Breezes,’ is a description of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recommended the woman on the stand as ‘A GOOD CHRISTIAN!’]

A Christian! going, gone! Who bids for God’s own image?--for His grace Which that poor victim of the market-place Hath in her suffering won?

My God! can such things be? Hast thou not said that whatsoe’er is done Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one, Is even done to Thee?

In that sad victim, then, Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand, Once more the jest-word of a mocking band, Bound, sold, and scourged again!

A Christian up for sale! Wet with her blood your whips--o’ertask her frame, Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame, _Her_ patience shall not fail!

Cheers for the turbaned Bey Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne Their inmates into day:

But our poor slave in vain Turns to the Christian shrine her aching eyes-- Its rites will only swell her market price, And rivet on her chain.

God of all right! how long Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand, Lifting in prayer to Thee the bloody hand And haughty brow of wrong!

O, from the fields of cane, From the low rice-swamp, from the trader’s cell-- From the black slave-ship’s foul and loathsome hell, And coffle’s weary chain--

Hoarse, horrible, and strong, Rises to heaven that agonizing cry, Filling the arches of the hollow sky, HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!

THE SLAVE MINGO’S POEM.

_To the Editor of the Boston Journal_:

[The following remarkable poem was sent me from the South by a friend, who informs me that the author of it was a slave named Mingo, a man of wonderful talents, and on that account oppressed by his master. While in the slave-prison, he penciled this poetic gem on one of the beams, which was afterwards found and copied. My friend adds that Mingo did escape, at night, but was recaptured and destroyed by the bloodhounds. My friend promises to send other poems of his, which, he says, are in possession of Mingo’s aged wife.]

C. W.

Good God! and must I leave them now-- My wife, my children, in their woe? ’Tis mockery to say I’m sold-- But I forget these chains so cold, Which goad my bleeding limbs, though high My reason mounts above the sky. Dear wife, they cannot sell the rose Of love, that in my bosom glows. Remember, as your tears may start, They cannot sell th’ immortal part! Thou sun, which lightest bond and free, Tell me, I pray, is liberty The lot of those who noblest feel, And oftest to Jehovah kneel? Then I may say, but not with pride, I feel the rushings of the tide Of reason and of eloquence, Which strive and yearn for eminence. I feel high manhood on me now, A spirit-glory on my brow; I feel a thrill of music roll, Like angel harpings, through my soul, While poesy, with rustling wings, Upon my spirit rests and sings; _He_ sweeps my heart’s deep throbbing lyre, Who touched Isaiah’s lips with fire.

To Plymouth Rock, ye breezes, bear These words from me, as I would dare, If I were free: Is not our God Our common Father?--from the sod He formed us all; then brothers--yes; We’re brothers all, though some oppress, And grind their equals in the dust. O Heaven! tell me, is this just? ’Tis fiendish. No! I will not go, And leave my children here in woe! God help me! Out, bright dagger! gleam, And find the coward’s heart, and stream With fiendish blood! This night, this night, Or I am free, or it shall smite The master and his slave, and we Will seek the heavenly liberty! There will my master’s bloody lash No longer lacerate * * *

NOTE. The last line was, from some cause, incomplete; perhaps his feelings overcame him at the conception. I concluded to give it as it was. C. W.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.