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!’