The Slave Market.
Not far from Canal Street, in the city of
New Orleans, stands a large two story, flat
building, surrounded by a stone wall some
twelve feet high, the top of which is
covered with bits of glass, and so
constructed as to prevent even the
possibility of any one's passing over it
without sustaining great injury. Many of the
rooms in this building resemble the cells of
a prison, and in a small apartment near the
"office" are to be seen any number of iron
collars, hobbles, handcuffs, thumbscrews,
cowhides, chains, gags, and yokes.
A back yard, enclosed by a high wall, looks
something like the playground attached to
one of our large New England schools, in
which are rows of benches and swings.
Attached to the back premises is a good
sized kitchen, where, at the time of which
we write, two old Negresses were at work,
stewing, boiling, and baking, and
occasionally wiping the perspiration from
their furrowed and swarthy brows.
The slave trader, Jennings, on his arrival
at New Orleans, took up his quarters here
with his gang of human cattle, and the
morning after, at 10 o'clock, they were
exhibited for sale. First of all came the
beautiful Marion, whose pale countenance and
dejected look told how many sad hours she
had passed since parting with her mother at
Natchez. There, too, was a poor woman who
had been separated from her husband; and
another woman, whose looks and manners were
expressive of deep anguish, sat by her side.
There was "Uncle Jeems," with his whiskers
off, his face shaven clean, and the gray
hairs plucked out, ready to be sold for ten
years younger than he was. Toby was also
there, with his face shaven and greased,
ready for inspection.
The examination commenced, and was carried
on in such a manner as to shock the feelings
of any one not entirely devoid of the milk
of human kindness.
"What are you wiping your eyes for?"
inquired a far, red faced man, with a white
hat set on one side of his head and a cigar
in his mouth, of a woman who sat on one of
the benches.
"Because I left my man behind."
"Oh, if I buy you, I will furnish you with a
better man than you left. I've got lots of
young bucks on my farm."
"I don't want and never will have another
man," replied the woman.
"What's you name?" asked a man in a straw
hat of a tall Negro who stood with his arms
folded across his breast, leaning against
the wall.
"My name is Aaron, sar."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-five."
"Where were you raised?"
"In old Virginny, sar."
"How many men have owned you?"
"Four."
"Do you enjoy good health?"
"Yes, sar."
"How long did you live with your first
owner?"
"Twenty years."
"Did you ever run away?"
"No, sar."
"Did you ever strike your master?"
"No, sar."
"Were you ever whipped much?"
"No, sar; I s'pose I didn't desarve it, sar."
"How long did you live with your second
master?"
"Ten years, sar."
"Have you a good appetite?"
"Yes, sar."
"Can you eat your allowance?"
"Yes, sar, when I can get it."
"Where were you employed in Virginia?"
"I worked de tobacker fiel'."
"In the tobacco field, eh?"
"Yes, sar."
"How old did you say you was?"
"Twenty-five, sar, nex' sweet 'tater diggin'
time."
"I am a cotton planter, and if I buy you,
you will have to work in the cotton field.
My men pick one hundred and fifty pounds a
day, and the women one hundred and forty
pounds; and those who fail to perform their
task receive five stripes for each pound
that is wanting. Now, do you think you could
keep up with the rest of the hands?"
"I don't know, sar, but I 'specs I'd have
to."
"How long did you live with your third
master?"
"Three years, sar."
"Why, that makes you thirty-three. I thought
you told me you were only twenty-five?"
Aaron now looked first at the planter, then
at the trader, and seemed perfectly
bewildered. He had forgotten the lesson
given him by Pompey relative to his age; and
the planter's circuitous questions doubtless
to find out the slave's real age had thrown
the Negro off his guard.
"I must see you back, so as to know how much
you have been whipped, before I think of
buying."
Pompey, who had been standing by during the
examination, thought that his services were
now required, and, stepping forth with a
degree of officiousness, said to Aaron,
"Don't you hear de gemman tell you he wants
to 'zamin you. Cum, unharness yo'seff, ole
boy, and don't be standin' dar."
Aaron was soon examined, and pronounced
"sound;" yet the conflicting statement about
his age was not satisfactory.
Fortunately for Marion, she was spared the
pain of undergoing such an examination. Mr.
Cardney, a teller in one of the banks, had
just been married, and wanted a maid servant
for his wife, and, passing through the
market in the early part of the day, was
pleased with the young slave's appearance,
and his dwelling the quadroon found a much
better home than often falls to the lot of a
slave sold in the New Orleans market.
Clotelle or The Colored Heroine, A tale of the Southern States