It was a quarter to twelve, by the clock that faced the entrance door, when I got in.  Anxious to know what kind of questions were put to the slaves, I pushed myself into the knots of intending purchasers, just as if I had been one of them.  The inquiries, I found, related to place of birth, subsequent removals, competency for work, and so forth.  The answers presented a fearful view of the extent to which the internal slave-trade is carried on.  Most of the slaves said they had been “raised” in Virginia and Kentucky.  To avoid the suspicion of being a spy, I resolved to put a few questions too.  I found myself at the establishment where those named in the advertisement which had drawn me thither were to be disposed of.  A pile of handbills—­each containing an exact copy of the advertisement, and a French translation—­was lying on the platform.  Taking one up, I observed the name of “Squires, a carpenter.”  Assuming all the confidence I could muster, I said, “Which is Squires?” “I’m here, sir.”  “You are a carpenter, are you not?” “Yes, sir,” (with a very polite bow).  “And what can you do?” “I can trim a house, sir, from top to bottom.”  “Can you make a panelled door?” “Yes, Sir.”  “Sash windows?” “Yes, sir.”  “A staircase?” “Yes, sir.”  I gave a wise and dignified nod, and passed on to another groupe.  In my progress, I found by one of the platforms a middle-aged black woman, and a mulatto girl of perhaps eighteen crouching by her side.  “Are you related to each other?” I said.  “No, sir.”  “Have you lived long in the city?” I said to the younger.  “About two years, sir; but I was ‘raised’ in South Carolina.”  “And why does your owner sell you?” “Because I cannot cut—­she wants a cutter—­I can only sew.”  I then returned to the groupe at platform No. 1.

The clock was striking twelve; and, before it had finished, the vast dome reverberated with the noise of half-a-dozen man-sellers bawling at once, disposing of God’s images to the highest bidders.  It was a terrible din.  But, at our platform, business proceeded rather leisurely.  Two gentlemen ascended the desk:  the one of a light complexion, about fifty-five years of age, rather fat, whiskers and beard smoothly shaven off; the other, a Frenchified-looking young man, about twenty-five years of age, of dark complexion, with green spectacles to hide some deformity of the eye, no whiskers, but a large quantity of beard on the lower chin.  The elderly man, whom I took to be the notary public mentioned in the advertisement, read the terms of sale; then the dark auctioneer, stroking his bearded chin, proceeded to business.

“Now, gentlemen, let me sell you Jacob.  He is twenty-six years of age—­a first-rate carpenter and wheelwright—­Jacob age d’environ 26 ans, charpentier et charron de la premiere ordre—­guaranteed free from the vices and maladies provided against by law—­garanti exempt des vices et des maladies prevus par la loi.  How much for Jacob? Combien pour Jacob?” He was run up from 1,000 dollars, and was going for 1,175, when the fat old gentleman offered 1,200, at which he was knocked down.  “Now, gentlemen,” said the fat man, with deliberation and emphasis, “the 1,200 dollars was my bid, and therefore Jacob is not sold.  He is well worth 1,800 dollars.”