We must invite the reader to accompany us to the county gaol, on the morning of sale.

The “gang"-Marston’s slaves-have been ordered to prepare themselves for the market; the yard resounds with their jargon.  Some are arranging their little clothing, washing, “brightening up” their faces to make the property show off in the market.  Others are preparing homony for breakfast; children, in ragged garments, are toddling, running, playing, and sporting about the brick pavement; the smallest are crouched at the feet of their mothers, as if sharing the gloom or nonchalance of their feeling.  Men are gathering together the remnants of some cherished memento of the old plantation; they had many a happy day upon it.  Women view as things of great worth the little trinkets with which good master, in former days, rewarded their energy.  They recall each happy association of the cabin.  Husbands, or such as should be husbands, look upon their wives with solicitude; they feel it is to be the last day they will meet together on earth.  They may meet in heaven; there is no slavery there.  Mothers look upon their children only to feel the pangs of sorrow more keenly; they know and feel that their offspring are born for the market, not for the enjoyment of their affections.  They may be torn from them, and sold like sheep in the shambles.  Happy, free country!  How fair, how beautiful the picture of constitutional rights! how in keeping with every-day scenes of southern life!

“I’ze gwine to be sold; you’re gwint to be sold; we’re all gwine to be sold.  Wonder what mas’r’s gwine t’buy dis child,” says Aunt Rachel, arranging her best dress, making her face “shine just so.”  Aunt Rachel endeavours to suit her feelings to the occasion, trims her bandana about her head with exquisite taste, and lets the bright-coloured points hang about her ears in great profusion.

“Da’h ‘s a right smart heap o’ dollar in dis old nigger, yet!-if mas’r what gwine t’buy ’em know how’t fotch um out; Mas’r must do da’h clean ting wid dis child,” Rachel says, as if exulting over the value of her own person.  She brushes and brushes, views and reviews herself in a piece of mirror-several are waiting to borrow it-thinks she is just right for market, asks herself what’s the use of fretting?  It’s a free country, with boundless hospitality-of the southern stamp,—­and why not submit to all freedom’s dealings?  Aunt Rachel is something of a philosopher.

“Aunte! da’ would’nt gin much fo’h yer old pack a’ bones if mas’r what gwine to buy ye know’d ye like I. Ye’ h’ant da property what bring long price wid Buckra,” replies Dandy, who views Aunt Rachel rather suspiciously, seems inclined to relieve her conceit, and has taken very good care that his own dimensions are trimmed up to the highest point.

“Dis nigger would’nt swop h’r carcas fo’h yourn.  Dat she don’t,” Rachel retorts.