After several attempts, it is found impossible to sell the minister and his family in one lot.  Hence, by the force of necessity, his agonising beseechings pouring forth, he is put up like other single bales of merchandise, and sold to Mr. M’Fadden, of A—­district.  The minister brought eleven hundred dollars, ready money down!  The purchaser is a well-known planter; he has worked his way up in the world, is a rigid disciplinarian, measuring the square inches of labour in his property, and adapting the best process of bringing it all out.

“He’s all I want,” says M’Fadden, making a move outward, and edging his way through the crowd.

“A moment with my poor old woman, master, if you please?” says Harry, turning round to his wife.

“None of your black humbugging; there’s wives enough on my place, and a parson can have his choice out of fifty,” returns M’Fadden, dragging him along by the arm.  The scene that here ensues is harrowing in the extreme.  The cries and sobs of children,—­the solicitude and affection of his poor wife, as she throws her arms about her husband’s neck,—­his falling tears of sorrow, as one by one he snatches up his children and kisses them,—­are painfully touching.  It is the purest, simplest, holiest of love, gushing forth from nature’s fountain.  It were well if we could but cherish its heavenly worth.  That woman, the degraded of a despised race, her arms round a fond husband’s neck, struggling with death-like grasp, and imploring them not to take him from her.  The men who have made him merchandise,—­who have trodden his race in the dust,—­look on unmoved as the unfeeling purchaser drags him from the embrace of all that is near and dear to him on earth.  Here, in this boasted freest country the sun shines on-where freedom was bequeathed by our brave forefathers,—­where the complex tyranny of an old world was overthrown,—­such scenes violate no law.  When will the glorious, the happy day of their death come?  When shall the land be free?

M’Fadden, having paid the price of his clergyman, drags him to the door.  “Once more, master,” mutters the victim, looking back with fear and hope pictured on his imploring face.  M’Fadden has no patience with such useless implorings, and orders him to move along.  “I will see them once more!” the man exclaims, “I will!  Good bye! may Heaven bless you on earth, my little ones!-God will protect us when we meet again!” The tears course down his cheeks.

“None of that ar’ kind of nonsense!  Shut down yer tear-trap,” says M’Fadden, calling an attendant, and, drawing a pair of irons from his pocket, placing them about Harry’s hands.  Mr. M’Fadden’s property shows signs of being somewhat belligerent:  to obviate any further nonsense, and to make short work of the thing, Mr. M’Fadden calls in aid, throws his property on the ground, ties its legs with a piece of rope, places it upon a drag, and orders it to be conveyed to the depot, from whence it will be despatched by rail for a new home.