scarcely pursue an analysation of these cases without pain; I may say, remorse of conscience.”  Mr. Petterwester, for such is his name, is evidently touched with that sense of shame which the disclosures of the black system bring upon his profession.  This is aided by the fascinating appearance of the witness on the stand.  It is irresistible because it is at variance with those legal proceedings, those horrors of southern jurisprudence, which he is pressing for the benefit of his clients.  Again he attempts to put another question, but is seized with a tremor; he blushes, is nervous and confused, casts a doubting look at the judge.  That functionary is indeed very grave—­unmoved.  The responsibility of the peculiar institution sorely hardened the war of heart against head that was waging among the learned gentlemen; but the institution must be preserved, for its political power works wonders, and its legal power is wondrously curious.  “Please tell the court and jury what you know about the relation in which these children stand to the gentleman who asserts their freedom, dear madam?  We will not trouble you with questions; make a statement,” says Mr. Petterwester, with great sincerity of manner.  Indeed, Mr. Petterwester has been highly spoken of among the very oldest, most respectable, and best kind of female society, for his gallantry.

The brother opposite, a small gentleman, with an exceedingly studious countenance, dressed in shining black, and a profusion of glossy hair falling upon his shoulders, rises with great legal calmness, and objects to the manner of procedure, describing it as contrary to the well-established rules of the bar.  The court interpolates a few remarks, and then intimates that it very seriously thinks gentlemen better waive the points,—­better come to an understanding to let the lady make her statements!  Courtesy entitles her, as a lady, to every respect and consideration.  The gentlemen, having whispered a few words together, bow assent to the high functionary’s intimation.

Franconia proceeds.  She asserts that Hugh Marston (pointing to him) is her uncle; that she knows little or nothing of his business affairs, cannot tell why her brother left the country so suddenly; she knew Clotilda and Ellen Juvarna, mothers of the children.  They never were considered among the property of the plantation.  Her short story is told in touching tones.  The learned and gallant attorney, esteeming it indispensable, puts a question or two as to whether anything was ever said about selling them in consequence of certain jealousies.  Before the brother can object, she answers them evasively, and the testimony amounts to just no testimony at all.  The court, bowing respectfully, informs the lady she can get down from the stand.