During the palmy days of the South, forty years ago, if there was one class more thoroughly despised than another, by the high-born, well-educated Southerner, it was the slave-trader who made his money by dealing in human cattle. A large number of the slave-traders were men of the North or free States, generally from the lower order, who, getting a little money by their own hard toil, invested it in slaves purchased in Virginia, Maryland, or Kentucky, and sold them in the cotton, sugar, or rice-growing States. And yet the high-bred planter, through mismanagement, or other causes, was compelled to sell his slaves, or some of them, at auction, or to let the “soul-buyer” have them.

Dr. Gaines’ financial affairs being in an unfavorable condition, he yielded to the offers of a noted St. Louis trader by the name of Walker. This man was the terror of the whole South-west amongst the black population, bond and free,—for it was not unfrequently that even free colored persons were kidnapped and carried to the far South and sold. Walker had no conscientious scruples, for money was his God, and he worshipped at no other altar.

An uncouth, ill-bred, hard-hearted man, with no education, Walker had started at St. Louis as a dray-driver, and ended as a wealthy slave-trader. The day was set for this man to come and purchase his stock, on which occasion, Mrs. Gaines absented herself from the place; and even the Doctor, although alone, felt deeply the humiliation. For myself, I sat and bit my lips with anger, as the vulgar trader said to the faithful man,—

“Well, my boy, what’s your name?”

Sam. “Sam, sir, is my name.”

Walk. “How old are you, Sam?”

Sam. “Ef I live to see next corn plantin’ time I’ll be twenty-seven, or thirty, or thirty-five,—I don’t know which, sir.”

Walk. “Ha, ha, ha! Well, Doctor, this is rather a green boy. Well, mer feller, are you sound?”

Sam. “Yes, sir, I spec I is.”

Walk. “Open your mouth and let me see your teeth. I allers judge a nigger’s age by his teeth, same as I dose a hoss. Ah! pretty good set of grinders. Have you got a good appetite?”

Sam. “Yes, sir.”

Walk. “Can you eat your allowance?”

Sam. “Yes, sir, when I can get it.”

Walk. “Get out on the floor and dance; I want to see if you are supple.”

Sam. “I don’t like to dance; I is got religion.”

Walk. “Oh, ho! you’ve got religion, have you? That’s so much the better. I likes to deal in the gospel. I think he’ll suit me. Now, mer gal, what’s your name?”

Sally. “I is Big Sally, sir.”

Walk. “How old are you, Sally?”

Sally. “I don’t know, sir; but I heard once dat I was born at sweet pertater diggin’ time.”

Walk. “Ha, ha, ha! Don’t you know how old you are? Do you know who made you?”

Sally. “I hev heard who it was in de Bible dat made me, but I dun forget de gentman’s name.”

Walk. “Ha, ha, ha! Well, Doctor, this is the greenest lot of niggers I’ve seen for some time.”

The last remark struck the Doctor deeply, for he had just taken Sally for debt, and, therefore, he was not responsible for her ignorance. And he frankly told him so.

“This is an unpleasant business for me, Mr. Walker,” said the Doctor, “but you may have Sam for $1,000, and Sally for $900. They are worth all I ask for them. I never banter, Mr. Walker. There they are; you can take them at that price, or let them alone, just as you please.”

Walk. “Well, Doctor, I reckon I’ll take ’em; but it’s all they are worth. I’ll put the handcuffs on ’em, and then I’ll pay you. I likes to go accordin’ to Scripter. Scripter says ef eatin’ meat will offend your brother, you must quit it; and I say ef leavin’ your slaves without the handcuffs will make ’em run away, you must put the handcuffs on ’em. Now, Sam, don’t you and Sally cry. I am of a tender heart, and it allers makes me feel bad to see people cryin’. Don’t cry, and the first place I get to, I’ll buy each of you a great big ginger cake,—that I will.”

And with the last remark the trader took from a small satchel two pairs of handcuffs, putting them on, and with a laugh said: “Now, you look better with the ornaments on.”

Just then, the Doctor remarked,—“There comes Mr. Pinchen.” Walker, looking out and seeing the man of God, said: “It is Mr. Pinchen, as I live; jest the very man I wants to see.” And as the reverend gentleman entered, the trader grasped his hand, saying: “Why, how do you do, Mr. Pinchen? What in the name of Jehu brings you down here to Muddy Creek? Any camp-meetins, revival meetins, death-bed scenes, or anything else in your line going on down here? How is religion prosperin’ now, Mr. Pinchen? I always like to hear about religion.”

Mr. Pin. “Well, Mr. Walker, the Lord’s work is in good condition everywhere now. I tell you, Mr. Walker, I’ve been in the gospel ministry these thirteen years, and I am satisfied that the heart of man is full of sin and desperately wicked. This is a wicked world, Mr. Walker, a wicked world, and we ought all of us to have religion. Religion is a good thing to live by, and we all want it when we die. Yes, sir, when the great trumpet blows, we ought to be ready. And a man in your business of buying and selling slaves needs religion more than anybody else, for it makes you treat your people as you should. Now, there is Mr. Haskins,—he is a slave-trader, like yourself. Well, I converted him. Before he got religion, he was one of the worst men to his niggers I ever saw; his heart was as hard as stone. But religion has made his heart as soft as a piece of cotton. Before I converted him he would sell husbands from their wives, and seem to take delight in it; but now he won’t sell a man from his wife, if he can get any one to buy both of them together. I tell you, sir, religion has done a wonderful work for him.”

Walk. “I know, Mr. Pinchen, that I ought to have religion, and I feel that I am a great sinner; and whenever I get with good pious people like you and the Doctor, it always makes me feel that I am a desperate sinner. I feel it the more, because I’ve got a religious turn of mind. I know that I would be happier with religion, and the first spare time I get, I am going to try to get it. I’ll go to a protracted meeting, and I won’t stop till I get religion.”

The departure of the trader with his property left a sadness even amongst the white members of the family, and special sympathy was felt for Hannah for the loss of her husband by the sale. However, Mrs. Gaines took it coolly, for as Sam was a field hand, she had often said she wanted her to have one of the house servants, and as Cato was without a wife, this seemed to favor her plans. Therefore, a week later, as Hannah entered the sitting-room one evening, she said to her:—“You need not tell me, Hannah, that you don’t want another husband, I know better. Your master has sold Sam, and he’s gone down the river, and you’ll never see him again. So go and put on your calico dress, and meet me in the kitchen. I intend for you to jump the broomstick with Cato. You need not tell me you don’t want another man. I know there’s no woman living that can be happy and satisfied without a husband.”

Hannah said: “Oh, missis, I don’t want to jump de broomstick wid Cato. I don’t love Cato; I can’t love him.”

Mrs. G. “Shut up, this moment! What do you know about love? I didn’t love your master when I married him, and people don’t marry for love now. So go and put on your calico dress, and meet me in the kitchen.”

As the servant left for the kitchen, the mistress remarked: “I am glad that the Doctor has sold Sam, for now I’ll have her marry Cato, and I’ll have them both in the house under my eyes.”

As Hannah entered the kitchen, she said: “Oh, Cato, do go and tell missis dat you don’t want to jump de broomstick wid me,—dat’s a good man. Do, Cato; kase I nebber can love you. It was only las week dat massa sold my Sammy, and I don’t want any udder man. Do go tell missis dat you don’t want me.” To which Cato replied: “No, Hannah, I ain’t a-gwine to tell missis no such thing, kase I does want you, and I ain’t a-gwine to tell a lie for you ner nobody else. Dar, now you’s got it! I don’t see why you need to make so much fuss. I is better lookin’ den Sam; an’ I is a house servant, an’ Sam was only a fiel hand; so you ought to feel proud of a change. So go and do as missis tells you.”

As the woman retired, the man continued: “Hannah needn’t try to get me to tell a lie; I ain’t a-gwine to do it, kase I dose want her, an’ I is bin wantin’ her dis long time, an’ soon as massa sold Sam, I knowed I would get her. By golly, I is gwine to be a married man. Won’t I be happy? Now, ef I could only jess run away from ole massa, an’ get to Canada wid Hannah, den I’d show ’em who I was. Ah! dat reminds me of my song ’bout ole massa and Canada, an’ I’ll sing it. Dis is my moriginal hyme. It comed into my head one night when I was fass asleep under an apple tree, looking up at de moon.”

While Hannah was getting ready for the nuptials, Cato amused himself by singing—

Mrs. Gaines, as she approached the kitchen, heard the servant’s musical voice and knew that he was in high glee; entering, she said, “Ah! Cato, you’re ready, are you? Where is Hannah?”

Cato. “Yes, missis; I is bin waitin’ dis long time. Hannah has bin here tryin’ to swade me to tell you dat I don’t want her; but I telled her dat you sed I must jump de broomstick wid her, an’ I is gwine to mind you.”

Mrs. G. “That’s right, Cato; servants should always mind their masters and mistresses, without asking a question.”

Cato. “Yes, missis, I allers dose what you and massa tells me, an’ axes nobody.”

While the mistress went in search of Hannah, Dolly came in saying, “Oh, Cato, do go an’ tell missis dat you don’t want Hannah. Don’t yer hear how she’s whippin’ her in de cellar? Do go an’ tell missis dat you don’t want Hannah, and den she’ll stop whippin’ her.”

Cato. “No, Dolly, I ain’t a gwine to do no such a thing, kase ef I tell missis dat I don’t want Hannah, den missis will whip me; an’ I ain’t a-gwine to be whipped fer you, ner Hannah, ner nobody else. No, I’ll jump the broomstick wid every woman on de place, ef missis wants me to, before I’ll be whipped.”

Dolly. “Cato, ef I was in Hannah’s place, I’d see you in de bottomless pit before I’d live wid you, you great, big, wall-eyed, empty-headed, knock-kneed fool. You’re as mean as your devilish old missis.”

Cato. “Ef you don’t quit dat busin’ me, Dolly, I’ll tell missis as soon as she comes in, an’ she’ll whip you, you know she will.”

As Mrs. Gaines entered she said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Hannah, to make me fatigue myself in this way, to make you do your duty. It’s very naughty in you, Hannah. Now, Dolly, you and Susan get the broom, and get out in the middle of the room. There, hold it a little lower—a little higher; there, that’ll do. Now, remember that this is a solemn occasion; you are going to jump into matrimony. Now, Cato, take hold of Hannah’s hand. There, now, why could n’t you let Cato take hold of your hand before? Now, get ready, and when I count three, do you jump. Eyes on the broomstick! All ready. One, two, three, and over you go. There, now you’re husband and wife, and if you don’t live happy together, it’s your own fault; for I am sure there’s nothing to hinder it. Now, Hannah, come up to the house, and I’ll give you some whiskey, and you can make some apple-toddy, and you and Cato can have a fine time. Now, I’ll go back to the parlor.”

Dolly. “I tell you what, Susan, when I get married, I is gwine to have a preacher to marry me. I ain’t a-gwine to jump de broomstick. Dat will do for fiel’ hands, but house servants ought to be ’bove dat.”

Susan. “Well, chile, you can’t spect any ting else from ole missis. She come from down in Carlina, from ’mong de poor white trash. She don’t know any better. You can’t speck nothin’ more dan a jump from a frog. Missis says she is one ob de akastocacy; but she ain’t no more of an akastocacy dan I is. Missis says she was born wid a silver spoon in her mouf; ef she was, I wish it had a-choked her, dat’ what I wish.”

The mode of jumping the broomstick was the general custom in the rural districts of the South, forty years ago; and, as there was no law whatever in regard to the marriage of slaves, this custom had as binding force with the negroes, as if they had been joined by a clergyman; the difference being the one was not so high-toned as the other. Yet, it must be admitted that the blacks always preferred being married by a clergyman.