The invention of the Whitney cotton gin, nearly fifty years ago, created a wonderful rise in the price of slaves in the cotton States. The value of able-bodied men, fit for field-hands, advanced from five hundred to twelve hundred dollars, in the short space of five years. In 1850, a prime field-hand was worth two thousand dollars. The price of women rose in proportion; they being valued at about three hundred dollars less each than the men. This change in the price of slaves caused a lucrative business to spring up, both in the breeding of slaves and the sending of them to the States needing their services. Virginia, Kentucky, Missouri, Tennessee, and North Carolina became the slave-raising sections; Virginia, however, was always considered the banner State. To the traffic in human beings, more than to any other of its evils, is the institution indebted for its overthrow.

From the picture on the heading of The Liberator, down to the smallest tract printed against slavery, the separation of families was the chief object of those exposing the great American sin. The tearing asunder of husbands and wives, of parents and children, and the gangs of men and women chained together, en route for the New-Orleans’ market, furnished newspaper correspondents with items that never wanted readers. These newspaper paragraphs were not unfrequently made stronger by the fact that many of the slaves were as white as those who offered them for sale, and the close resemblance of the victim to the trader, often reminded the purchaser that the same blood coursed through the veins of both.

The removal of Dr. Gaines from “Poplar Farm” to St. Louis, gave me an opportunity of seeing the worst features of the internal slave-trade. For many years Missouri drove a brisk business in the selling of her sons and daughters, the greater number of whom passed through the city of St. Louis. For a long time, James Walker was the principal speculator in this species of property. The early life of this man had been spent as a drayman, first working for others, then for himself, and eventually purchasing men who worked with him. At last, disposing of his horses and drays, he took his faithful men to the Louisiana market and sold them. This was the commencement of a career of cruelty, that, in all probability, had no equal in the annals of the American slave trade.

A more repulsive-looking person could scarcely be found in any community of bad-looking men than Walker. Tall, lean, and lank, with high cheek-bones, face much pitted with the small-pox, gray eyes, with red eyebrows, and sandy whiskers, he indeed stood alone without mate or fellow in looks. He prided himself upon what he called his goodness of heart, and was always speaking of his humanity.

Walker often boasted that he never separated families if he could “persuade the purchaser to take the whole lot.” He would always advertise in the New Orleans’ papers that he would be there with a prime lot of able-bodied slaves, men and women, fit for field-service, with a few extra ones calculated for house servants,—all between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five years; but like most men who make a business of speculating in human beings, he often bought many who were far advanced in years, and would try to pass them off for five or six years younger than they were. Few persons can arrive at anything approaching the real age of the negro, by mere observation, unless they are well acquainted with the race. Therefore, the slave-trader frequently carried out the deception with perfect impunity.

As soon as the steamer would leave the wharf, and was fairly on the bosom of the broad Mississippi, the speculator would call his servant Pompey to him, and instruct him as to getting the slaves ready for the market. If any of the blacks looked as if they were older than they were advertised to be, it was Pompey’s business to fit them for the day of sale.

Pomp, as he was usually called by the trader, was of real negro blood, and would often say, when alluding to himself, “Dis nigger am no counterfeit, he is de ginuine artikle. Dis chile is none of your haf-and-haf, dere is no bogus about him.”

Pompey was of low stature, round face, and, like most of his race, had a set of teeth, which, for whiteness and beauty, could not be surpassed; his eyes were large, lips thick, and hair short and woolly. Pomp had been with Walker so long, and seen so much of buying and selling of his fellow-creatures, that he appeared perfectly indifferent to the heart-rending scenes which daily occurred in his presence. Such is the force of habit:—

Before reaching the place of destination, Pompey would pick out the older portion and say, “I is de chap dat is to get you ready for de Orleans market, so dat you will bring marser a good price. How old is you?” addressing himself to a man that showed some age.

“Ef I live to see next corn-plantin’ time, I’ll be forty.”

“Dat may be,” replied Pompey, “but now you is only thirty years old; dat’s what marser says you is to be.”

“I know I is mo’ dan dat,” responded the man.

“I can’t help nuffin’ ’bout dat,” returned Pompey; “but when you get in de market, an’ any one ax you how old you is, an’ you tell um you is forty, massa will tie you up, an’ when he is done whippin’ you, you’ll be glad to say you’s only thirty.”

“Well den, I reckon I is only thirty,” said the slave.

“What is your name?” asked Pompey of another man in the group.

“Jeems,” was the response.

“Oh! Uncle Jim, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Den you muss’ hab all dem gray whiskers shaved off, and dem gray hairs plucked out of your head. De fack is, you’s got ole too quick.” This was all said by Pompey in a manner which showed that he knew his business.

“How ole is you?” asked Pompey of a tall, strong-looking man.

“I am twenty-nine, nex’ Christmas Eve,” said the man.

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Tobias,” replied the slave.

“Tobias!” ejaculated Pompey, with a sneer, that told that he was ready to show his brief authority. “Now you’s puttin’ on airs. Your name is Toby, an’ why can’t you tell the truf? Remember, now, dat you is twenty-three years ole; an’ afore you goes in de market your face muss’ be greased; fer I see you’s one of dem kind o’ ashy niggers, an’ a little grease will make your face look black an’ slick, an’ make you look younger.”

Pompey reported to his master the condition of affairs, when the latter said, “Be sure that the niggers don’t forget what you have taught them, for our luck depends a great deal upon the appearance of our stock.”

With this lot of slaves was a beautiful quadroon, a girl of twenty years, fair as most white women, with hair a little wavy, large black eyes, and a countenance that betokened intelligence beyond the common house servant. Her name was Marion, and the jealousy of the mistress, so common in those days, was the cause of her being sold.

Not far from Canal Street, in the city of New Orleans, in the old days of slavery, stood a two-story, flat building, surrounded by a stone wall, some twelve feet high, the top of which was covered with bits of glass, and so constructed as to prevent even the possibility of any one’s passing over it without sustaining great injury. Many of the rooms in this building resembled the cells of a prison, and in a small apartment, near the “office,” were to be seen any number of iron collars, hobbles, hand-cuffs, thumb-screws, cowhides, chains, gags, and yokes.

A back-yard, enclosed by a high wall, looked like the play-ground attached to one of our large New England schools, in which were rows of benches and swings. Attached to the back premises was a good-sized kitchen, where, at the time of which we write, two old negresses were at work, stewing, boiling, and baking, and occasionally wiping the perspiration from their furrowed and swarthy brows.

The slave-trader, Walker, on his arrival at New Orleans, took up his quarters here, with his gang of human cattle, and the morning after, at ten o’clock, they were exhibited for sale. First of all, came the beautiful Marion, whose pale countenance and dejected look, told how many sad hours she had passed since parting with her mother. There, too, was a poor woman, who had been separated from her husband, and another woman, whose looks and manners were expressive of deep anguish, sat by her side. There was “Uncle Jeems,” with his whiskers off, his face shaven clean, and the gray hairs plucked out, ready to be sold for ten years younger than he was. Toby was also there, with his face shaven and greased, ready for inspection.

The examination commenced, and was carried on in such a manner as to shock the feelings of any one not entirely devoid of the milk of human kindness.

“What are you wiping your eyes for?” inquired a fat, red-faced man, with a white hat set on one side of his head and a cigar in his mouth, of a woman who sat on one of the benches.

“Because I left my man behind.”

“Oh, if I buy you, I will furnish you with a better man than you left. I’ve got lots of young bucks on my farm,” responded the man.

“I don’t want and never will have another man,” replied the woman.

“What’s your name?” asked a man, in a straw hat, of a tall negro, who stood with his arms folded across his breast, leaning against the wall.

“My name is Aaron, sar.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Where were you raised?”

“In ole Virginny, sar.”

“How many men have owned you?”

“Four.”

“Do you enjoy good health?”

“Yes, sar.”

“How long did you live with your first owner?”

“Twenty years.”

“Did you ever run away?”

“No, sar.”

“Did you ever strike your master?”

“No sar.”

“Were you ever whipped much?”

“No, sar; I spose I didn’t desarve it, sar.”

“How long did you live with your second master?”

“Ten years, sar.”

“Have you a good appetite?”

“Yes, sar.”

“Can you eat your allowance?”

“Yes, sar,—when I can get it.”

“Where were you employed in Virginia?”

“I worked in de tobacker fiel’.”

“In the tobacco field, eh?”

“Yes, sar.”

“How old did you say you was?”

“Twenty-five, sar, nex’ sweet-’tater-diggin’ time.”

“I am a cotton-planter, and if I buy you, you will have to work in the cotton field. My men pick one hundred and fifty pounds a day, and the women one hundred and forty pounds; and those who fail to perform their task receive five stripes for each pound that is wanting. Now do you think you could keep up with the rest of the hands?”

“I don’t know, sar, but I reckon I’d have to.”

“How long did you live with your third master?”

“Three years, sar,” replied the slave.

“Why, that makes you thirty-three; I thought you told me you were only twenty-five.”

Aaron now looked first at the planter, then at the trader, and seemed perfectly bewildered. He had forgotten the lesson given him by Pompey, relative to his age; and the planter’s circuitous questions—doubtless to find out the slave’s real age—had thrown the negro off his guard.

“I must see your back, so as to know how much you have been whipped, before I think of buying.”

Pompey, who had been standing by during the examination, thought that his services were now required, and, stepping forth with a degree of officiousness, said to Aaron:—“Don’t you hear de gemman tell you he wants to zamin you? Cum, unharness yo-seff, ole boy, an’ don’t be standin’ dar.”

Aaron was examined, and pronounced “sound”; yet the conflicting statement about his age was not satisfactory.

On the following trip down the river, Walker halted at Vicksburg, with a “prime lot of slaves,” and a circumstance occurred which shows what the slaves in those days would resort to, to save themselves from flogging, while, at the same time, it exhibits the quick wit of the race.

While entertaining some of his purchasers at the hotel, Walker ordered Pompey to hand the wine around to his guests. In doing this, the servant upset a glass of wine upon a gentleman’s lap. For this mishap, the trader determined to have his servant punished. He, therefore, gave Pompey a sealed note, and ordered him to take it to the slave prison. The servant, suspecting that all was not right, hastened to open the note before the wafer had dried; and passing the steamboat landing, he got a sailor to read the note, which proved to be, as Pompey had suspected, an order to have him receive “thirty-nine stripes upon the bare back.”

Walker had given the man a silver dollar, with orders to deliver it, with the note, to the jailor, for it was common in those days for persons who wanted their servants punished and did not wish to do it themselves, to send them to the “slave pen,” and have it done; the price for which was one dollar.

How to escape the flogging, and yet bring back to his master the evidence of having been punished, perplexed the fertile brain of Pompey. However, the servant was equal to the occasion. Standing in front of the “slave pen,” the negro saw another well dressed colored man coming up the street, and he determined to inquire in regard to how they did the whipping there.

“How de do, sar,” said Pompey, addressing the colored brother. “Do you live here?”

“Oh! no,” replied the stranger, “I am a free man, and belong in Pittsburgh, Pa.”

“Ah! ha, den you don’t live here,” said Pompey.

“No, I left my boat here last week, and I have been trying every day to get something to do. I’m pretty well out of money, and I’d do almost anything just now.”

A thought flashed upon Pompey’s mind—this was his occasion.

“Well,” said the slave, “ef you want a job, whar you can make some money quick, I specks I can help you.”

“If you will,” replied the free man, “you’ll do me a great favor.”

“Here, then,” said Pompey, “take dis note, an’ go in to dat prison, dar, an’ dey will give you a trunk, bring it out, an’ I’ll tell you where to carry it to, an’ here’s a dollar; dat will pay you, won’t it?”

“Yes,” replied the man, with many thanks; and taking the note and the shining coin, with smiles, he went to the “Bell Gate,” and gave the bell a loud ring. The gate flew open, and in he went.

The man had scarcely disappeared, ere Pompey had crossed the street, and was standing at the gate, listening to the conversation then going on between the jailor and the free colored man.

“Where is the dollar that you got with this note?” asked the “whipper,” as he finished reading the epistle.

“Here it is, sir; he gave it to me,” said the man, with no little surprise.

“Hand it here,” responded the jailor, in a rough voice. “There, now; take this nigger, Pete, and strap him down upon the stretcher, and get him ready for business.”

“What are you going to do to me!” cried the horrified man, at the jailor’s announcement.

“You’ll know, damn quick!” was the response.

The resistance of the innocent man caused the “whipper” to call in three other sturdy blacks, and, in a few minutes, the victim was fastened upon the stretcher, face downwards, his clothing removed, and the strong-armed white negro-whipper standing over him with uplifted whip.

The cries and groans of the poor man, as the heavy instrument of torture fell upon his bare back, aroused Pompey, who retreated across the street, stood awaiting the result, and wondering if he could obtain, from the injured man, the receipt which the jailor always gives the slave to take back to his master as evidence of his having been punished.

As the gate opened, and the colored brother made his appearance, looking wildly about for Pompey, the latter called out, “Here I is, sar!”

Maddened by the pain from the excoriation of his bleeding back, and the surprise and astonishment at the quickness with which the whole thing had been accomplished, the man ran across the street, upbraiding in the most furious manner his deceiver, who also appeared amazed at the epithets bestowed upon him.

“What have I done to you?” asked Pompey, with a seriousness that was indeed amusing.

“What hain’t you done!” said the man, the tears streaming down his face. “You’ve got my back cut all to pieces,” continued the victim.

“What did you let ’em whip you for?” said Pompey, with a concealed smile.

“You knew that note was to get somebody whipped, and you put it on me. And here is a piece of paper that he gave me, and told me to give it to my master. Just as if I had a master.”

“Well,” responded Pompey, “I have a half a dollar, an’ I’ll give that to you, ef you’ll give me the paper.”

Seeing that he could make no better bargain, the man gave up the receipt, taking in exchange the silver coin.

“Now,” said Pompey, “I’m mighty sorry for ye, an’ ef ye’ll go down to de house, I’ll pray for ye. I’m powerful in prayer, dat I is.” However the free man declined Pompey’s offer.

“I reckon you’ll behave yourself and not spill the wine over gentlemen again,” said Walker, as Pompey handed him the note from the jailor. “The next time you commit such a blunder, you’ll not get off so easy,” continued the speculator.

Pompey often spoke of the appearance of “my fren’,” as he called the colored brother, and would enjoy a hearty laugh, saying, “He was a free man, an’ could afford to go to bed, an’ lay dar till he got well.”

Strangers to the institution of slavery, and its effects upon its victims, would frequently speak with astonishment of the pride that slaves would show in regard to their own value in the market. This was especially so, at auction sales where town or city servants were sold.

“What did your marser pay for you?” would often be asked by one slave of another.

“Eight hundred dollars.”

“Eight hundred dollars! Ha, ha! Well, ef I didn’t sell for mo’ dan eight hundred dollars, I’d neber show my head agin ’mong ’spectable people.”

“You got so much to say ’bout me sellin’ cheap, now I want to know how much your boss paid fer you?”

“My boss paid fifteen hundred dollars cash, for me; an’ it was a rainy day, an’ not many out to de auction, or he’d had to pay a heap mo’, let me tell you. I’m none of your cheap niggers, I ain’t.”

“Hy, uncle! Did dey sell you, ’isterday? I see you down dar to de market.”

“Yes, dey sole me.”

“How much did you fetch?”

“Eighteen hundred dollars.”

“Dat was putty smart fer man like you, ain’t it?”

“Well, I dunno; it’s no mo’ dan I is wuf; fer you muss’ ’member, I was raised by de Christy’s. I’m none of yer common niggers, sellin’ fer a picayune. I tink my new boss got me mighty cheap.”

“An’ so you sole, las’ Sataday, fer nine hundred dollars; so I herd.”

“Well, what on it?”

“All I got to say is, ef I was sole, to-morrow, an’ did’nt bring more dan nine hundred dollars, I’d never look a decent man in de face agin.”

These, and other sayings of the kind, were often heard in any company of colored men, in our Southern towns.