"O, these childen, how they do lie round our hearts."—Milly Edmondson.

The clock struck the appointed hour, and the sale commenced. Articles of household furniture, horses, carts, and slaves, were waiting together to be sold to the highest bidder. For strange as it would seem in another land than this, beneath the ample folds of the "Star-spangled Banner," human sinews were to be bought and sold. Bodies, such as the Apostle called the "temples of the Holy Ghost," in which dwelt souls for which Christ died;—men, women and little children, made in the image of God, were classed with marketable commodities, to be sold by the pound, like dumb beasts in the shambles. Husbands would be torn from their wives, mothers from their children, and all from everything they loved most dearly.

The group of human chattels excited great interest among the lookers-on, for they were a choice lot of prime negroes, and rumor said that he would get a rare bargain who bought that day.

It was a saddening sight, that dusky group, whose only crime was being

as they waited with anxious looks and quivering hearts to hear their doom, filling up the dreary moments with thoughts of the chances and changes which overhung their future.

A bright-eyed boy, of twelve years old,

with a proud spirit playing in every line of his handsome face, and in every movement of his graceful form, was first called to the auction-block. His good qualities were rapidly enumerated, his limbs rudely examined, his soundness vouched for, and he became the chattel personal of a Georgian, who boasted of his good bargain; and on being warned that he would have trouble with the boy, declared with an oath, that he would "soon take the devil out of him."

Matty, a sister of this lad, was next placed upon the stand. Her beauty, which the excitement of that dreadful moment only served to heighten, hushed for awhile the coarse jests of the crowd. She was a splendid-looking creature, just entering upon womanhood. But her beauty proved, as beauty must ever prove to a slave woman, a deadly curse. It enhanced her market value, and sealed her deadly fate. It attracted the eye, and inflamed the passions of a wealthy Louisianian, named St. Laurent, who gave a thousand dollars in hard gold in exchange for her, that he might make her his petted favorite. Wives, mothers, daughters of America, have you nothing to do with slavery, when such is the fate of slave women? Can you sit silent, and at your ease, knowing that such things are?

When Matty was removed from the auction-block, she fell upon her brother's neck, and wept such tears as only they can weep whom slavery parts, never to meet again.

"Christine!" cried the loud voice of the auctioneer. Matty checked her passionate grief, and turning saw her mother, with her baby in her arms, standing where she herself had stood but just before. Quickly her keen eye sought the form of her new master. With a sudden impulse she threw herself at his feet, exclaiming, "O master, master, do buy my mother too!" The man gazed for a moment on the beautiful face upturned to his, with a look which made the lashes droop over her pleading eyes, and tapping her cheek with his finger, he said,

"What! coaxing so early, my pretty one? No, no; it will not do; I have no use for the old woman."

"Oh, master, she is not old. Do buy my mother, master!"

"Here is a prize for you, gentlemen," broke in the harsh tones of the auctioneer. "There is the best housekeeper and cook in all Virginia. Who bids for her? $300 did you say, sir? $325—thanks, gentlemen, but I cannot sell this woman for a song. She is an excellent seamstress. $400—$450—$500—I am glad to see you are warming up a little, gentlemen,—but she is worth more money than that. Look at her! What a form! what an eye! what arms!—there is muscle for you, gentlemen. Upon my honor she is the flower of the lot,—a dark-colored rose,—black, but comely; and her baby goes with her. $550, did I hear you say, sir? Will no one give more than $550 for such a woman and baby?"

"The baby is of no account," said Mr. St. Laurent; "she would sell better without it. If I buy her, I shall give away the little encumbrance."

The poor slave-mother heard him, and strained her baby to her bosom, as if she would say, "You shall never take him from me." The boy looked into her face, and smiled a sweet baby smile, and put his little arms about her neck, and laid his cheek on hers. One would have thought he understood what was passing in her heart, and strove to comfort her. "$575—$600—$650,"—and Christine and her baby boy became the property of Mr. St. Laurent.

"I would not have bought the woman," said he, turning to an acquaintance, "but for the girl's importunity. I feared she would have the sulks if I didn't, and I want to keep her good-natured. I shall give the mother as a wedding-present to my daughter. But anybody may have the child, who will take him off my hands?"

"I will take him, sir, and thank you too," said a little, sharp looking, bustling man, stepping briskly up, and bowing to Mr. St. Laurent.

"Will you, my friend? Then he is yours, and you may take him away as soon as you please."

"If I take him now, the woman will raise a storm," said the little man; "I know a better way than that," and drawing Mr. St. Laurent aside, he communicated his plan, and they parted mutually satisfied.

Meanwhile the sale went on, but we will not follow further its revolting details. Christine, with her baby and Matty, were put in safe quarters for the night. Notwithstanding the intense anxiety that filled their minds, and a superstitious fear in Christine's heart that the worst had not yet come, an unaccountable drowsiness oppressed them, and before long both fell into a deep death-like sleep.

Morning broke over the green earth. The sun gilded the mountain-tops, and bathing the trees in splendor, was greeted with ten thousand bird-songs. He kissed the dewy flowers, and their fragrance rose as incense on the morning air. He looked into the windows of happy homes, and wakened golden-haired children to renew their joyous sports, and mothers, whose

sent up their morning thanksgiving to "Him who never slumbers," for His protection of their "laughing dimpled treasures." Suddenly a warm ray fell upon the face of the sleeping slave-mother. She wakened with a start, and with one wild shriek of agony sprang from the bed. Her babe was gone.

Why need we dwell upon what followed? What pen can describe the anguish of the heart-broken mother, when she knew that while under the influence of opiates which she had unwittingly taken, her boy had been taken from her, and that she should look upon her darling's face no more. Mother! look at the darling nestler upon your own bosom, and ask yourself how you would have felt in Christine's place.

After the first burst of agony was over, she did not give way outwardly to grief. One might have thought she did not grieve. But she carried all her sorrows in her heart, till they had eaten out her life.

On the morning of Eleanore St. Laurent's bridal day, Christine was sent for to perform some service for her young mistress. But the spoil had been taken out of the hands of the spoiler—the bruised heart was at rest. The outraged soul had gone with its complaints to the bar of the Eternal.