CHAPTER XVI.

THE VENDUE.

"A queen on a scaffold is not so pitiful a sight as a woman on the auction-block.”— Charles Sumner.

"Slavery gratifies at once the love of power, the love of money, and the love of ease; it finds a victim for anger who cannot smite back his oppressor, and it offers to all, without measure, the seductive privileges which the Mormon gospel reserves for the true believers on earth, and the Bible of Mahomet only dares promise to the saints in heaven."— O. W. Holmes.

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BOUT a month after the explosion of the Pontiac, a select company were assembled, one beautiful morning in June, under a stately palmetto-tree in front of the auction store of Messrs. Ripper & Co. in New Orleans, and on the shady side of the street. There was to be a sale of prime slaves that day. A chair with a table before it, flanked on either side by a bale of cotton, afforded accommodations for the ceremony. Mr. Ripper, the auctioneer, was a young man, rather handsome, and well dressed, but with that flushed complexion and telltale expression of the eyes which a habit of dissipation generally imparts to its victims.

The company numbered some fifty. They were lounging about in groups, and were nearly all of them smoking cigars. Some were attired in thin grass-cloth coats and pantaloons, some in the perpetual black broadcloth to which Americans adhere so pertinaciously, even when the thermometer is at ninety. There was but one woman present; and she was a strong-minded widow, a Mrs. Barkdale, who by the death of her husband had come into the possession of a plantation, and now, instead of sending her overseer, had come herself, to bid off a likely field-hand.

The negroes to be sold, about a dozen in number, were in the warehouse. Mr. Ripper paced the sidewalk, looking now and then impatiently at his watch. The sale was to begin at ten. Suddenly a tall, angular, ill-formed man, dressed in a light homespun suit, came up to Ripper and drew him aside to

where a young man, dressed in black and wearing a white neckcloth, stood bracing his back up against a tree. His swarthy complexion, dark eyes, and long nose made it doubtful whether the Caucasian, the Jewish, or the African blood predominated in his veins. A general languor and unsteadiness of body showed that he had been indulging in the "ardent."

To this individual the tall man led up the auctioneer, and said: "The Reverend Quattles, Mr. Ripper; Mr. Ripper, the Reverend Quattles. Gemmlemen, yer both know me. I'm Delancy Hyde, - Virginia-born, be Gawd. ('Scuze me, Reverend sir.) None of your Puritan scum! My ahnces'tor, Delancy Hyde, kum over with Pocahontas and John Smith; my gra'ffther owned more niggers nor 'ary other man in the county; my father was cheated and broke up by a damned Yankee judge, sir; that's why the family acres ain't mine.” "I've but five minutes more," interposed Mr. Ripper, impatiently.

"Wall, sir," continued the Colonel, "this gemmleman, as I war tellin' yer, is the Reverend Quattles of Alabamy." The Reverend Quattles bowed, and, with fishy eyes and a maudlin smile, put his hand on his heart.

"The little nig I've brung yer ter sell, Mr. Ripper, b'longs ter the Reverend Quattles's brother, a high-tone gemmleman, who lives in Mobile, but has been unfortnit in business, and has had ter sell off his niggers. An' as I was goin' ter Noo Orleenz, he puts this little colored gal in my hands ter sell. The Reverend Quattles wanted ter buy her, but was too poor. He then said he'd go with me ter see she mowt fall inter the right hahnds. In puttin' her up, yer must say 't was a great 'fliction, and all that, ter part with her; that the Reverend Quattles, ruther nor see her fall inter the wrong hands, would sell his library, and so on; that she's the child of a quadroon as has been in the family all her life, and as is a sort of half-sister of the Reverend Quattles."

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"O yes! I understand all that game," said Ripper, knocking with his little finger the ashes from his cigar.

The Colonel, in an aside to the auctioneer, now remarked: "The Reverend Quattles, in tryin' to stiddy his narves for the scene, has tuk too stiff a horn, yer see."

"Yes; take him where he can sleep it off. It's time for the sale to begin. Remember your lot is Number 12, and will be struck off last."

The auctioneer then made his way across the street, jumped on one of the cotton-bales, and thence into the chair placed near the table.

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Come, Quattles," said Hyde, "we've time for another horn afore we're wanted."

"No yer don't, Kunnle!" exclaimed Quattles, throwing off that worthy's arm from his shoulder. "I tell yer this is too cussed mean a business for any white man; I tell yer I won't give inter it."

"Hush! Don't bawl so," pleaded the Colonel.

"I will bawl.

Yer think yer 've got me so drunk I hain't no conscience left. But I tell yer, I woan't give in. I tell yer, I'll 'xpose the hull trick!"

"Hush! hush!" said the Colonel, patting him as he might a restive beast. "Arter the sale's over, we'll have a fust-rate dinner all by ou'selves at the St. Charles. Terrapin soup and pompinoe! Champagne and juleps! Ice-cream and jelly! A reg'lar blow-out! Think of that, Quattles! Think of that!"

"Cuss the vittles! O, I'm a poor, mis'able, used-up, goodfor-northin' creetur, wuss nor a nigger!-yes, wuss nor a nigger!" said Quattles, bursting into maudlin sobs and weeping. The Colonel walked him away into a contiguous drinkingsaloon.

"Brandy-smashes for two," said the Colonel.

The decoctions were brewed, and the tumblers slid along the marble counter, with the despatch of a man who takes pride in his vocation. They were as quickly emptied. Quattles gulped down his liquor eagerly. The Colonel then hired a room containing a sofa, and, seeing his companion safely bestowed there, made his own way back to the auction.

On one of the cotton-bales stood a prime article called a negro-wench. This was Lot Number 3. She was clad in an old faded and filthy calico dress that had apparently been made for a girl half her size. A small bundle containing the rest of her wardrobe lay at her feet. Her bare arms, neck,

and breasts were conspicuously displayed, and her knees were

hardly covered by the stinted skirt. Without shame she stood there, as if used to the scene, and rather flattered by the glib commendations of the auctioneer.

"Look at her, gentlemen!" said he.. "All her pints good. Fust-rate stock to breed from. Only twenty-three years old, and has had five children already. And thar 's no reason why she should n't have a dozen more. I'm only bid eight hunderd dollars for this most valubble brood-wench. Only eight hunderd dollars for this superior article. Thank you, sir; you've an eye for good pints. I'm offered eight hunderd and twenty-five. Only eight hunderd and twenty-five for this most useful hand. Jest look at her, sir. Limbs straight; teeth all sound; wool thick, though she has had five children. All livin', too; ain't they, Portia ?

"Yes, massa, all sole ter Massa Wade down thar in Texas. He 'm gwoin' ter raise de hull lot."

"You hear, gentlemen. Thar's nothin' vicious about her. Makes no fuss because her young ones are carried off. Knows they'll be taken good care of. A good, reasonable, pleasanttempered wench as ever lived. And now I'm offered only eight hunderd and Did I hear fifty? Thank you, sir. Eight hunderd and fifty dollars is bid. Is thar nary a man har that knows the valoo of a prime article like this? Eight hunderd and fifty dollars. Goin' for eight hunderd and fifty! Goin'! Gone! For eight hunderd and fifty dollars. Gentlemen, you must be calculating on the opening of the slavetrade, if you'll stand by and see niggers sacrificed in this way. Pass up the next lot."

The next "lot" was a man, a sulky, discontented-looking creature, but large, erect, and with shoulders that would have made his fortune as a hotel-porter. Laying down his bundle, he mounted the cotton-bale with a weary, desponding air, as if he had begun to think there was no good in reserve for him, either on the earth or in the heavens.

"Lot Number 4 is Ike," said the auctioneer. "A fust-rate field-hand. Will hoe more cotton in three hours than a common nigger will in ten. Ike is pious, and has been a famous exhorter among the niggers; belongs to the Baptist church. You all know, gentlemen, the advantage of piety in a nigger.

Ike's piety ought to add thirty per cent to his wuth. I'm offered nine hunderd dollars for Ike. Nine hunderd dollars!"

Here a squinting, hatchet-faced fellow in a broad-brimmed straw hat, who had been making quite a puddle of tobaccojuice on the ground, leaped upon the bale, and lifted the slave's faded baize shirt so as to get a look at his back. Then, putting his finger on the side of his nose, the examiner winked at Ripper, and jumped down.

"Scored?" asked an anxious inquirer.

"Scored? Wall, stranger, he's been scored, then put under a harrer, then paddled an' burnt. A hard ticket that."

The nine hundred dollar bid was as yet in the imagination of the auctioneer. But, with the quick penetration of his craft, he saw the strong-minded widow standing on tiptoe, her face eager with the excitement of bidding, and her words only checked by the desire to judge from the amount of competition whether the article were a desirable one.

"A thousand and ten! Thank you, sir, thank you!" said Ripper, bowing to a gentleman he had seen only in his mind's eye. Nobody could dispute the bid, all eyes being directed toward the auctioneer.

"A thousand and twenty-five," continued Ripper, turning in an opposite direction, and bowing to an equally imaginary bidder. Then, apparently catching the eye of the competing customer, "A thousand and forty!" he exclaimed; and so, seesawing from one chimerical gentleman to the other, he carried the sham bidding up to a thousand and seventy-five.

At this point Mrs. Barkdale, pale, and following with swayings of her own body the motions of the auctioneer, her heart in her mouth almost depriving her of speech, waved her hand to attract his attention, and, rising on tiptoe, gasped forth, "A thousand and eighty!"

“Thank you, madam,” said Ripper, politely touching his hat. Then, apparently catching the eye of his imaginary bidder on the right, "Monsieur Dupré," he said, "you won't allow such a bargain to slip through your hands, will you? Voyez ! Où trouverez-vous un mieux? Thank you, sir; thank you! A thousand and ninety, - I'm offered a thousand and ninety for this superior field-hand. Goin', -goin'. Thank you, madam.