LITMIR.BIZ

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      "J. B. DUPEIRE."

      "j7—15t*."

      "Ran away from the subscriber, on the 20th November last, a negro man named Sandy, about twenty-five years of age, five feet five inches high, very dark complexion, speaks both French and English, shows the mark of the whip very much. A liberal reward will be paid for his apprehension, either by confining in any gaol, so that I can secure him, or his delivery to me at Plaquemine, La.

      "W. H. CARR."

      "J20—3tW."

      And yet the editor of this very paper, in his leading article, reviewing the past, (that day being the tenth anniversary of its own existence,) coolly says, "In entering upon our eleventh anniversary, how different the spectacle! Industry in every quarter of the land receives its meet reward; Commerce is remunerated by wholesome gains; Comfort blesses the toil of the labourer(!) and Hope encourages the enterprise of all the industrial classes of our citizens."

      As the day advanced, my fever returned; and I was obliged to go below. A furious tempest arose, so that even our "monster" could scarcely get along. The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the rain fell in torrents. It was a terrific day! As night approached, our captain told us the vessel could not then be got any further—it was about two miles from the city; and if we particularly wished to go ashore, we must get ready directly, and go with him in the steam-tug. Anxious for a good night's rest, on shore we resolved to go. I had to turn out in that state of profuse perspiration which always succeeds the fever, and my wife hurriedly selected a few necessary things. Poor thing! she was almost overwhelmed with the trying circumstances in which she was placed—thousands of miles from home—about to enter a place in which she knew not a single soul—her husband ill, and herself an invalid! But there was no help for it. Amidst torrents of rain, we made the fearful transition from the ship to the tug, while both vessels were in violent agitation. It was done. And now we were in the "monster's" own bosom, expecting every moment his bowels to burst, and send us into eternity. The noise of the engine, the grunting of the steam, the raging of the wind, the pelting of the rain, and the roaring of the thunder, made it almost impossible to hear anything besides; but I managed to shout in my wife's ear the natural, though not very consolatory question, "Were we ever in so fearful a position before?" "Never!" (and we had had some experience of storms by both land and sea) was her awe-stricken reply.

      We detached ourselves from the sailing-vessel; but, with all the power of steam, we could scarcely get along. At last the "monster's" bellowing was hushed—the tremor ceased—we were there! But how to get ashore was still a difficulty. It was about 100 yards off. Planks, however, were eventually placed so as to enable us to descend from our lofty "tug" into a ship at anchor, from that into another, from that again into a third, and from that at length on terra firma.

      The hour was between 7 and 8 p.m.; and we were taken to a ship-chandler's store, while our kind captain went to get a chaise for us. The store was closed; but the owner and three other gentlemen were there, seated before a comfortable coal fire, apparently enjoying themselves after the business of the day. They received us very courteously, and gave us chairs by the fireside. The storm of that day they told us had done much harm to the shipping, and was severer than any other they had experienced during the last seven years. While the conversation was going on, plash made one, plash made another, plash made a third, by spurting a certain brownish secretion on the floor! I had often heard of this as an American habit, but always thought our cousins in this matter (as in many others) were caricatured. Here, however, was the actual fact, and that in the presence of a lady! Yet these were apparently very respectable men.

      Having waited about a quarter of an hour, anxiously listening for the rumbling of the expected wheels, I heard in the distance a strange kind of noise, resembling that of a fire-shovel, a pair of tongs, a poker, and an iron hoop tied loosely together with a string, and drawn over the pavement! "What in the world is that?" said I. "It is the chaise," was the answer. The vehicle was quickly at the door. In we were bundled, and orders given to drive us to the "St. Charles's." We scarcely knew what this "St. Charles's" was; but, as all with whom we had conversed seemed to take it for granted that we should go thither, and as any one saint was to us as good as any other, we echoed, "To the St. Charles's." And now began such a course of jolting as we had never before experienced. It seemed as if all the gutters and splash-holes in the universe had been collected together, and we had to drive over the whole. This continued about half an hour, by which we learned that we were at first much further from the "St. Charles's" than we supposed. The machine at last stopped, and we alighted, thankful to have escaped a complete stoppage of our breath.

      We were there. A waiter (he was not to be mistaken—he bore a family resemblance to all the waiters of the world) was instantly at the coach-door, to help us out and to help us in. He conducted us into a lobby, up a flight of stairs, and through a long passage, to a large saloon, where about 150 ladies and gentlemen were assembled—some sitting, some standing, some talking, some laughing, and some playing with their fingers. But, no! we shrunk back. Thither we would not be led, all wet and dirty as we were. We begged to be shown into a private room. The waiter stared, and said he had none to take us to, except I would first go to the "office." But what was to become of my fellow-traveller in the meantime? No woman belonging to the establishment made her appearance, and there my wife was obliged to stand alone in the passage, whilst I followed the waiter through aisles and passages, and turnings and twistings, and ups and downs, to a large saloon, where about 200 gentlemen were smoking cigars! What a sight! and what a smell! Who can realize the vast idea of 200 mouths, in one room, pouring forth the fumes of tobacco? I was directed to the high-priest of the establishment in the "office," or (as I should say) at the "bar." Without verbally replying to my application, he handed me a book in which to record my name. Having obeyed the hint, I again asked my taciturn host if myself and wife could be accommodated. He then, with manifest reluctance, took the cigar out of his mouth, and said he had only one room to spare, and that was at the top of the house. It was "Hobson's choice," and I accepted it. And now for a journey! Talk of ascending the Monument on Fish-street Hill! what is that compared to ascending the St. Charles's, at New Orleans? No. 181 was reached at last. The next task was to find my wife, which after another long and circuitous journey was accomplished. In process of time fire was made, and "tea for two" brought up. Let me, therefore, close my letter and enjoy it.

LETTER III.

       Table of Contents

      New Orleans—The Story of Pauline—Adieu to the St.

       Charles's—Description of that Establishment—First Sight of Slaves for

       Sale—Texts for Southern Divines—Perilous Picture.

      From No. 181 of the "St. Charles's," we descended, after a good night's rest, to see some of the lions of the place. Here we are (thought I) in New Orleans—the metropolis of a great slave country—a town in which exist many depôts for the disposal of human beings—the very city where, a few months ago, poor Pauline was sacrificed as the victim of lust and cruelty! Unhappy girl! What a tragedy! On the 1st of August last, I told the horrid tale to my emancipated people in Berbice. Here it is, as extracted from the Essex (United States) Transcript. Read it, if you please; and then you will have a notion of the feelings with which I contemplated a city rendered infamous by such a transaction.

      "Many of our readers have probably seen a paragraph stating that a young slave girl was recently hanged at New Orleans for the crime of striking and abusing her mistress. The religious press of the north has not, so far as we are aware, made any comments upon this execution. It is too busy pulling the mote out of the eye of the heathen, to notice the beam in our nominal Christianity at home. Yet this case, viewed in all its aspects, is an atrocity which has (God be thanked) no parallel in heathen lands. It is a hideous offshoot of American Republicanism and American Christianity! It seems that Pauline—a young and beautiful girl—attracted the admiration of her master, and being (to use the words of the law) his "chattel personal to all intents

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