h air. The bells of thirty churches were calling the
people to the different places of worship. Crowds were seen wending
their way to the houses of God; one followed by a negro boy carrying
his master's Bible; another followed by her maid-servant holding the
mistress' fan; a third supporting an umbrella over his master's head
to shield him from the burning sun. Baptists immersed, Presbyterians
sprinkled, Methodists shouted, and Episcopalians read their prayers,
while ministers of the various sects preached that Christ died for all.
The chiming of the bells seemed to mock the sighs and deep groans of the
forty human beings then incarcerated in the slave-pen. These imprisoned
children of God were many of them Methodists, some Baptists, and others
claiming to believe in the faith of the Presbyterians and Episcopalians.

Oh, with what anxiety did these creatures await the close of that
Sabbath, and the dawn of another day, that should deliver them from
those dismal and close cells. Slowly the day passed away, and once
more the evening breeze found its way through the barred windows of the
prison that contained these injured sons and daughters of America.

The clock on the calaboose had just struck nine on Monday morning,
when hundreds of persons were seen threading the gates and doors of the
negro-pen. It was the same gang that had the day previous been stepping
to the tune and keeping time with the musical church bells. Their Bibles
were not with them, their prayer-books were left at home, and even their
long and solemn faces had been laid aside for the week. They had come
to the man-market to make their purchases. Methodists were in search of
their brethren. Baptists were looking for those that had been immersed,
while Presbyterians were willing to buy fellow-Christians, whether
sprinkled or not. The crowd was soon gazing at and feasting their eyes
upon the lovely features of Clotelle.

"She is handsomer," muttered one to himself, "than the lady that sat in
the pew next to me yesterday."

"I would that my daughter was half so pretty," thinks a second.

Groups are seen talking in every part of the vast building, and the
topic on 'Change, is the "beautiful quadroon." By and by, a tall young
man with a foreign face, the curling mustache protruding from under a
finely-chiseled nose, and having the air of a gentleman, passes by. His
dark hazel eye is fastened on the maid, and he stops for a moment; the
stranger walks away,