How pleasing, how charmingly liberal, is the democracy that grants
the sweet privilege of doing all these things! Harry has a few
simple requests to make, which his black sense might have told him
the democracy could not grant. He requests (referring to his
position as a minister of the gospel) that good master-the
vender-will sell him with his poor old woman, and that he do not
separate him from his dear children. In support of his appeal he
sets forth, in language that would be impressive were it from white
lips, that he wants to teach his little ones in the ways of the
Lord. "Do, mas'r! try sell us so we live together, where my heart
can feel and my eyes see my children," he concludes, pointing to his
children (living emblems of an oppressed race), who, with his
hapless wife, are brought forward and placed on the stand at his
feet. Harry (the vender pausing a moment) reaches out his hand (that
hand so feared and yet so harmless), and affectionately places it on
the head of his youngest child; then, taking it up, he places it in
the arms of his wife,--perhaps not long to be so,--who stands
trembling and sobbing at his side. Behold how picturesque is the
fruit of democracy! Three small children, clinging round the skirts
of a mother's garment, casting sly peeps at purchasers as if they
had an instinctive knowledge of their fate. They must be sold for
the satisfaction of sundry debts held by sundry democratic
creditors. How we affect to scorn the tyranny of Russia, because of
her serfdom! Would to God there were truth and virtue in the scorn!
Mr.
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