The old
slave, as if from instinct, again takes Annette in her arms, presses
and presses her to her bosom, looks compassionately in her face, and
smiles while a tear glistens in her eyes. She is inspired by the
beauty of the child; her heart bounds with affection for her tender
years; she loves her because she is lovely; and she smiles upon her
as a beautiful image of God's creation. But the old slave grieves
over her fate; her grief flows from the purity of the heart; she
knows not the rules of the slave church.
Annette is born a child of sorrow in this our land of love and
liberty; she is a democrat's daughter, cursed by the inconsistencies
of that ever-praised democratic goodness. A child! nothing more than
an item of common trade. It is even so; but let not happy democracy
blush, for the child, being merchandise, has no claims to that law
of the soul which looks above the frigidity of slave statutes. What
generosity is there in this generous land? what impulses of nature
not quenched by force of public opinion, when the associations of a
child like this (we are picturing a true story), her birth and
blood, her clear complexion, the bright carnatic of her cheek, will
not save her from the mercenary grasp of dollars and cents? It was
the law; the law had made men demons, craving the bodies and souls
of their fellow men. It was the white man's charge to protect the
law and the constitution; and any manifestation of sympathy for this
child would be in violation of a system which cannot be ameliorated
without endangering the whole structure: hence the comments escaping
from purchasers are only such as might have been expressed by the
sporting man in his admiration of a finely proportioned animal.
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