&c. &c."
An attendant now steps forward, takes the children into his charge,
and leads them away. To where? The reader may surmise to the gaol.
No, reader, not to the gaol; to Marco Graspum's slave-pen,--to that
pent-up hell where the living are tortured unto death, and where
yearning souls are sold to sink!
Thus are the beauties of this our democratic system illustrated in
two innocent children being consigned to the miseries of slave life
because a mother is supposed a slave: a father has acknowledged
them, and yet they are sold before his eyes. It is the majesty of
slave law, before which good men prostrate their love of
independence. Democracy says the majesty of that law must be carried
out; creditors must be satisfied, even though all that is generous
and noble in man should be crushed out, and the rights of free men
consigned to oblivion. A stout arm may yet rise up in a good cause;
democrats may stand ashamed of the inhuman traffic, and seek to
cover its poisoning head with artifices and pretences; but they
write only an obituary for the curse.
"A quaint-faced, good-looking country deacon has bought them. Very
good; I can now go home, and relieve Mrs. Rosebrook's very generous
feelings," says the very distinguished Mr. Seabrook, shrugging his
shoulders, lighting a fresh cigar, and turning toward home with a
deliberate step, full of good tidings.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE VISION OF DEATH HAS PAST.
MR. SEABROOK returns to the mansion, and consoles the anxious lady
by assuring her the children have been saved from the hands of
obnoxious traders-sold to a good, country deacon.
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