the portraits of some of my friends, and painted that of my little attendant here, a pretty, dark mulatto, with lovely eyes, and a grand, yellow handkerchief around her brow, tied in a manner peculiar to the negroes of Louisiana. She has hitherto been, comparatively speaking, a happy slave.
“Have your owners been kind to you?” inquired I.
“I have never had a bad word from them, missis!” replied she.
But—there are slave-owners of another kind in New Orleans.
Sunday, January 5th.—Hastily and shortly a few words about many things which have occupied me during the last few days, especially yesterday and to-day.
Yesterday forenoon I visited the prisons of the city, accompanied by the superintendents and two distinguished lawyers. The outward management of the prisons seems to me excellent. Order and cleanliness prevail throughout, as is always the case wherever the Anglo-American legislates. I preserve the following features of the internal management.
I visited some rooms where women accused of capital offences were confined. Their dress spoke of circumstances far removed from poverty, but their countenances of the prevalence of violent and evil passion. Among them I remarked one in particular, a lady charged with the murder of her husband from jealousy, whose whole bearing denoted boldness and pride.
All these women declared their innocence, and complained of injustice. Each one had her own apartment, but might avail herself of companionship in the piazza which surrounded the building within a court. There sate under this piazza a group of negro women, apparently enjoying the sun, which was then shining warmly. They looked so good and quiet, and they all, especially two young girls, bore so evidently the stamp of innocence and
