of good disposition, that I asked, with no small degree of astonishment,
“Why are these here? What crimes have they committed?”
“They have committed no offence whatever,” was the reply. “But their master having given security for a person who is now bankrupt, they are brought in here to prevent their being seized and sold by auction to cover the demand, and here they will remain till their master finds an opportunity of recovering them.”
“You see,” said one of the lawyers, “that it is to defend them; it is for their advantage that they are here.”
“How long will they probably remain here?” inquired I, cogitating within myself as to what particular advantage could be derived by the innocent, from that daily association with these white ladies accused of the darkest crimes.
“Oh! at furthest two or three weeks; quite a short time,” replied the lawyer.
One of the young negro girls smiled, half sadly, half bitterly. “Two weeks!” said she, “we have already been here two years!”
I looked at the lawyer. He seemed a little confounded.
“Ah!” said he, “it is extraordinary; something quite unusual—very unusual; altogether an exceptional case—very rare!” And he hurried away from the place.
Again, and always this injustice against human beings whose sole crime is—a dark skin.
Immediately after dinner I paid a visit to the Catholic Orphan Asylum, where two hundred little girls are placed under the care of fifteen Sisters of Mercy—a beautiful and well-managed institution.
Scarcely had I returned thence, when I was taken by some of my acquaintances to the French opera, where I saw “Jerusalem,” by Verdi, which was very well given. The prima donna, Mademoiselle D., is a great favourite with
