Our World, Or, the Slaveholder's Daughter eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 842 pages of information about Our World, Or, the Slaveholder's Daughter.

“We have no demand on your feelings, my man! we want your duty-what the state put you here to perform,” interrupted Blowers, placing his thumbs in his vest, and making a step backward.  Another second, and the attendant lighted a hand-lamp,—­a sharp, slapping blow was heard, a death-like shriek followed; the flesh quivered and contracted into a discoloured and inflamed pustule; the body writhed a few seconds in convulsive spasms; a low moaning followed, and that fair form hung swooning in the slings, as the keeper, in fright, cried out, at the top of his voice, to the attendant—­“Lower away the fall!” As if the fiend had not yet gratified his passion, no sooner was the seemingly lifeless body lowered clumsily to the floor, than he grasped the weapon from Broadman’s hand, and like a tiger seeking its banquet of flesh, was about to administer a second blow.  But Broadman had a good heart, the admonitions of which soared high above the state’s mandate:  seizing Blowers in his arms, he ejected him from the door, ran back to the prostrate woman, released her bruised limbs from the fastenings, gathered her to his arms; and with nervous hands and anxious face did he draw from his pocket the well-timed hartshorn, by the application of which he sought to restore her, as the mulatto man stood by, bathing her temples with cold water.  “Ah! shame on the thing called a man who could abuse a sweet creature of fine flesh, like thee! it’s not many has such a pretty sweet face,” says Broadman, with an air of compassion, resting her shoulder against his bended knee as he encircles it with his left arm, and looks upon the pale features, tears glistening in his honest eyes.  We might say with Broadman—­“It’s not the finest, nor the polished of flesh, that hath the softest hearts.”  But, reader, having performed our duty, let us drop the curtain over this sad but true scene; and when you have conjectured the third and fourth acts of the drama, join with us in hoping the chivalry of our State may yet awake to a sense of its position, that, when we again raise it, a pleasanter prospect may be presented.


In which are discoveries and pleasant scenes.

St. PATRICK’S night closed the day on which the scenes of the foregoing chapter were enacted; and that patron saint being of aristocratic descent, which caused him to be held in high esteem by our “very first families,” than among whom better admirers could nowhere be found, his anniversary was sure to be celebrated with much feasting and drinking.  But while this homage to the good saint made glad the hearts of thousands-while the city seemed radiant of joy, and reeling men from Hibernia’s gorgeous hall found in him an excuse for their revelries—­there sat in the box of a caf‚, situated on the west side of Meeting Street, two men who seemed to have a deeper interest at heart than that of the Saint’s joy

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Our World, Or, the Slaveholder's Daughter from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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