“Why, certainly,” said he; “Mr. Brinsmade's bank on Chestnut Street.” He took Stephen to the window and pointed across the square. “I am sorry I cannot go with you,” he added, “but the Judge's negro, Shadrach, is out, and I must stay in the office. I will give you a note to Mr. Brinsmade.” “His negro!” exclaimed Stephen. “Why, I thought that Mr. Whipple was an Abolitionist.” Mr. Richter laughed. “The man is free,” said he. “The Judge pays him wages.” Stephen thanked his new friend for the note to the bank president, and went slowly down the stairs. To be keyed up to a battle-pitch, and then to have the battle deferred, is a trial of flesh and spirit. As he reached the pavement, he saw people gathering in front of the wide entrance of the Court House opposite, and perched on the copings. He hesitated, curious. Then he walked slowly toward the place, and buttoning his coat, pushed through the loafers and passers-by dallying on the outskirts of the crowd. There, in the bright November sunlight, a sight met his eyes which turned him sick and dizzy. Against the walls and pillars of the building, already grimy with soot, crouched a score of miserable human beings waiting to be sold at auction. Mr. Lynch's slave pen had been disgorged that morning. Old and young, husband and wife,--the moment was come for all and each. How hard the stones and what more pitiless than the gaze of their fellow-creatures in the crowd below! O friends, we who live in peace and plenty amongst our families, how little do we realize the terror and the misery and the dumb heart-aches of those days! Stephen thought with agony of seeing his own mother sold before his eyes, and the building in front of him was lifted from its foundation and rocked even as shall the temples on the judgment day. The oily auctioneer was inviting the people to pinch the wares. Men came forward to feel the creatures and look into their mouths, and one brute, unshaven and with filthy linen, snatched a child from its mother's lap Stephen shuddered with the sharpest pain he had ever known. An ocean-wide tempest arose in his breast, Samson's strength to break the pillars of the temple to slay these men with his bare hands. Seven generations of stern life and thought had their focus here in him,--from Oliver Cromwell to John Brown. Stephen was far from prepared for the storm that raged within him. He had not been brought up an Abolitionist--far from it. Nor had his father's friends--who were deemed at that time the best people in Boston--been Abolitionists. Only three years before, when Boston had been aflame over the delivery of the fugitive Anthony Burns, Stephen had gone out of curiosity to the meeting at Faneuil Hall. How well he remembered his father's indignation when he confessed it, and in his anger Mr. Brice had called Phillips and Parker “agitators.” But his father, nor his father's friends in Boston had never been brought face to face with this hideous traffic.