The kind reader will please enter a magnificent castle, situated in a romantic province, upon the charming borders of the river Seine. The noble Count is sitting upon a richly gilded fauteuil, leaning with his arms upon a small table of rosewood. A golden goblet and two sealed bottles of the first quality of old ‘Chateau-Haut-Briou’ are placed before him upon the table. A footman, dressed in glittering livery, is awaiting his orders. But the Count remains silent; his eyes are wandering out through the arched window, until they are fixed upon the sublime scenery before them. The setting sun is casting its mild rays upon the beautiful landscape. The soft waves of the river are reflecting the light with the brilliancy of an ocean of diamonds. The deep blue sky is partly painted with purple, green and violet, shining with a celestial splendor. Droves of cows and flocks of sheep are descending the fair hills, and are making for home. Bright and lovely maidens, wearing upon their black, curled hair beautiful wreaths of flowers, are dancing like so many fairies upon the green, flowery turf of the pasture ground, above the stream. Sir Count! do you not enjoy the lovely scene before your eyes? Are you not a happy man, to be the owner of so much beauty? But the Count hears nothing--sees nothing; his mind is absent; he is dreaming of by-gone days. Suddenly, his face seems to be troubled with a strange thought--his lips are audibly uttering the words, ‘La Louisiane! Mon Dieu, que j’étais fou! Pauvre Jeannette! Comment? Non, non, c’est impossible! Ça se ne peut pas!’ What is he saying? Is he not speaking of Louisiana? He says: ‘My God, what a fool I was! Poor Jane! How? No, no, it is not possible--it cannot be so!’ What cannot be so? Who is Jane? Didn’t they call John’s mother Jeannette, or Jane? Yes, Count! Indeed, it can be! Noble Count, while you are living in riches and plenty, master of a proud and magnificent castle, your son--yes, Count! your only son, is a miserable slave! He is standing, this very hour, upon the platform of a slave-auction room! He, your own flesh and blood! Listen, O Count! listen to the terrible story! He--your son--is sold to the highest bidder like a brute! Count! if your heart is able to feel--if you are not a lump of ice, like the heart of yonder unfeeling slave-driver--fly from your splendid castle, and go to parts unknown; for the terrible vision of the dreadful calamity that awaits your only son will haunt you from the saloon to the sleeping apartment, and from the garden to the pinnacle of the tower. But John, the young Count of Chateau-Brillant, is forced to await the orders of his new master--for he is a slave! No. 93. Moses, field hand, 35; No. 94. Matilda, 30; No. 95. Richard, 9; No. 96. Mike, a bright little boy of 6.