In 1859, some preachers from the eastern States, who had been at New Orleans, attending the annual meeting of the Young Men’s Christian Association of the United States, on their return to their homes, stopped for three or four days in our city. They painted in glowing terms the lavish and delicate hospitality that they had received in the commercial capital of Louisiana. Appreciating the truth of all they said, I nevertheless asked them if they visited the famous slave market of that city. They said that they did not. I affirmed that they had missed a great opportunity of seeing the other side of the picture; that when they had seen and experienced the Christian hospitality of that old Spanish and French city, they ought also to have viewed in contrast a slave auction there—as heartless and cruel a scene as the wide earth afforded. Regretting that they had so superficially done New Orleans, they said, “Have you any slave markets here?” I replied, “We have some slave-pens, but they are as paradise to perdition to the slave market down there. Nevertheless, to-morrow I will show you the sights, slave-pens included.” In the morning, three or four of the residents of the city joined us, so that we had a party of nine. We first visited the Mercantile Library with its treasures of art. “Now,” I said, “since we are always impressed by contrasts, let us go from tasteful rooms, books and art to Lynch’s slave-pen.” All were agreed, and we were soon on our way. I had some slight acquaintance with Mr. Lynch, having often spoken to him as he sat out on the sidewalk in warm weather before his pen. He was sitting there when we arrived. “Good morning, Mr. Lynch,” I said, “these gentlemen wish to go into your slave-pen.” “Certainly,” he said, “gentlemen, I am glad to see you.” He evidently thought that we had come to trade with him. As we entered the room immediately in front of the pen, one of the party, a tall ungainly-looking lawyer, full of humor and fun, said, “Mr. Lynch, look out for these fellows, they are a pack of abolitionists.” Lynch received the declaration simply as a chaffing joke and laughed heartily. It was, however, sober truth. He put his great iron key into the lock, turned back the bolt, swung open the door, and turning his face towards us, said, “Gentlemen, I have not much stock on hand to-day.” Every man in our company was shocked beyond expression by that brutal announcement. We filed solemnly in. He shut the door and left us alone and undisturbed to examine his “stock.” The room was in shape a parallelogram. It was plastered and had one small window high up near the ceiling. There was no floor but the bare earth. Three backless, wooden benches stood next to the walls. There were seven slaves there, both men and women, herded together, without any arrangement for privacy. Some of the slaves were trying to while away their time by playing at marbles. One fairly good-looking woman about forty years old,