I have hardly heard of a single slave in an Oriental house who deserves to be noted for his intellectual power. Since he is so cunning and can set the whole family by the ears, how comes it that he is so dull of understanding? Does the cause lie solely in the neglect of education? Surely not, for if it did his master’s case would often be no better than his own. Is the reason, then, to be sought beneath the surface of his skin? Scarcely, I think, since, under the British flag in South Africa, his brother blacks are gaining fast in intellectual strength. No; set your slave free; let him have a body he can call his own. Educate him that he may develop a mind to rule himself. Give him light, and room, and liberty. Do this, you master of Islám’s slave, and your jesters shall have no cause in the future to satirise the wretched victim who, bought in chains and reared in sloth, is nothing less than a living stigma cast on your manhood. If anything could emancipate your sense of justice, it would be a visit to the Slave Market of Mecca. Go there, see for yourself the condition of the human chattels you purchase. You will find them, thanks to the vigilance of the British cruisers, less numerous, and consequently more expensive, than they were in former years; but there they are, flung pell-mell in the open square--in crowds that clamour for a recrudescence of Muhammad’s attitude towards slavery. One group, that of a mother and daughter, excited the sympathy of many pilgrims. The girl, unthinking, giddy, broke every now and then into shrill laughter. In her mirth, more terrible to witness than grief, it seemed as though she would while away the hours of exciting expectation. For the girl was bent on winning a master; slavery had for her no terror, a mother no reclaiming tie. Every time the daughter laughed her mother’s face twitched all over, and then grew rigid. It was plain, to the sympathetic eye, that she had forced herself to rejoice in her own anguish--her daughter’s unconcern, telling herself, it may be, that, though her own pain would soon be the greater, her daughter’s would be so much the less. The one, dreading the parting, disguised her secret anguish, or found her consolation in her child’s heartlessness; the other, who could not conceal her anxiety lest she should be overlooked, was innocent of a qualm. The dealer, standing by, cried out: “Come and buy, the first fruits of the season, delicate, fresh, and green; come and buy, strong and useful, faithful and honest. Come and buy.” The day of sacrifice was past, and the richer pilgrims in their brightest robes gathered round. One among them singled out the girl. They entered a booth together. The mother was left behind. One word she uttered, or was it a moan of inarticulate grief? Soon after, the girl came back. And the dealer, when the bargaining was over, said to the purchaser: “I sell to you this property of mine, the female