with long white eyebrows running more than half-way around them, and meeting over the narrow ridge of the nose. Hair upon the head there was none—that is, none that was visible—a skull-cap of whitish cotton-stuff covering the whole crown, and coming down over both ears. Over this was a white beaver hat, whose worn nap and broken edges told of long service.

A pair of large green goggles, resting on the humped bridge of his nose, protected his eyes from the sun; though they might, perhaps, have been worn for another purpose—to conceal the villainous expression of the orbs that sparkled beneath them.

A sky-blue cloth coat, whitened by long wear, with metal buttons, once bright, now changed to the hue of bronze; small-clothes of buff kerseymere glistening with grease; long stockings, and tarnished top-boots, made up the costume of this unique individual. A large blue cotton umbrella rested across his knees, as both hands were occupied in steering the skiff.

The portrait here given—or, perhaps, it should be styled profile—is that of Jacob Jessuron, the slave-merchant; an Israelite of Germanic breed, but one in whom—it would not have been truth to say—there was “no guile.”

The two oarsmen were simply his slaves.

The little craft had put out from the shore—from a secluded spot at a distance from the town, but still within view of it. It was evidently making for the newly-anchored barque; and evidently rowed at its best speed. Indeed, the steersman appeared to be urging his blacks to the exertion of their utmost strength. From time to time he was seen to twist his body half round and look towards the town—as though he expected or dreaded to see a rival boat coming from that quarter, and was desirous to reach the barque ahead of her.

If such was his design it proved successful. Although his little skiff was a considerable time in traversing the distance from shore to ship—a distance of at least a mile—he arrived at the point of his destination without any other boat making its appearance.

“Sheep ahoy!” shouted he, as the skiff was pulled up under the larboard quarter of the barque.

“Ay, ay!” responded a voice from above. “Ish that Captain Showler I hearsh?”

“Hilloo! who’s there?” interrogated some one on the quarter-deck; and the moment after, the sallow face of Captain Aminadab Jowler presented itself at the gangway.

“Ah! Mister Jessuron, that you, eh? Determined to have fust peep at my blackeys? Well! fust kim, fust served; that’s my rule. Glad to see you, old fellow. How’d deo?”

“Fusht-rate!—fusht-rate! I hopsh you’re the same yourshelf, Captain Showler. How ish you for cargo?”

“Fine, old boy! got a prime lot this time. All sizes, colours, and sexes, too; ha! ha! You can pick and choose to suit yourself, I reckin. Come! climb aboard, and squint your eye over ’em!”

The slave-merchant, thus invited, caught hold of the rope-ladder let down for his accommodation; and scrambling up the ship’s side with the agility of an old ape, stepped upon the deck of the slaver.

After some moments spent in handshaking and other forms of gratulation; proving that the trader and merchant were old friends—and as thick as two thieves could possibly be—the latter fixed the goggles more firmly on the ridge of his nose, and commenced his inspection of the “cargo.”