Finding that another slave-auction was to be held at noon next day in the St. Louis Exchange, I resolved to attend. The day was dull and dirty. “Please, sir,” said I to the first man I met, “to tell me where St. Louis Exchange is?” “Don't know, sir.” I walked on a little further, and tried again. “Please to direct me to St. Louis Exchange?” “Can't; but it's somewhere in that direction,” pointing with his finger. “Is this the way to St. Louis Exchange?” I asked a third. “I guess it is,” was the curt and characteristic reply. “How far is it?” “Three blocks further on; then turn to your right; go a little way down, and you will find it on your left.” I went as directed, and came to an immense building—a kind of hotel. There were nearly a dozen entrances, all leading into one vast saloon, where I found about 200 gentlemen,—some drinking, some eating, some smoking, some reading, some talking, and all spitting. One end of the saloon was fitted up as a refreshment place, similar to those on railway stations in England. But I could see nothing like preparations for a sale. On looking around I perceived a large door in two halves, with spring hinges, leading as it were further into the building. I pushed one half open, and found myself in a spacious circular hall,—its roof, ending in a dome, supported by a suitable number of massive columns.