All ready for the market, they are chained together in pairs, men
and women, as if the wrongs they bore had made them untrustworthy.
Romescos, ever employed in his favourite trade, is busily engaged
chaining up-assorting the pairs! One by one they quietly submit to
the proceeding, until he reaches Harry. That minister-of-the-gospel
piece of property thinks,--that is, is foolish enough to think,--his
nigger religion a sufficient guarantee against any inert propensity
to run away. "Now, good master, save my hands from irons, and my
heart from pain. Trust me, let me go unbound; my old Master trust me
wid 'is life-"
"Halloo!" says Romescos, quickly interrupting, and beginning to
bristle with rage; "preach about old Master here you'll get the
tinglers, I reckon. Put 'em on-not a grunt-or you'll get thirty
more-yes, a collar on yer neck." Holding a heavy stick over the poor
victim's head, for several minutes with one hand, he rubs the other,
clenched, several times across his nose. Graspum interposes by
reminding the minister that it is for his interest to be very
careful how he makes any reply to white gentlemen.
"Why, massa, I'ze the minister on de plantation. My old master
wouldn't sell-wouldn't do so wid me. Master knows I love God, am
honest and peaceable. Why chain the honest? why chain the peaceable?
why chain the innocent? They need no fetters, no poisoning shackles.
The guilty only fear the hand of retribution," says Harry, a curl of
contempt on his lip.
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