A nigger what puts on
parson airs-if it is a progressive age nigger-musn't put on fast
notions to a white gentleman of my standing! If he does, we just
take 'em out on him by the process of a small quantity of first-
rate knockin down," says Romescos, amiably lending him a hand to get
up. Graspum and the honourable sheriff are measuredly pacing up and
down the yard, talking over affairs of state, and the singular
purity of their own southern democracy-that democracy which will
surely elect the next President. Stepping aside in one of his
sallies, Graspum, in a half whisper, reminds Romescos that, now the
nigger has shown symptoms of disobedience, he had better prove the
safety of the shackles. "Right! right! all right!" the man of chains
responds; he had forgot this very necessary piece of amusement. He
places both hands upon the shackles; grasps them firmly; places his
left foot against Harry's stomach; and then, uttering a fierce
imprecation, makes his victim pull with might and main while he
braces against him with full power. The victim, groaning under the
pain, begs for mercy. Mercy was not made for him. Freedom and mercy,
in this our land of greatness, have been betrayed.
Harry, made willing property, is now placed by the side of his wife,
as four small children--the youngest not more than two years
old--cling at the skirts of her gown. The children are scarcely old
enough to chain; their strong affections for poor chained mother and
father are quite enough to guarantee against their running away.
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