There looks something harmless about the old negro,
something that warms his honour's legal coldness. An officer is
despatched, and soon returns with a description that corresponds
with the old man's. "He waited on Marston, made Marston's cell his
home; but, your honour-and I have the assurance of the gaoler-he was
not Marston's nigger; all that man's niggers were sold for the
benefit of his creditors." So says the official, returning to his
august master with cringing servility. His honour, in the fulness of
his wisdom, and with every regard for legal straightforwardness (his
honour searched into the profoundest depths of the "nigger statutes"
while learning the tailoring trade, which he now pursues with great
success), is now doubly satisfied that the negro before him is a
vagabond-perhaps, and he is more than half inclined to believe he
is, the very marauder who has been committing so many depredations
about the city. With a profound admonition, wisdom glowing from his
very countenance the while, he orders him twenty-nine paddles on his
bare posteriors,--is sorry the law does not give him power to extend
the number. And with compliments for the lucky fellows who have thus
timely relieved the public of such a dangerous outlaw, his honour
orders him to be taken away to that prison-house where even-handed
democracy has erected a place for torturing the souls of men who
love liberty.
He will get the stripes-large, democratic stripes,--generously laid
on.
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