Against this increasing force of proof, the old man begs his honour will send to the prison, where master will be found,—­dead!  In his love of clemency that functionary yields to the request.  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.  How much more he will get remains for a proud state, in its sovereign littleness, to provide.  His honour, feeling his duties toward the state discharged, and his precautionary measures for the protection of the people fully exemplified in this awful judgment, orders one of the officers to summon Mr. Ford Fosdick, a distinguished gentleman of the state’s own, who, he is quite sure, will not neglect her more important interests.  Bob has no interests in this world, nor doth he murmur that he hath not eaten bread for fourteen hours.  Kindliness yet lingers in his withered face as he goes forth, yields submission to a state’s lnjustice, and bares his back before he eats.

“Return him after administering the dressing,” says his honour, directing his remarks to the official about to lead his victim away.  That functionary, half turning, replies with a polite bow.

The reader, we feel assured, will excuse a description of this unsavoury dressing, beautifully administered on behalf of a republican state that makes it a means of crushing out the love of liberty.  Bob has received his dressing and returned; but he has no tears to shed for democrats who thus degrade him.