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.  Romescos, in his ample kindness, will allow them to toddle their way to market.  They are not dangerous property;—­they have their feelings, and will go to market to be sold, without running away.

The gang is ready.  The gaoler, nearly out of breath, congratulates himself upon the manner of dispatching business at his establishment.  Romescos will put them through a few evolutions before marching in the street; so, placing himself at their right, and the gaoler at their left flank, they are made to march and counter-march several times round the yard.  This done, the generous gaoler invites the gentlemen into his office:  he has a good glass of whiskey waiting their superior tastes.

The ward gates are opened; the great gate is withdrawn; the property, linked in iron fellowship,—­the gentlemen having taken their whiskey,—­are all ready for the word, march!  This significant admonition the sheriff gives, and the property sets off in solemn procession, like wanderers bound on a pilgrimage.  Tramp, tramp, tramp, their footsteps fall in dull tones as they sally forth, in broken file, through the long aisles.  Romescos is in high glee,—­his feelings bound with exultation, he marches along, twirling a stick over his head.  They are soon in the street, where he invites them to strike up a lively song—­“Jim crack corn, and I don’t care, fo’h Mas’r’s gone away!” he shouts; and several strike up, the rest joining in the old plantation chorus—­“Away! away! away!  Mas’r’s gone away.”  Thus, with jingling chorus and seemingly joyous hearts, they march down to the man-market.  The two children, Annette and Nicholas, trail behind, in charge of the sheriff, whose better feelings seem to be troubling him very much.  Every now and then, as they walk