Returning to the market, they took a social glass at Baker’s, where the colonel took leave of the Captain; and the latter, intending to repair to his vessel, followed the course of the market almost to its lowest extreme.  In one of the most public places of the market, the Captain’s attention was attracted by a singular object of mechanism.  It seemed so undefined in its application, that he was reminded of the old saying among sailors when they fall in with any indescribable thing at sea, that it was a “fidge-fadge, to pry the sun up with in cloudy weather.”  It was a large pedestal about six feet high, with a sort of platform at the base for persons to stand upon, supplied with two heavy rings about eight inches apart.  It was surmounted by an apex, containing an iron shackle long enough for a sloop-of-war’s best bower chain, and just, beneath it was a nicely-turned moulding.  About three feet from the ground, and twelve inches from the pedestal, were two pieces of timber one above the other, with a space of some ten inches between them, the upper one set about five inches nearest the pedestal, also containing two rings, and both supported by posts in the ground.  Above the whole was a framework, with two projecting timbers supplied with rings, and standing about fourteen inches in a diagonal direction above the big ring in the apex of the shaft.  It was altogether a curious instrument, but it designated the civilization of the age, upon the same principle that a certain voyager who, on landing in a distant country, discovered traces of civilization in the decaying remains of an old gallows.

He viewed the curious instrument for some time, and then turning to an old ragged negro, whose head and beard were whitened with the flour of age, said, “Well, old man, what do you call that?”

“Why, massa, him great t’ing dat-what big old massa judge send buckra-man to get whip, so color foke laugh when ’e ketch ’im on de back, ca’ bim; an’ massa wid de cock-up hat on ’e head put on big vip jus’ so,” said the old negro.

It was the whipping-post, where white men, for small thefts, were branded with ignominy and shame.

“Are you a slave, old man?” inquired the Captain.

The old man turned his head aside and pulled his ragged garments, as if shame had stung his feelings.

“Do, good massa-old Simon know ye don’e belong here-give him piece of ’bacca,” replied the hoary-headed veteran evidently intending to evade the question.  The Captain divided his “plug” with him, and gave him a quarter to get more, but not to buy whiskey.  “Tank-e, massa, tank-e; he gone wid ole Simon long time.”

“But you haven’t answered my question; I asked you if you were a slave.”

“Ah! massa, ye don’e know him how he is, ah ha! ha!  I done gone now.  Massa Pringle own ’im once, but ’im so old now, nobody say I own ‘im, an’ ole Simon a’n’t no massa what say I his fo’ bacon.  I don’t woff nofin’ nohow now, ’cos I ole.  When Simon young-great time ‘go-den massa say Simon his; woff touzan’ dollars; den me do eve’ ting fo’ massa just so.  I prime nigga den, massa; now I woff nosin’, no corn and bacon ’cept what ’im git from Suke-e.  She free; good massa make her free,” said he.