As the uproar and confusion die away, and the court resumes its dignity, Mr. Grabguy, again asserting his position of a gentleman, says he is not ashamed to declare his conviction to be, that his honour is not in a fit state to try a "nigger" of his: in fact, the truth must be told, he would not have him sit in judgment upon his spaniel.
At this most unwarranted declaration Fetter rises from his judicial chair, his feelings burning with rage, and bounds over the table at Grabguy, prostrating his brother Felsh, tables, benches, chairs, and everything else in his way,—making the confusion complete. Several gentlemen interpose between Fetter; but before he can reach Grabguy, who is no small man in physical strength—which he has developed by fighting his way "through many a crowd" on election days-that municipal dignitary is ejected, sans ceremonie, into the street.
"Justice to me! My honest rights, for which I laboured when he gave me no bread, would have saved him his compunction of conscience: I wanted nothing more," says Nicholas, raising the side of his coarse jacket, and wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Silence there!" demands an official, pointing his tipstaff, and punching him on the shoulder.
Grabguy goes to his home, considering and reconsidering his own course. His heart repeats the admonition, "Thou art the wrong-doer, Grabguy!" It haunts his very soul; it lays bare the sources from whence the slave's troubles flow; places the seal of aggression on the state. It is a question with him, whether the state, through its laws, or Messrs. Fetter and Felsh, through the justice meted out at their court, play the baser part.
A crowd of anxious persons have gathered about the door, making the very air resound with their shouts of derision. Hans Von Vickeinsteighner, his fat good-natured face shining like a pumpkin on a puncheon, and his red cap dangling above the motley faces of the crowd, moves glibly about, and says they are having a right jolly good time at the law business within.
Fetter, again taking his seat, apologises to the jury, to the persons present, and to his learned brother, Felsh. He is very sorry for this ebullition of passion; but they may be assured it was called forth by the gross insult offered to all present. "Continue the witnesses as fast as possible," he concludes, with a methodical bow.
Mr. Monsel steps forward: he relates the fierce attempt made upon his life; has no doubt the prisoner meant to kill him, and raise an insurrection. "It is quite enough; Mr. Monsel may stand down," interposes Felsh, with an air of dignity.
Paul Vampton, an intelligent negro, next bears testimony. The criminal at the bar (Paul does not believe he has a drop of negro blood in his veins) more than once told him his wife and children were sold from him, his rights stripped from him, the hopes of gaining his freedom for ever gone. Having nothing to live for, he coveted death, because it was more honourable to die in defence of justice, than live the crawling slave of a tyrant's rule.
"I feel constrained to stop the case, gentlemen of the jury," interposes his honour, rising from his seat. "The evidence already adduced is more than sufficient to establish the conviction."