The Sun.
London, England, 1862-03-14 00:00:00

.7-4RIZED AND COTTONED.

" Gentlemen of the jury," said Judge Pyke, " as
badit
u
requisiteagred yourverdict r
retire
ie t
beforero the
consult.
r trial
is not
upon
you should
Prisoner at the bar, rise to receive sentence." I
thought it judicious to fail upon my knees and re-
quest forgiveness ; but my persecutors were blinded
by what no doubt sccnied to theta a Ie lig'
zous zeal,
" Get up," :,aid Major Liekiickin, and I am ashamed,
for his sake, to say that there was an applic-
tion of boot accompanying this remark. pi i_
soner," continued my Rhadamanthus,
"you have
had a fair trial, and you are found guilty on
all the counts of the indictment; first, of dis-
loyalty to the South; second, of indifference
to the democratic candidate for the Presidency;
third, of maligning the character of Southern
patriots in a book intended, no doubt, for univer-
sal circulation through the Northern States.
Fourth, of holding correspondence with an agent
of the underground railroad, who, as he himself
avows, has recently run off a nigger to Toronto.
Silence, sir ! choke him, Billy Sangaree, if he says
a word. Fifthly, of defaming a Southern lady,
while at the same time you were endeavouring to
win her most attractive property and person from
those who should naturally acquire them. Sixthly,
of agrarianism, abolitionism, atheism, and infidelity.
Prisoner at the bar, your sentence is that you be
tarred and cottoned, and leave the State. If you are
caught again you will be hung by the neck, and
Henry Ward Beecher have mercy on your
soul !" I was now marched along by my two
sentries to a huge tree, not of the bandanna
species. Beneath it a sugar-kettle filled with ebul-
lient tar was standing. My persecutors, with tran-
quil brutality, proceeded to disrobe me. Mellasys
Plickaman took a ladleful of the vicious fluid and
poured it over my head. " Aminadab," said he,
" I baptise thee." I have experienced few sensa-
tions more unpleasant than this application. The
tar descended in warm and sluggish streams, trick-
ling over my forehead, dropping from my eyelids.
rolling over my cheeks, sealing my mouth, glueing
my ears to my skull, identifying itself with my
hair, pursuing the path indicated by my spine be-
neath my shirt—in short, enveloping me with a
close-fitting armour of glutinous and most un-
savoury material. Each of the jury followed the
example of my detested rival. In a few moments
the tarring was complete. Few can see them-
selves mentally or physically as others see them ;
but, judging from the remarks made, lam con-
vincedgthat I must have afforded an entertaining
spectacle to the party. They roared with laughter,
and jeered me. I, however, preserved a silence,
discreet, and, I flatter myself, dignified. The
negroes, particularly those at whose fustigation I
had assisted in the morning, joined in the scoffs of
their masters, calling me Bobolitionist, Black Re-
publican, Liberator, and other nicknames by which
these simple-hearted and contented creatures
express dislike and distrust. " Bring the cotton !"
now cries Mellasys Plickaman. A bag of that
regal product was brought. " Roll him in it,"
said Billy Sangaree. " Let the colonel work his
own tricks," Major Licklickin said, "he's an artist, he
is." I must admit that he was an artist. He fabri-
cated me an elaborate wig of the cotton. He
arranged me a pair of bushy white eyebrows. He
stuck a venerable beard upon my chin, and a
moustache upon my lip. Then he proceeded to
indicate my ribs with lines of cotton, and to cap
my shoulders with epaulets. It would be long to
describe the fantastic tricks he played with me amid
the loud laughter of his crew. Occasionally, also,
I heard suppressed giggles from Saccharissa at the
window. I have no doubt that I should have
strangled my late fiancee if such an act had been
consistent with my personal safety. When I
was completely cottoned, in the deco old
decorative manner
I have described, Mellasys took a banjo from an
negro, and, striking it, not without a certain unso-
phisticated and barbaric grace appropriate to the
instrument, commanded me to dance. I essayed to
do so, but my heart was heavy, consequently my
heels wero not light. My faint attempts at pirouttes
were not satisfactory. " Dance jollier, or we'll
hang you," said Plickaman. " No," says Judge
Pyke, " the sentence of the Court has been exe-
cuted. In the sacred name of justice I protest
against proceeding further." Culprit, continued he
in a voice of thunder, "cut for the North star, and
here's passage money for you."—The Atlantic
Monthly.