Henry Thoreau, Bachelor of Nature by Léon Bazalgette

A special session at the Boston Court-house, where the Supreme Court is sitting under the protection of the militia. Free men are judging a man-tool, the property of another man. Perhaps, under his black skin and his woolly hair, the tool has a kind of soul -- you never can tell: but since he has run away, the tribunal ordains, in its sovereign independence, that he shall be returned to the hands of his master. If, weary of digging up your ground, a hoe for which you have paid with your good money should take it into its head one fine evening to scamper off, what would you say? The article that has vanished should be restored to its rightful owner. The law is sacred and the judges are there to apply it without flinching. There is no joking with these respectable judges of the Boston Court-house. They have very grave faces with white skins and not the least suggestion of wool on their skulls. They represent His Majesty the Right and His Holiness the Moral.

Are you surprised? Then where do you come from? Don't you know how little it matters before the law whether you are innocent or guilty? The important thing is not you but respect for the law. The judge is there to grind out his judgments, the notes are printed in the record, and at the end of the month the fees fall with all the precision of music. And you fail to take this way of administering justice seriously? You feel no respect for this machine?