The ways of the hour

by James Fenimore Cooper

If the bar, and the spectators in general, had been surprised at the calmness of exterior maintained by the prisoner, previously to the verdict, their wonder was sensibly increased by the manner which succeeded it. Mary Monson’s beauty shone with increasing radiance as the justice of her country seemed to threaten her existence more and more; and at the particular moment when she was left alone, by the withdrawal of her female companions, many present fancied that she had increased in stature. Certainly, it was a rare sight to observe the illuminated countenance, the erect mien, and the offended air, with which one of the weaker sex, and one so youthful and charming, met a doom so terrible. Of the jury, she took no notice. Her eye was on the judge, who was endeavouring to muster sufficient fortitude to pronounce the final decision of the law.

“Before the court pronounces sentence, Mr. Dunscomb,” observed that functionary, “it will cheerfully hear anything you may have to offer in behalf of the prisoner, or it will hear the prisoner herself. It is better, on every account, that all my painful duties be discharged at once, in order that the prisoner may turn her attention to the only two sources of mercy that now remain open to her—the earthly and the heavenly. My duty, as you well know, cannot now be avoided; and the sooner it is performed, perhaps, the better for all concerned. It shall be my care to see that the condemned has time to make all her appeals, let them be to the authorities here, or to the more dreaded power above.”[above.”]

“I am taken so much by surprise, your honour, at a verdict that, to say the least, is given on very doubtful testimony, that I hardly know what to urge. As the court, however, is disposed to indulgence, and there will be time to look at the law of the case, as well as to address our petitions and affidavits to the authority at Albany, I shall interpose no objection; and, as your honour well remarks, since the painful duty must be discharged, it were better, perhaps, that it were discharged now.”

“Prisoner at the bar,” resumed the judge, “you have heard the finding of the jury, in your case. A verdict of ‘guilty’ has been rendered, and it has become my painful duty to pronounce the awful sentence of the law. If you have anything to say previously to this, the last and most painful of all my duties, the court will give your words a kind and lenient hearing.”

In the midst of a stillness that seemed supernatural, the sweet, melodious voice of Mary Monson was heard, “first gentle, almost inaudible,” but gathering strength as she proceeded, until it became clear, distinct, and silvery. There are few things that impart a higher charm than the voice; and the extraordinary prisoner possessed an organ which, while it was feminine and sweet, had a depth and richness that at once denoted her power in song. On the present occasion, it was not even tremulous.

“I believe I understand you, sir,” Mary Monson commenced. “I have been tried and found guilty of having murdered Peter and Dorothy Goodwin, after having robbed them, and then of setting fire to the house.”

“You have been tried for the murder of Peter Goodwin, only, the indictments for the second murder, and for the arson, not having yet been tried. The court has been obliged to separate the cases, lest the law be defeated on mere technicalities. This verdict renders further proceedings unnecessary, and the two remaining indictments will probably never be traversed.”

“I believe I still understand you, sir; and I thank you sincerely for the kind manner in which you have communicated these facts, as well as for the consideration and gentleness you have manifested throughout these proceedings. It has been very kind in you, sir; and whatever may come of this, God will remember and reward you for it.”

“The court will hear you, Mary Monson, if you have anything to say, before sentence be passed.”

“Perhaps I might say and do much to affect your decision, sir,” returned the prisoner, leaning her fair brow, for a moment, on her hand, “but there would be little satisfaction in it. It was my wish to be acquitted on the testimony of the State. I did hope that this jury would not have seen the proofs of guilt, in the evidence that has been brought against me; and I confess there would be very little satisfaction to me in any other acquittal. As I understand the case, should I be acquitted as respects Peter Goodwin, I must still be tried as respects his wife; and lastly, for setting fire to the house.”