The ways of the hour

by James Fenimore Cooper

Michael Millington smiled, a little sadly, perhaps—for John Wilmeter was Sarah’s only brother—but he made no reply, perceiving that an old negro, named Sip, or Scipio, who lived about the jail by a sort of sufferance, and who had now been a voluntary adherent of a place that was usually so unpleasant to men of his class for many years, was approaching, as if he were the bearer of a message. Sip was an old-school black, grey-headed, and had seen more than his three-score years and ten. No wonder, then, that his dialect partook, in a considerable degree, of the peculiarities that were once so marked in a Manhattan “nigger.” Unlike his brethren of the present day, he was courtesy itself to all “gentlemen,” while his respect for “common folks” was a good deal more equivocal. But chiefly did the old man despise “yaller fellers;” these he regarded as a mongrel race, who could neither aspire to the pure complexion of the Circassian stock, nor lay claim to the glistening dye of Africa.

“Mrs. Gott, she want to see masser,” said Scipio, bowing to John, grinning—for a negro seldom loses his teeth—and turning civilly to Millington, with a respectful inclination of a head that was as white as snow. “Yes, sah; she want to see masser, soon as conbe’nent; and soon as he can come.”

Now, Mrs. Gott was the wife of the sheriff, and, alas! for the dignity of the office! the sheriff was the keeper of the county gaol. This is one of the fruits born on the wide-spreading branches of the tree of democracy. Formerly, a New York sheriff bore a strong resemblance to his English namesake. He was one of the county gentry, and executed the duties of his office with an air and a manner; appeared in court with a sword, and carried with his name a weight and an authority, that now are nearly wanting. Such men would scarcely become gaolers. But that universal root of all evil, the love of money, made the discovery that there was profit to be had in feeding the prisoners, and a lower class of men aspired to the offices, and obtained them; since which time, more than half of the sheriffs of New York have been their own gaolers.

“Do you know why Mrs. Gott wishes to see me, Scipio?” demanded Wilmeter.

“I b’lieve, sah, dat ’e young woman, as murders ole Masser Goodwin and he wife, ask her to send for masser.”

This was plain enough, and it caused Jack a severe pang; for it showed how conclusively and unsparingly the popular mind had made up its opinion touching Mary Monson’s guilt. There was no time to be lost, however; and the young man hastened towards the building to which the gaol was attached, both standing quite near the court-house. In the door of what was her dwelling, for the time-being, stood Mrs. Gott, the wife of the high sheriff of the county, and the only person in all Biberry who, as it appeared to John, entertained his own opinions of the innocence of the accused. But Mrs. Gott was, by nature, a kind hearted woman; and, though so flagrantly out of place in her united characters, was just such a person as ought to have the charge of the female department of a prison. Owing to the constant changes of the democratic principle of rotation in office, one of the most impudent of all the devices of a covetous envy, this woman had not many months before come out of the bosom of society, and had not seen enough of the ways of her brief and novel situation to have lost any of those qualities of her sex, such as extreme kindness, gentleness of disposition, and feminine feeling, that are anything but uncommon among the women of America. In many particulars, she would have answered the imaginative bishop’s description of a “lady;” but she would have been sadly deficient in some of the requisites that the opinions of the world have attached to the character. In these last particulars, Mary Monson, as compared with this worthy matron, was like a being of another race; though, as respects the first, we shall refer the reader to the events to be hereafter related, that he may decide the question according to his own judgment.

“Mary Monson has sent for you, Mr. Wilmeter,” the good Mrs. Gott commenced, in a low, confidential sort of tone, as if she imagined that she and John were the especial guardians of this unknown and seemingly ill-fated young woman’s fortunes. “She is wonderfully resigned and patient—a great deal more patient than I should be, if I was obliged to live in this gaol—that is, on the other side of the strong doors; but she told me, an hour ago, that she is not sure, after all, her imprisonment is not the very best thing that could happen to her!”

“That was a strange remark!” returned John. “Did she make it under a show of feeling, as if penitence, or any other strong emotion, induced her to utter it?”

“With as sweet a smile, as composed a manner, and as gentle and soft a voice as a body ever sees, or listens to! What a wonderfully soft and musical voice she has, Mr. Wilmeter!”

“She has, indeed. I was greatly struck with it, the moment I heard her speak. How much like a lady, Mrs. Gott, she uses it,—and how correct and well-pronounced are her words!”