“Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the state;
Then the great man help’d the poor,
And the poor man lov’d the great:
Then lands were fairly portion’d;
Then spoils were fairly sold;
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.”
_Macaulay._
It has been said that John Wilmeter was left by his uncle at Bilberry,
to look after the welfare of their strange client. John, or Jack, as he
was commonly called by his familiars, including his pretty sister, was
in the main a very good fellow, though far from being free from the
infirmities to which the male portion of the human family are subject,
when under the age of thirty. He was frank, manly, generous, disposed to
think for himself, and what is somewhat unusual with his countrymen, of
a temperament that led him to make up his mind suddenly, and was not to
be easily swayed by the notions that might be momentarily floating about
in the neighbourhood. Perhaps a little of a spirit of opposition to the
feeling that was so rapidly gaining head in Biberry, inclined him to
take a warmer interest in the singular female who stood charged with
such enormous crimes, than he might otherwise have done.
The instructions left by Mr. Dunscomb with his nephew, also gave the
latter some uneasiness. In the first place, they had been very ample and
thoughtful on the subject of the prisoner’s comforts, which had been
seen to in a way that is by no means common in a gaol. Money had been
used pretty freely in effecting this object, it is true; but, out of the
large towns, money passes for much less on such occasions, in America,
than in most other countries. The people are generally kind-hearted, and
considerate for the wants of others; and fair words will usually do
quite as much as dollars. Dunscomb, however, had made a very judicious
application of both, and beyond the confinement and the fearful nature
of the charges brought against her, Mary Monson had very little to
complain of in her situation.
The part of his instructions which gave John Wilmeter most uneasiness,
which really vexed him, related to the prisoner’s innocence or guilt.
The uncle distrusted; the nephew was all confidence. While the first had
looked at the circumstances coolly, and was, if anything, leaning to the
opinion that there might be truth in the charges; the last beheld in
Mary Monson an attractive young person of the other sex, whose innocent
countenance was the pledge of an innocent soul. To John, it was
preposterous to entertain a charge of this nature against one so
singularly gifted.
“I should as soon think of accusing Sarah of such dark offences, as of
accusing this young lady!” exclaimed John to his friend Michael
Millington, while the two were taking their breakfast next day. “It is
preposterous—wicked—monstrous, to suppose that a young, educated female,
would, or could, commit such crimes! Why, Mike, she understands French
and Italian, and Spanish; and I think it quite likely that she can also
read German, if, indeed, she cannot speak it!”
“How do you know this?—Has she been making a display of her knowledge?”
“Not in the least—it all came out as naturally as possible. She asked
for some of her own books to read, and when they were brought to her, I
found that she had selected works in all four of these languages. I was
quite ashamed of my own ignorance, I can assure you; which amounts to no
more than a smattering of French, in the face of her Spanish, Italian
and German!”
“Poh! I shouldn’t have minded it, in the least,” Michael very coolly
replied, his mouth being half-full of beefsteak. “The girls lead us in
such things, of course. No man dreams of keeping up with a young lady
who has got into the living languages. Miss Wilmeter might teach us
both, and laugh at our ignorance, in the bargain.”
“Sarah! Ay, she is a good enough girl, in her _way_—but no more to be
compared——”
Jack Wilmeter stopped short, for Millington dropped his knife with not a
little clatter, on his plate, and was gazing at his friend in a sort of
fierce astonishment.
“You don’t dream of comparing your sister to this unknown and suspected
stranger!” at length Michael got out, speaking very much like one whose
head has been held under water until his breath was nearly exhausted.
“You ought to recollect, John, that virtue should never be brought
unnecessarily in contact with vice.”
“Mike, and do you, too, believe in the guilt of Mary Monson?”
“I believe that she is committed under a verdict given by an inquest,
and think it best to suspend my opinion as to the main fact, in waiting
for further evidence. Remember, Jack, how often your uncle has told us
that, after all, good witnesses were the gist of the law. Let us wait
and see what a trial may bring forth.”
Young Wilmeter covered his face with his hands, bowed his head to the
table, and ate not another morsel that morning. His good sense
admonished him of the prudence of the advice just given; while feelings,
impetuous, and excited almost to fierceness, impelled him to go forth
and war on all who denied the innocence of the accused. To own the
truth, John Wilmeter was fast becoming entangled in the meshes of love.
And, sooth to say, notwithstanding the extreme awkwardness of her
situation, the angry feeling that was so fast rising up against her in
Biberry and its vicinity, and the general mystery that concealed her
real name, character and history, there was that about Mary Monson, in
her countenance, other personal advantages, and most of all in her
manner and voice, that might well catch the fancy of a youth of warm
feelings, and through his fancy, sooner or later, touch his heart. As
yet, John was only under the influence of the new-born sentiment, and
had he now been removed from Biberry, it is probable that the feelings
and interest which had been so suddenly and powerfully awakened in him
would have passed away altogether, or remained in shadow on his memory,
as a melancholy and yet pleasant record of hours past, under
circumstances in which men live fast, if they do not always live well.
Little did the uncle think of the great danger to which he exposed his
nephew, when he placed him, like a sentinel in law, on duty near the
portal of his immured client. But the experienced Dunscomb was anxious
to bring John into active life, and to place him in situations that
might lead him to think and execute for himself; and it had been much
his practice, of late, to put the young man forward, when ever
circumstances would admit of it. Although the counsellor was more than
at his ease in fortune, and John and Sarah each possessed very
respectable means, that placed them altogether above dependence, he was
exceedingly anxious that his nephew should succeed to his own business,
as the surest mode of securing his happiness and respectability in a
community where the number of the idle is relatively so small as to
render the pursuits of a class that is by no means without its uses,
where it can be made to serve the tastes and manners of a country,
difficult of attainment. He had the same desire in behalf of his niece,
or that she should become the wife of a man who had something to do; and
the circumstance that Millington, though of highly reputable
connections, was almost entirely without fortune, was no objection in
his eyes to the union that Sarah was so obviously inclined to form. The
two young men had been left on the ground, therefore, to take care of
the interests of a client whom Dunscomb was compelled to admit was one
that interested him more than any other in whose services he had ever
been employed, strongly as he was disposed to fear that appearances
might be deceitful.
Our young men were not idle. In addition to doing all that was in their
power to contribute to the personal comforts of Miss Monson, they were
active and intelligent in obtaining, and making notes of, all the facts
that had been drawn out by the coroner’s inquest, or which could be
gleaned in the neighbourhood. These facts, or rumours, John classed into
the “proved,” the “reported,” the “probable” and the “improbable;”
accompanying each division with such annotations as made a very useful
sort of brief for any one who wished to push the inquiries further.
“There, Millington,” he said when they reached the gaol, on their return
from a walk as far as the ruins of the house which had been burnt, and
after they had dined, “there; I think we have done tolerably well for
one day, and are in a fair way to give uncle Tom a pretty full account
of this miserable business. The more I see and learn of it, the more I
am convinced of the perfect innocence of the accused. I trust it strikes
you in the same way, Mike?”
But Mike was by no means as sanguine as his friend. He smiled faintly at
this question, and endeavoured to evade a direct answer. He saw how
lively were the hopes of Tom, and how deeply his feelings were getting
to be interested in the matter, while his own judgment, influenced,
perhaps, by Mr. Dunscomb’s example, greatly inclined him to the worst
foreboding of the result. Still he had an honest satisfaction in saying
anything that might contribute to the gratification of Sarah’s brother,
and a good opportunity now offering, he did not let it escape him.
“There is one thing, Jack, that seems to have been strangely
overlooked,” he said, “and out of which some advantage may come, if it
be thoroughly sifted. You may remember it was stated by some of the
witnesses, that there was a German woman in the family of the Goodwins,
the day that preceded the fire—one employed in housework?”
“Now you mention it, I do! Sure enough; what has become of that woman?”
“While you were drawing your diagram of the ruins, and projecting your
plan of the out-buildings, garden, fields and so on, I stepped across to
the nearest house, and had a chat with the ladies. You may remember I
told you it was to get a drink of milk; but I saw petticoats, and
thought something might be learned from woman’s propensity to talk?”
“I know you left me, but was too busy, just then, to see on what errand,
or whither you went.”
“It was to the old stone farm-house that stands only fifty rods from the
ruins. The family in possession is named Burton, and a more talkative
set I never encountered in petticoats.”
“How many had you to deal with, Mike?” John enquired, running his eyes
over his notes as he asked the question, in a way that showed how little
he anticipated from this interview with the Burtons. “If more than one
of the garrulous set I pity you, for I had a specimen of them yesterday
morning myself, in a passing interview.”
“There were three talkers, and one silent body. As is usual, I thought
that the silent member of the house knew more than the speakers, if she
had been inclined to let out her knowledge.”
“Ay, that is a way we have of judging of one another; but it is as often
false as true. As many persons are silent because they have nothing to
say, as because they are reflecting; and of those who _look_ very wise,
about one-half, as near as I can judge, _look_ so as a sort of apology
for being very silly.”
“I can’t say how it was with Mrs. Burton, the silent member of the
family, in this case; but I do know that her three worthy sisters-in-law
are to be classed among the foolish virgins.”
“Had they no oil to trim their lamps withal?”
“It had all been used to render their tongues limber. Never did three
damsels pour out words in so full a rivulet, as I was honoured with for
the first five minutes. By the end of that time, I was enabled to put a
question or two; after which they were better satisfied to let me
interrogate, while they were content to answer.”
“Did you learn anything, Mike, to reward you for all this trouble?”
again glancing at his notes.
“I think I did. With a good deal of difficulty in _eliminating_ the
surplussage, if I may coin a word for the occasion, I got these
facts:—It would seem that the German woman was a newly-arrived
immigrant, who had strolled into the country, and offered to work for
her food, &c. Mrs. Goodwin usually attended to all her own domestic
matters; but she had an attack of the rheumatism that predisposed her to
receive this offer, and that so much the more willingly, because the
‘help’ was not to be paid. It appears that the deceased female was an
odd mixture of miserly propensities with a love of display. She hoarded
all she could lay her hands on, and took a somewhat uncommon pleasure in
showing her hoards to her neighbours. In consequence of this last
weakness, the whole neighbourhood knew not only of her gold, for she
turned every coin into that metal, before it was consigned to her
stocking; but of the amount to a dollar, and the place where she kept
it. In this all agreed, even to the silent matron.”
“And what has become of this German woman?” asked John closing his notes
with sudden interest. “Why was she not examined before the inquest? and
where is she now?”
“No one knows. She has been missing ever since the fire and a few fancy
that she may, after all, be the person who has done the whole mischief.
It does wear a strange look, that no trace can be heard of her!”
“This must be looked into closely, Mike. It is unaccountably strange
that more was not said of her before the coroner. Yet, I fear one thing,
too. Dr. McBrain is a man of the highest attainments as an anatomist,
and you will remember that he inclines to the opinion that both the
skeletons belonged to females. Now, it may turn out that this German
woman’s remains have been found; which will put her guilt out of the
question.”
“Surely, Jack, you would not be sorry to have it turn out that any human
being should be innocent of such crimes!”
“By no means; though it really does seem to me more probable that an
unknown straggler should be the guilty one in this case, than an
educated young female, who has every claim in the way of attainments to
be termed a lady. Besides, Michael, these German immigrants have brought
more than their share of crime among us. Look at the reports of murders
and robberies for the last ten years, and you will find that an undue
proportion of them have been committed by this class of immigrants. To
me, nothing appears more probable than this affair’s being traced up to
that very woman.”
“I own you are right, in saying what you do of the Germans. But it
should be remembered, that some of their states are said to have adopted
the policy of sending their rogues to America. If _England_ were to
attempt that, now, I fancy Jonathan would hardly stand it!”
“He ought not to stand it for an hour, from any nation on earth. If
there ever was a good cause for war, this is one. Yes, yes; that German
immigrant must be looked up, and examined.”
Michael Millington smiled faintly at John Wilmeter’s disposition to
believe the worst of the High Dutch; touching the frailties of whom,
however, neither of the two had exaggerated anything. Far more than
their share of the grave crimes of this country have, within the period
named, been certainly committed by immigrants from Germany; whether the
cause be in the reason given, or in national character. This is not
according to ancient opinion, but we believe it to be strictly according
to fact. The Irish are clannish, turbulent, and much disposed to knock
each other on the head; but it is not to rob, or to pilfer, but to
quarrel. The Englishman will pick your pocket, or commit burglary, when
inclined to roguery, and frequently he has a way of his own of
extorting, in the way of vails. The Frenchmen may well boast of their
freedom from wrongs done to persons or property in this country; no
class of immigrants furnishing to the prisons, comparatively, fewer
criminals. The natives, out of all proportion, are freest from crime, if
the blacks be excepted, and when we compare the number of the convicted
with the number of the people. Still, such results ought not to be taken
as furnishing absolute rules by which to judge of large bodies of men;
since unsettled lives on the one hand, and the charities of life on the
other, may cause disproportions that would not otherwise exist.
“If one of these skeletons be that of the German woman, and Dr. McBrain
should prove to be right,” said John Wilmeter, earnestly, “what has
become of the remains of Mr. Goodwin? There was a husband as well as a
wife, in that family.”
“Very true,” answered Millington; “and I learned something concerning
him, too. It seems that the old fellow drank intensely, at times, when
he and his wife made the house too hot to hold them. All the Burtons
agreed in giving this account of the good couple. The failing was not
generally known, and had not yet gone so far as to affect the old man’s
general character, though it would seem to have been known to the
immediate neighbours.”
“And not one word of all this, is to be found in any of the reports in
the papers from town! Not a particle of testimony on the point before
the inquest! Why, Mike, this single fact may furnish a clue to the whole
catastrophe.”
“In what way?” Millington very quietly enquired.
“Those bones are the bones of females; old Goodwin has robbed the house,
set fire to it, murdered his wife and the German woman in a drunken
frolic, and run away. Here is a history for Uncle Tom, that will delight
him; for if he do not feel quite certain of Mary Monson’s innocence now,
he would be delighted to learn its truth!”
“You make much out of a very little, Jack, and imagine far more than you
can prove. Why should old Goodwin set fire to his own house—for I
understand the property was his—steal his own money—for, though married
women did then hold a separate estate in a bed-quilt, or a gridiron, the
law could not touch the previous accumulations of a feme coverte—and
murder a poor foreigner, who could neither give nor take away anything
that the building contained? Then he is to burn his own house, and make
himself a vagrant in his old age—and that among strangers! I learn he
was born in that very house, and has passed his days in it. Such a man
would not be very likely to destroy it.”
“Why not, to conceal a murder? Crime must be concealed, or it is
punished.”
“Sometimes,” returned Michael, drily. “This Mary Monson will be hanged,
out of all question, should the case go against her, for she understands
French, and Italian, and German, you say; either of which tongues would
be sufficient to hang her; but had old Mrs. Goodwin murdered _her_,
philanthropy would have been up and stirring, and no rope would be
stretched.”
“Millington, you have a way of talking, at times, that is quite
shocking! I do wish you could correct it. What use is there in bringing
a young lady like Miss Monson down to the level of a common criminal?”
“She will be brought down as low as that, depend on it, if guilty. There
is no hope for one who bears about her person, in air, manner, speech,
and deportment, the unequivocal signs of a lady. Our sympathies are all
kept for those who are less set apart from the common herd. Sympathy
goes by majorities, as well as other matters.”
“You think her, at all events, a lady?” said John, quickly. “How, then,
can you suppose it possible that she has been guilty of the crimes of
which she stands accused?”
“Simply, because my old-fashioned father has given me old-fashioned
notions of the meaning of terms. So thin-skinned have people become
lately, that even language must be perverted to gratify their conceit.
The terms ‘gentleman’ and ‘lady’ have as defined meanings as any two
words we possess—signifying persons of cultivated minds, and of certain
refinements in tastes and manners. Morals have nothing to do with
either, necessarily, as a ‘gentleman’ or ‘lady’ may be very wicked; nay,
often are. It is true there are particular acts, partaking of
meannesses, rather than anything decidedly criminal, that, by a
convention, a gentleman or lady may not commit; but there are a hundred
others, that are far worse, which are not prohibited. It is unlady-like
to _talk_ scandal; but it is not deemed always unlady-like to give
grounds to scandal. Here is a bishop who has lately been defining a
gentleman, and, as usually happens with such men, unless they were
originally on a level with their dioceses, he describes a ‘Christian,’
rather than a ‘gentleman.’ This notion of making converts by means of
enlisting our vanity and self-love in the cause, is but a weak one, at
the best.”
“Certainly, Mike; I agree with you in the main. As large classes of
polished people do exist, who have loose enough notions of morals, there
ought to be terms to designate them, as a class, as well as to give any
other name, when we have the thing. Use has applied those of ‘gentlemen’
and ‘ladies,’ and I can see no sufficient reason for changing them.”
“It comes wholly from the longings of human vanity. As a certain
distinction is attached to the term, everybody is covetous of obtaining
it, and all sorts of reasoning is resorted to, to drag them into the
categories. It would be the same, if it were a ground of distinction to
have but one ear. But this distinction will be very likely to make
things go hard with our client, Jack, if the jury say ‘guilty’.”
“The jury never can—never _will_ render such a verdict! I do not think
the grand jury will even return a bill. Why should they? The testimony
wouldn’t convict an old state-prison-bird.”
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!”
Although Mrs. Gott and John Wilmeter had very different ideas, at the
bottom, of the requisites to form a lady, and the pronunciation of the
good woman was by no means faultless, she cordially assented to the
truth of the young man’s eulogy. Indeed, Mary Monson, for the hour, was
her great theme; and, though still a young woman herself, and good
looking withal, she really seemed never to tire of uttering her praises.
“She has been educated, Mr. Wilmeter, far above any female hereabout,
unless it may be some of the ——s and ——s,” the good woman continued.
“Those families, you know, are our upper crust—not upper ten thousand,
as the newspapers call it, but upper hundred, and them ladies may know
as much as Mary; but, beyond _them_, no female hereabouts can hold a
candle to her! Her books have been brought in, and I looked them
over—there isn’t more than one in three that I can read at all. What is
more, they don’t seem to be all in one tongue, the foreign books, but in
three or four!”
“She certainly has a knowledge of several of the living languages, and
an accurate knowledge, too. I know a little of such things myself, but
my friend Millington is quite strong in both the living and dead
languages, and he says that what she knows she knows well.”
“That is comforting—for a young lady that can speak so many different
tongues would hardly think of robbing and murdering two old people, in
their beds. Well, sir, perhaps you had better go to the door and see
her, though I could stay here and talk about her all day. Pray Mr.
Wilmeter, which of the languages is really dead?”
John smiled, but civilly enlightened the sheriff’s lady on this point,
and then, preceded by her, he went to the important door which separated
the dwelling of the family from the rooms of the gaol. Once opened, an
imperfect communication is obtained with the interior of the last, by
means of a grating in an inner door. The gaol of Dukes county is a
recent construction, and is built on a plan that is coming much into
favour, though still wanting in the highest proof of civilization, by
sufficiently separating criminals, and in treating the accused with a
proper degree of consideration, until the verdict of a jury has
pronounced them guilty.
The construction of this gaol was very simple. A strong, low, oblong
building had been erected on a foundation so filled in with stones as to
render digging nearly impossible. The floors were of large, massive
stones, that ran across the whole building a distance of some thirty
feet, or if there were joints, they were under the partition walls,
rendering them as secure as if solid. The cells were not large,
certainly, but of sufficient size to admit of light and air. The
ceilings were of the same enormous flat stones as the floors, well
secured by a load of stones, and beams to brace them, and the partitions
were of solid masonry. There the prisoner is encased in stone, and
nothing can be more hopeless than an attempt to get out of one of these
cells, provided the gaoler gives even ordinary attention to their
condition. Above and around them are erected the outer walls of the
gaol. The last comprise an ordinary stone house, with roof, windows, and
the other customary appliances of a human abode. As these walls stand
several feet without those of the real prison, and are somewhat higher,
the latter axe an _imperium in imperio_; a house within a house. The
space between the walls of the two buildings forms a gallery extending
around all the cells. Iron grated gates divide the several parts of this
gallery into so many compartments, and in the gaol of Biberry care has
been had so to arrange these subdivisions that those within any one
compartment may be concealed from those in all of the others, but the
two that immediately join it. The breezes are admitted by means of the
external windows, while the height of the ceiling in the galleries, and
the space above the tops of the cells, contribute largely to comfort and
health in this important particular. As the doors of the cells stand
opposite to the windows, the entire gaol can be, and usually is, made
airy and light. Stoves in the galleries preserve the temperature, and
effectually remove all disagreeable moisture. In a word, the place is as
neat, convenient, and decent as the gaol of convicts need ever to be;
but the proper sort of distinction is not attended to between them and
those who are merely accused. Our civilization in this respect is
defective. While the land is filled with senseless cries against an
aristocracy which, if it exist at all, exists in the singular
predicament of being far less favoured than the democracy, involving a
contradiction in terms; against a feudality that consists in men’s
having bargained to pay their debts in chickens, no one complaining in
behalf of those who have entered into contracts to do the same in wheat;
and against _rent_, while _usury_ is not only smiled on, but encouraged,
and efforts are made to legalize extortion; the public mind is quiet on
the subject of the treatment of those whom the policy of government
demands should be kept in security until their guilt or innocence be
established. What reparation, under such circumstances, can be made to
him to whom the gates are finally opened, for having been incarcerated
on charges that are groundless? The gaols of the Christian world were
first constructed by an irresponsible power, and to confine the weak. We
imitate the vices of the system with a cool indifference, and shout
“feudality” over a bantam, or a pound of butter, that are paid under
contracted covenants for rent!