University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Macaulay.

It has been said that John Wilmeter was left by his uncle at
Biberry, 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 should n'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 do n'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, whenever
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 here 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
country 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. Indced,
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 their 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 are 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!