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.”