“In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;
In war he mounts the warrior’s steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.”
_Scott._
“It is the ways of the land,” said good Mrs. Gott, in one of her remarks
in the conversation just related. Other usages prevail, in connection
with other interests; and the time is come when we must refer to one of
them. In a word, Dr. McBrain and Mrs. Updyke were about to be united in
the bands of matrimony. As yet we have said very little of the intended
bride; but the incidents of our tale render it now necessary to bring
her more prominently on the stage, and to give some account of herself
and family.
Anna Wade was the only child of very respectable and somewhat affluent
parents. At nineteen she married a lawyer of suitable years, and became
Mrs. Updyke. This union lasted but eight years, when the wife was left a
widow with two children; a son and a daughter. In the course of time
these children grew up, the mother devoting herself to their care,
education and well-being. In all this there was nothing remarkable,
widowed mothers doing as much daily, with a self-devotion that allies
them to the angels. Frank Updyke, the son, had finished his education,
and was daily expected to arrive from a tour of three years in Europe.
Anna, her mother’s namesake, was at the sweet age of nineteen, and the
very counterpart of what the elder Anna had been at the same period in
life. The intended bride was far from being unattractive, though fully
five-and-forty. In the eyes of Dr. McBrain, she was even charming;
although she did not exactly answer those celebrated conditions of
female influence that have been handed down to us in the familiar toast
of a voluptuous English prince. Though forty, Mrs. Updyke was neither
‘fat’ nor ‘fair;’ being a brunette of a well-preserved and still
agreeable person.
It was perhaps a little singular, after having escaped the temptations
of a widowhood of twenty years, that this lady should think of marrying
at a time of life when most females abandon the expectation of changing
their condition. But Mrs. Updyke was a person of a very warm heart; and
she foresaw the day when she was to be left alone in the world. Her son
was much inclined to be a rover; and, in his letters, he talked of still
longer journeys, and of more protracted absences from home. He inherited
an independency from his father, and had now been his own master for
several years. Anna was much courted by the circle to which she
belonged; and young, affluent, pretty to the very verge of beauty,
gentle, quiet, and singularly warm-hearted, it was scarcely within the
bounds of possibility that she could escape an early marriage in a state
of society like that of Manhattan. These were the reasons Mrs. Updyke
gave to her female confidants, when she deemed it well to explain the
motives of her present purpose. Without intending to deceive, there was
not a word of truth in these explanations. In point of fact, Mrs.
Updyke, well as she had loved the husband of her youth, preserved _les
beaux restes_ of a very warm and affectionate heart; and McBrain, a
well-preserved, good-looking man, about a dozen years older than
herself, had found the means to awaken its sympathies to such a degree,
as once more to place the comely widow completely within the category of
Cupid. It is very possible for a woman of forty to love, and to love
with all her heart; though the world seldom takes as much interest in
her weaknesses, if weakness it is, as in those of younger and fairer
subjects of the passion. To own the truth, Mrs. Updyke was profoundly in
love, while her betrothed met her inclination with an answering sympathy
that, to say the least, was fully equal to any tender sentiment he had
succeeded in awakening.
All this was to Tom Dunscomb what he called “nuts.” Three times had he
seen his old friend in this pleasant state of feeling, and three times
was he chosen to be an attendant at the altar; once in the recognised
character of a groomsman, and on the other two occasions in that of a
chosen friend. Whether the lawyer had himself completely escaped the
darts of the little god, no one could say, so completely had he
succeeded in veiling this portion of his life from observation; but,
whether he had or not, he made those who did submit to the passion the
theme of his untiring merriment.
Children usually regard these tardy inclinations of their parents with
surprise, if not with downright distaste. Some little surprise the
pretty Anna Updyke may have felt, when she was told by a venerable
great-aunt that her mother was about to be married; but of distaste
there was none. She had a strong regard for her new step-father, that
was to be; and thought it the most natural thing in the world to love.
Sooth to say, Anna Updyke had not been out two years—the American girls
are brought out so young!—without having sundry suitors. Manhattan is
the easiest place in the world for a pretty girl, with a good fortune,
to get offers. Pretty girls with good fortunes are usually in request
everywhere, but it requires the precise state of society that exists in
the “Great _Commercial_ Emporium,” to give a young woman the highest
chance in the old lottery. There, where one-half of the world came from
other worlds some half a dozen years since; where a good old Manhattan
name is regarded as upstart among a crowd that scarcely knows whence it
was itself derived, and whither it is destined, and where few have any
real position in society, and fewer still know what the true meaning of
the term is, money and beauty are the constant objects of pursuit. Anna
Updyke formed no exception. She had declined, in the gentlest manner
possible, no less than six direct offers, coming from those who were
determined to lose nothing by diffidence; had thrown cold water on more
than twice that number of little flames that were just beginning to
burn; and had thrown into the fire some fifteen or sixteen anonymous
effusions, in prose and verse, that came from adventurers who could
admire from a distance, at the opera and in the streets, but who had no
present means of getting any nearer than these indirect attempts at
communication. We say “thrown into the fire;” for Anna was too prudent,
and had too much self-respect, to retain such documents, coming, as they
did, from so many “Little Unknowns.” The anonymous effusions were
consequently burnt—with one exception. The exception was in the case of
a sonnet, in which her hair—and very beautiful it is—was the theme. From
some of the little free-masonry of the intercourse of the sexes, Anna
fancied these lines had been written by Jack Wilmeter, one of the most
constant of her visiters, as well as one of her admitted favourites.
Between Jack and Anna there had been divers passages of gallantry, which
had been very kindly viewed by McBrain and the mother. The parties
themselves did not understand their own feelings; for matters had not
gone far, when Mary Monson so strangely appeared on the stage, and drew
Jack off, on the trail of wonder and mystery, if not on that of real
passion. As Sarah Wilmeter was the most intimate friend of Anna Updyke,
it is not extraordinary that this singular fancy of the brother’s should
be the subject of conversation between the two young women, each of whom
probably felt more interest in his movements than any other persons on
earth. The dialogue we are about to relate took place in Anna’s own
room, the morning of the day which preceded that of the wedding, and
followed naturally enough, as the sequence of certain remarks which had
been made on the approaching event.
“If _my_ mother were living, and _must_ be married,” said Sarah
Wilmeter, “I should be very well content to have _such_ a man as Dr.
McBrain for a step-father. I have known him all my life, and he is, and
ever has been, so intimate with uncle Tom, that I almost think him a
near relation.”
“And I have known him as long as I can remember,” Anna steadily
rejoined, “and have not only a great respect, but a warm regard for him.
Should I ever marry myself, I do not believe I shall have one-half the
attachment for my father-in-law as I am sure I shall feel for my
step-father.”
“How do you know there will be any father-in-law in the case? I am sure
John has no parent.”
“John!” returned Anna, faintly—“What is John to me?”
“Thank you, my dear—he is something, at least, to _me_.”
“To be sure—a brother naturally is—but Jack is no brother of mine, you
will please to remember.”
Sarah cast a quick, inquiring look at her friend; but the eyes of Anna
were thrown downward on the carpet, while the bloom on her cheek spread
to her temples. Her friend saw that, in truth, Jack was no _brother of
hers_.
“What I mean is this”—continued Sarah, following a thread that ran
through her own mind, rather than anything that had been already
expressed—“Jack is making himself a very silly fellow just now.”
Anna now raised her eyes; her lip quivered a little, and the bloom
deserted even her cheek. Still, she made no reply. Women can listen
acutely at such moments; but it commonly exceeds their powers to speak.
The friends understood each other, as Sarah well knew, and she continued
her remarks precisely as if the other had answered them.
“Michael Millington brings strange accounts of Jack’s behaviour at
Biberry! He says that he seems to do nothing, think of nothing, talk of
nothing, but of the hardship of this Mary Monson’s case.”
“I’m sure it is cruel enough to awaken the pity of a rock,” said Anna
Updyke, in a low tone; “a woman, and she a lady, accused of such
terrible crimes—murder and arson!”
“What is arson, child?—and how do _you_ know anything about it?”
Again Anna coloured, her feelings being all sensitiveness on this
subject; which had caused her far more pain than she had experienced
from any other event in her brief life. It was, however, necessary to
answer.
“Arson is setting fire to an inhabited house,” she said, after a
moment’s reflection; “and I know it from having been told its
signification by Mr. Dunscomb.”
“Did uncle Tom say anything of this Mary Monson, and of Jack’s singular
behaviour?”
“He spoke of his client as a very extraordinary person, and of her
accomplishments, and readiness, and beauty. Altogether, he does not seem
to know what to make of her.”
“And what did he say about Jack?—You need have no reserve with me, Anna;
I am his sister.”
“I know that very well, dear Sarah—but Jack’s name was not mentioned, I
believe—certainly not at the particular time, and in the conversation to
which I now refer.”
“But at some _other_ time, my dear, and in some _other_ conversation.”
“He did once say something about your brother’s being very attentive to
the interests of the person he calls his Duke’s county client—nothing
more, I do assure you. It is the duty of young lawyers to be very
attentive to the interests of their clients, I should think.”
“Assuredly—and that most especially when the client is a young lady with
a pocket full of money. But Jack is above want, and can afford to act
right at all times and on all occasions. I wish he had never seen this
strange creature.”
Anna Updyke sat silent for some little time, playing with the hem of her
pocket-handkerchief. Then she said timidly, speaking as if she wished an
answer, even while she dreaded it—
“Does not Marie Moulin know something about her?”
“A great deal, if she would only tell it. But Marie, too, has gone over
to the enemy, since she has seen this siren. Not a word can I get out of
her, though I have written three letters, beyond the fact that she knows
_Mademoiselle_, and that she cannot believe her guilty.”
“The last, surely, is very important. If really innocent, how hard has
been the treatment she has received! It is not surprising that your
brother feels so deep an interest in her. He is very warm-hearted and
generous, Sarah; and it is just like him to devote his time and talents
to the service of the oppressed.”
It was Sarah’s turn to be silent and thoughtful. She made no answer, for
she well understood that an impulse very different from that mentioned
by her friend was, just then, influencing her brother’s conduct.
We have related this conversation as the briefest mode of making the
reader acquainted with the true state of things in and about the neat
dwelling of Mrs. Updyke in Eighth-street. Much, however, remains to be
told; as the morning of the very day which succeeded that on which the
foregoing dialogue was held, was the one named for the wedding of the
mistress of the house.
At the very early hour of six, the party met at the church door, one of
the most gothic structures in the new quarter of the town; and five
minutes sufficed to make the two one. Anna sobbed as she saw her mother
passing away from her, as it then appeared to her; and the bride herself
was a little overcome. As for McBrain, as his friend Dunscomb expressed
it, in a description given to a brother bachelor, who met him at dinner—
“He stood fire like a veteran! You’re not going to frighten a fellow who
has held forth the ring three times. You will remember that Ned has
previously killed two wives, besides all the other folk he has slain;
and I make no doubt the fellow’s confidence was a good deal increased by
the knowledge he possesses that none of us are immortal—as husbands and
wives, at least.”
But Tom Dunscomb’s pleasantries had no influence on his friend’s
happiness. Odd as it may appear to some, this connection was one of a
warm and very sincere attachment. Neither of the parties had reached the
period of life when nature begins to yield to the pressure of time; and
there was the reasonable prospect before them of their contributing
largely to each other’s future happiness. The bride was dressed with
great simplicity, but with a proper care; and she really justified the
passion that McBrain insisted, in his conversations with Dunscomb, that
he felt for her. Youthful, for her time of life, modest in demeanour and
aspect, still attractive in person, the ‘Widow Updyke’ became Mrs.
McBrain, with as charming an air of womanly feeling as might have been
exhibited by one of less than half her age. Covered with blushes, she
was handed by the bridegroom into his own carriage, which stood at the
church-door, and the two proceeded to Timbully.
As for Anna Updyke, she went to pass a week in the country with Sarah
Dunscomb; even a daughter being a little _de trop_, in a honey-moon.
Rattletrap was the singular name Tom Dunscomb had given to his
country-house. It was a small villa-like residence, on the banks of the
Hudson, and within the island of Manhattan. Concealed in a wood, it was
a famous place for a bachelor to hide his oddities in. Here Dunscomb
concentrated all his out-of-the-way purchases, including ploughs that
were never used, all sorts of farming utensils that were condemned to
the same idleness, and such contrivances in the arts of fishing and
shooting as struck his fancy; though the lawyer never handled a rod or
levelled a fowling-piece. But Tom Dunscomb, though he professed to
despise love, had fancies of his own. It gave him a certain degree of
pleasure to _seem_ to have these several tastes; and he threw away a
good deal of money in purchasing these characteristic ornaments for
Rattletrap. When Jack Wilmeter ventured, one day, to ask his uncle what
pleasure he could find in collecting so many costly and perfectly
useless articles, implements that had not the smallest apparent
connection with his ordinary pursuits and profession, he got the
following answer:—
“You are wrong, Jack, in supposing that these traps are useless. A
lawyer has occasion for a vast deal of knowledge that he will never get
out of his books. One should have the elements of all the sciences, and
of most of the arts, in his mind, to make a thoroughly good advocate;
for their application will become necessary on a thousand occasions,
when Blackstone and Kent can be of no service. No, no; I prize my
professions highly, and look upon Rattletrap as my Inn of Court.”
Jack Wilmeter had come over from Biberry to attend the wedding, and had
now accompanied the party into the country, as it was called; though the
place of Dunscomb was so near town that it was not difficult, when the
wind was at the southward, to hear the fire-bell on the City Hall. The
meeting between John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke had been fortunately a
little relieved by the peculiar circumstances in which the latter was
placed. The feeling she betrayed, the pallor of her cheek, and the
nervousness of her deportment, might all, naturally enough, be imputed
to the emotions of a daughter, who saw her own mother standing at the
altar, by the side of one who was not her natural father. Let this be as
it might, Anna had the advantage of the inferences which those around
her made on these facts. The young people met first in the church, where
there was no opportunity for any exchange of language or looks. Sarah
took her friend away with her alone, on the road to Rattletrap,
immediately after the ceremony, in order to allow Anna’s spirits and
manner to become composed, without being subjected to unpleasant
observation. Dunscomb and his nephew drove out in a light vehicle of the
latter’s; and Michael Millington appeared later at the villa, bringing
with him to dinner, Timms, who came on business connected with the
approaching trial.
There never had been any love-making, in the direct meaning of the term,
between John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke. They had known each other so long
and so intimately, that both regarded the feeling of kindness that each
knew subsisted, as a mere fraternal sort of affection. “Jack is Sarah’s
brother,” thought Anna, when she permitted herself to reason on the
subject at all; “and it is natural that I should have more friendship
for him than for any other young man.” “Anna is Sarah’s most intimate
friend,” thought Jack, “and that is the long and short of my attachment
for _her_. Take away Sarah, and Anna would be nothing to me; though she
is so pretty, and clever, and gentle, and lady-like. I must like those
Anna likes, or it might make us both unhappy.” This was the reasoning of
nineteen, and when Anna Updyke was just budding into young womanhood; at
a later day, habit had got to be so much in the ascendant, that neither
of the young people _thought_ much on the subject at all. The preference
was strong in each—so strong, indeed, as to hover over the confines of
passion, and quite near to its vortex; though the long accustomed
feeling prevented either from entering into its analysis. The
attachments that grow up with our daily associations, and get to be so
interwoven with our most familiar thoughts, seldom carry away those who
submit to them, in the whirlwind of passion; which are much more apt to
attend sudden and impulsive love. Cases do certainly occur in which the
parties have long known each other, and have lived on for years in a
dull appreciation of mutual merit—sometimes with prejudices and
alienation active between them; when suddenly all is changed, and the
scene that was lately so tranquil and tame becomes tumultuous and
glowing, and life assumes a new charm, as the profound emotions of
passion chase away its dulness; substituting hope, and fears, and lively
wishes, and soul-felt impressions in its stead. This is not usual in the
course of the most wayward of all our impulses; but it does occasionally
happen, brightening existence with a glow that might well be termed
divine, were the colours bestowed derived from a love of the Creator, in
lieu of that of one of his creatures. In these sudden awakenings of
dormant feelings, some chord of mutual sympathy, some deep-rooted
affinity is aroused, carrying away their possessors in a torrent of the
feelings. Occasionally, wherever the affinity is active, the impulse
natural and strongly sympathetic, these sudden and seemingly wayward
attachments are the most indelible, colouring the whole of the remainder
of life; but oftener do they take the character of mere impulse, rather
than that of deeper sentiment, and disappear, as they were first seen,
in some sudden glow of the horizon of the affections.
In this brief analysis of some of the workings of the heart, we may find
a clue to the actual frame of mind in which John Wilmeter returned from
Biberry, where he had now been, like a sentinel on post, for several
weeks, in vigilant watchfulness over the interests of Mary Monson.
During all that time, however, he had not once been admitted within the
legal limits of the prison; holding his brief, but rather numerous
conferences with his client, at the little grate in the massive door
that separated the gaol from the dwelling of the sheriff. Kind-hearted
Mrs. Gott would have admitted him to the gallery, whenever he chose to
ask that favour; but this act of courtesy had been forbidden by Mary
Monson herself. Timms she did receive, and she conferred with him in
private on more than one occasion, manifesting great earnestness in the
consultations that preceded the approaching trial. But John Wilmeter she
would receive only at the grate, like a nun in a well-regulated convent.
Even this coyness contributed to feed the fire that had been so suddenly
lighted in the young man’s heart, on which the strangeness of the
prisoner’s situation, her personal attractions, her manners, and all the
other known peculiarities of person, history, education and deportment,
had united to produce a most lively impression, however fleeting it was
to prove in the end.
Had there been any direct communications on the subject of the
attachment that had so long, so slowly, but so surely been taking root
in the hearts of John and Anna, any reciprocity in open confidence, this
unlooked-for impulse in a new direction could not have overtaken the
young man. He did not know how profound was the interest that Anna took
in him; nor, for that matter, was she aware of it herself, until Michael
Millington brought the unpleasant tidings of the manner in which his
friend seemed to be entranced with his uncle’s client at Biberry. Then,
indeed, Anna was made to feel that surest attendant of the liveliest
love, a pang of jealousy; and, for the first time in her young and
innocent life, she became aware of the real nature of her sentiments in
behalf of John Wilmeter. On the other hand, drawn aside from the
ordinary course of his affections by sudden, impulsive, and exciting
novelties, John was fast submitting to the influence of the charms of
the fair stranger, as has been more than once intimated in our opening
pages, as the newly-fallen snow melts under the rays of a noon-day sun.
Such, then, was the state of matters in this little circle, when the
wedding took place, and John Wilmeter joined the family party. Although
Dunscomb did all he could to make the dinner gay, Rattletrap had seldom
entertained a more silent company than that which sat down at its little
round table on this occasion. John thought of Biberry and Mary Monson;
Sarah’s imagination was quite busy in wondering why Michael Millington
stayed away so long; and Anna was on the point of bursting into tears
half-a-dozen times, under the depression produced by the joint events of
her mother’s marriage, and John Wilmeter’s obvious change of deportment
towards her.
“What the deuce has kept Michael Millington and that fellow Timms, from
joining us at dinner,” said the master of the house, as the fruit was
placed upon the table; and, closing one eye, he looked with the other
through the ruby rays of a glass of well-cooled Madeira—his favourite
wine. “Both promised to be punctual; yet here are they both sadly out of
time. They knew the dinner was to come off at four.”
“As is one, sir, so are both,” answered John. “You will remember they
were to come together?”
“True—and Millington is rather a punctual man—especially in visiting at
Rattletrap”—here Sarah blushed a little; but the engagement in her case
being announced, there was no occasion for any particular confusion. “We
shall have to take Michael with us into Duke’s next week, Miss Wilmeter;
the case being too grave to neglect bringing up all our forces.”
“Is Jack, too, to take a part in the trial, uncle Tom?” demanded the
niece, with a little interest in the answer.
“Jack, too—everybody, in short. When the life of a fine young woman is
concerned, it behooves her counsel to be active and diligent. I have
never before had a cause into which my feelings have so completely
entered—no, never.”
“Do not counsel always enter, heart and hand, into their clients’
interests, and make themselves, as it might be, as you gentlemen of the
bar sometimes term these things, a ‘part and parcel’ of their concerns?”
This question was put by Sarah, but it caused Anna to raise her eyes
from the fruit she was pretending to eat, and to listen intently to the
reply. Perhaps she fancied that the answer might explain the absorbed
manner in which John had engaged in the service of the accused.
“As far from it as possible, in many cases,” returned the uncle; “though
there certainly are others in which one engages with all his feelings.
But every day lessens my interest in the law, and all that belongs to
it.”
“Why should that be so, sir?—I have heard you called a devotee of the
profession.”
“That’s because I have no wife. Let a man live a bachelor, and ten to
one he gets some nickname or other. On the other hand, let him marry two
or three times, like Ned McBrain—beg your pardon, Nanny, for speaking
disrespectfully of your papa—but let a fellow just get his third wife,
and they tack ‘family’ to his appellation at once. He’s an excellent
_family_ lawyer, or a capital _family_ physician, or a supremely
pious—no, I don’t know that they’ve got so far as the parsons, for
_they_ are all _family_ fellows.”
“You have a spite against matrimony, uncle Tom.”
“Well, if I have, it stops with me, as a _family_ complaint. _You_ are
free from it, my dear; and I’m half inclined to think Jack will marry
before he is a year older. But, here are the tardies at last.”
Although the uncle made no allusion to the person his nephew was to
marry, everybody but himself thought of Mary Monson at once. Anna turned
pale as death; Sarah looked thoughtful, and even sad; and John became as
red as scarlet. But the entrance of Michael Millington and Timms caused
the conversation to turn on another subject, as a matter of course.
“We expected you to dinner, gentlemen,” Dunscomb drily remarked, as he
pushed the bottle to his guests.
“Business before eating is my maxim, ’Squire Dunscomb,” Timms replied.
“Mr. Millington and I have been very busy in the office, from the moment
Dr. McBrain and his lady——”
“Wife—say ‘wife,’ Timms, if you please. Or, ‘Mrs. McBrain,’ if you like
that better.”
“Well, sir, I used the word I did, out of compliment to the other ladies
present. They love to be honoured and signalized in our language, when
we speak of them, sir, I believe.”
“Poh! poh! Timms; take my advice, and let all these small matters alone.
It takes a life to master them, and one must begin from the cradle. When
all is ended, they are scarce worth the trouble they give. Speak good,
plain, direct, and manly English, I have always told you, and you’ll get
along well enough; but make no attempts to be fine. ‘Dr. McBrain and
_lady_,’ is next thing ‘to going through Hurlgate,’ or meeting a ‘lady
friend.’ You’ll never get the right sort of a wife, until you drop all
such absurdities.”
“I’ll tell you how it is, ’Squire: so far as law goes, or even morals,
and I don’t know but I may say general government politics, I look upon
you as the best adviser I can consult. But, when it comes to matrimony,
I can’t see how you should know any more about it than I do myself. I
_do_ intend to get married one of these days, which is more, I fancy,
than you ever had in view.”
“No; my great concern has been to escape matrimony; but a man may get a
very tolerable notion of the sex while manœuvring among them, with that
intention. I am not certain that he who has had two or three handsomely
managed escapes, doesn’t learn as much as he who has had two or three
wives—I mean of useful information. What do you think of all this,
Millington?”
“That I wish for no escapes, when my choice has been free and
fortunate.”
“And you, Jack?”
“Sir!” answered the nephew, starting, as if aroused from a brown study.
“Did you speak to me, uncle Tom?”
“_He_’ll not be of much use to us next week, Timms,” said the
counsellor, coolly, filling his own and his neighbour’s glass as he
spoke, with iced Madeira—“These capital cases demand the utmost
vigilance; more especially when popular prejudice sets in against them.”
“Should the jury find Mary Monson to be guilty, what would be the
sentence of the court?” demanded Sarah, smiling, even while she seemed
much interested—“I believe that is right, Mike—the court ‘sentences,’
and the jury ‘convicts.’ If there be any mistake, you must answer for
it.”
“I am afraid to speak of laws, or constitutions, in the presence of your
uncle, since the rebuke Jack and I got in that affair of the toast,”
returned Sarah’s betrothed, arching his eye-brows.
“By the way, Jack, did that dinner ever come off?” demanded the uncle,
suddenly; “I looked for your toasts in the journals, but do not remember
ever to have seen them.”
“You could not have seen any of mine, sir; for I went to Biberry that
very morning, and only left there last evening”—Anna’s countenance
resembled a lily, just as it begins to droop—“I believe, however, the
whole affair fell through, as no one seems to know, just now, who are
and who are not the friends of liberty. It is the people to-day; the
pope next day; some prince to-morrow; and, by the end of the week, we
may have a Massaniello or a Robespierre uppermost. The times seem sadly
out of joint, just now, and the world is fast getting to be
upside-down.”
“It’s all owing to this infernal Code, Timms, which is enough to
revolutionize human nature itself!” cried Dunscomb, with an animation
that produced a laugh in the young folk, (Anne excepted,) and a simper
in the person addressed. “Ever since this thing has come into operation
among us, I never know when a case is to be heard, the decision had, or
the principles that are to come uppermost. Well, we must try and get
some good out of it, if we can, in this capital case.”
“Which is drawing very near, ’Squire; and I have some facts to
communicate in that affair which it may be well to compare with the law,
without much more delay.”
“Let us finish this bottle—if the boys help us, it will not be much more
than a glass apiece.”
“I don’t think the ’Squire will ever be up_held_ at the polls by the
Temperance people,” said Timms, filling his glass to the brim; for, to
own the truth, it was seldom that he got such wine.
“As _you_ are expecting to be held _up_ by them, my fine fellow. I’ve
heard of your management, master Timms, and am told you aspire as high
as the State Senate. Well; there is room for better, but much worse men
have been sent there. Now, let us go to what I call the ‘Rattletrap
office.’”