“I blush, and am confounded to appear
Before thy presence, Cato.”
“What’s thy crime?”
“I am a Numidian.”
_Cato._
Within the half hour mentioned by Dunscomb the court-house bell rang,
and there was a rush towards that building, in order to secure seats for
the approaching trial. All that has been related in the preceding
chapter occurred between the hours of six and nine that morning, it
being one of the “ways of the hour” in the march of improvement, to
drive the administration of justice with as near an approach to railroad
speed as is practicable. Many of the modern judges go to work as early
as eight in the morning—perhaps most do in the country circuits—and
continue to call causes until nine and ten at night, illustrating the
justice of the land by means of agents who are half asleep, and stupid
from fatigue.
We have said that everything like dignity, except as it is to be found
in the high character of its duties, and the manner in which they are
performed, has been banished from the courts of New York. Even on this
solemn occasion, when a human being was to be put on trial for her life,
and she a woman, there was no departure from the naked simplicity that
has been set up on the pedestal of reason, in open opposition to the
ancient accessories by which the Law asserted its power. It remains to
be seen whether human nature has not been as much over-estimated under
the new arrangement as it was underrated by the old. There is a medium,
in truth, that it is ever safe to respect; and there is reason to
apprehend that in throwing away the useless vestments of idle parade,
those necessary to decency were cast aside with them.
Quite a fourth of the audience assembled in Duke’s county court-house,
on this occasion, were females. The curiosity, which is said to be so
natural to the sex, was, on this occasion, quickened by the peculiar
circumstances of the case, a woman having been murdered, and a woman
accused of having committed the offence. It was said, however, that many
were summoned as witnesses, it being generally understood that the state
had subpœnaed the country far and near.
At length, a general and expecting silence succeeded the bustle of the
crowds entering and obtaining seats, and the eyes of the spectators were
very generally turned towards the door, in the wish to get a glimpse of
the principal personage in the approaching scene. We know not why it is
that the spectacle of others’ woes has so great a charm for most
persons. Nature has given us sympathy, and compassion, and a desire to
alleviate misery; yet most of us like to look upon it, as a mere
spectacle, when we have neither the wish nor the power to be more than
useless spectators. Thousands will assemble to see a man hanged, when
all know that the law has a grasp too tight to be unloosed, and that the
circle of the gallows is no place for feelings of commiseration. But, so
it is; and many a female, that day, who would have gladly alleviated any
distress that it was in her power to lessen, sat there, a curious and
interested observer of all that passed; to note the workings of the
countenance, the writhings of the inner soul, if any such there should
be, or the gleams of hope, that might, at intervals, lighten the gloom
of despair.
The court was occupied for half an hour with hearing motions, and in
granting orders, nothing seeming to impede its utilitarian progress.
Then the movement within the bar ceased, and an expectation that was
even solemn, fell on the whole mass of human beings that were collected
in that narrow space.
“This is the day for which the trial of Mary Monson was, by arrangement,
set down,” observed the judge. “Mr. District Attorney, are you ready?”
“We are, sir—entirely so, I believe. If the court please, Mr. Williams
and Mr. Wright will be associated with me in this case. It is one of
importance, and I do not like the responsibility of trying it alone.”
“The court has so understood it—who is for the accused?”
“I am retained to defend Mary Monson,” answered Dunscomb, rising with
dignity, and speaking with the self-possession of one long accustomed to
the courts. “Mr. Timms will assist me.”
“Are you ready, gentlemen?”
“I believe we are, your honour; though the prisoner has not yet been
arraigned.”
“Mr. District Attorney, we will proceed.”
As the sheriff now left the room, in person, rather an unusual thing in
bringing a prisoner into court, expectation was at its height. In the
midst of a breathing silence, the door swung round—court-room doors are
now made to swing like turnpikes, in order to prevent noise—and Mr. Gott
entered, followed by Mary Monson, Anna, Sarah, Marie Moulin, and the two
young men. The kind-hearted wife of the sheriff was already in the room,
and, by means of a constable, had managed to keep seats reserved for
those who might attend the prisoner. To these seats the party now
retired, with the exception of Marie Moulin, who attended her mistress
within the bar.
Every observer was struck with the unexpected air, manner, and attire of
the prisoner. Dunscomb saw, at a glance, that her appearance had made a
most favourable impression. This was something, and he hoped it might
counteract much of the manœuvring of Davis and Williams. The judge, in
particular, a kind-hearted and very well meaning man, was taken
altogether by surprise. There is nothing in which there is more
freemasonry than in the secret symptoms of social castes. Each
individual is more or less of a judge of these matters, up to the level
of his own associations, while all beyond is mystery. It happened that
the judge, now about to try Mary Monson, belonged to an old, historical,
New York family, a thing of rather rare occurrence in the great
movements of the times, and he possessed an hereditary tact in
discerning persons of his own habits of life. Almost at a glance, he
perceived that the prisoner had the air, manners, countenance and
finesse, of one accustomed, from infancy, to good company. The reader
may smile at this, but he must pardon us if we say the smile will betray
ignorance, rather than denote the philosophy that he may fancy controls
his opinions. Dunscomb was much gratified when the judge rather
earnestly interposed against the act of the sheriff, who was about to
place the prisoner at the bar in the little barricaded space allotted to
the use of ordinary criminals, directing him to—
“Give the prisoner a chair _within_ the bar, Mr. Sheriff. Gentlemen, be
so good as to make room, that the accused may sit near her counsel. Mr.
Attorney, let the prisoner be arraigned, as soon as she has rested from
the fatigue and agitation of appearing here.”
This ceremony, now little more than a blank form, was soon ended, and
the plea of “not guilty” was entered. The next step was to empannel the
jury, a task of infinite difficulty, and one that has got to be so much
an out-work, in the proceedings in criminal cases, as almost to baffle
the powers of the law. It is no unusual thing for the time of the court
to be occupied a week or two, in this preliminary proceeding, until the
evil has got to be so crying as to induce the executive to recommend
that the legislature may devise some mode of relief. One of the most
besetting vices of all American legislation, in those cases in which
abuses are not the offspring of party, is a false philanthropy, in which
the wicked and evil doer has been protected at the expense of the
upright and obedient. The abuse just mentioned is one of those in which
the bottom has been reached somewhat sooner than common; but, it is
hazarding little to predict, that more than half which has been done
within the last few years, under the guise of liberty and philanthropy,
will have to be undone, ere the citizen will be left to the quiet
enjoyment of his rights, or can receive the just protection of the laws.
One of the common-sense and real improvements of the day, is to swear
the jurors, in all the causes that are to be tried, by one process. This
is a saving of time; and though the ceremony might be, and ought to be
made, much more solemn and impressive than it is, as by causing all
other business to cease, and to make every one present rise, and stand
in reverential silence, while the name of the God of heaven and earth is
invoked, still it is a great improvement on the ancient mode, and has
reason to sustain it. It gives us pleasure to note such circumstances in
the “ways of the hour,” whenever a sense of right can induce one who
loathes the flattery of the people quite as much as he loathes that of
princes, and flattery of all sorts, to say aught in favour of what has
been done, or is yet doing around him.
The clerk called the name of Jonas Wattles, the first juror drawn. This
man was a respectable mechanic, of no great force in the way of mind,
but meaning well, and reputed honest. Timms gave the senior counsel a
look, which the other understood to mean, “he may do.” No objection
being made on account of the state, Jonas Wattles took his seat in the
jury-box, which was thought great good luck for a capital case.
“Ira Trueman,” cried the clerk.
A meaning pause succeeded the announcement of this name. Trueman was a
person of considerable local influence, and would probably carry great
weight in a body composed principally of men even less instructed than
he was himself. What was more, both Timms and Williams knew that their
respective agents had been hard at work to gain his ear, though neither
knew exactly with what degree of success. It was consequently equally
hazardous to accept or to oppose, and the two legal gladiators stood at
bay, each waiting for the other to betray his opinion of the man. The
judge soon became wearied, and inquired if the juror was accepted. It
was a somewhat amusing sight, now, to observe the manner in which Timms
proceeded with Williams, and Williams met Timms.
“I should like to hear the gentleman’s objections to this juror,”
observed Timms, “as I do not see that his challenge is peremptory.”
“I have not challenged the juror at all,” answered Williams, “but have
understood the challenge comes from the defence.”
“This is extr’or’nary! The gentleman looks defiance at the jurors, and
now declares he does not challenge!”
“Looks! If looks made a challenge, the state might at once suffer these
foul murders to go unpunished, for I am sure the gentleman’s countenance
is a perfect thunder-cloud—”
“I trust that counsel will recollect the gravity of this cause, and
suffer it to be conducted with the decorum that ought never to be
wanting in a court of justice,” interposed the judge. “Unless there is a
direct challenge, from one side or the other, the juror must take his
seat, of course.”
“I should like to ask the juror a question or two,” Timms replied,
speaking very cautiously, and like one who was afraid of hurting the
feelings of the party under examination; and in truth wary, lest on
investigation he might discover that Trueman was likely to be the sort
of person he wanted. “You have been at Biberry, juror, since the opening
of the court?”
Trueman nodded his head.
“Of course, you have been round among your friends and neighbours, that
you have met with here?”
Another nod from Trueman, with a sort of affirmative grunt.
“You have probably heard more or less said concerning Mary Monson—I mean
in a legal and proper way?”
A third nod of assent.
“Can you speak anything, in particular, that has been said in your
presence?”
Trueman seemed to tax his memory; then he raised his head, and answered
deliberately and with great clearness,
“I was going from the tavern to the court-house, when I met David
Johnson—”
“Never mind those particulars, Mr. Trueman,” interrupted Timms, who saw
that the juror had been talking with one of his own most confidential
agents—“what the court wishes to know is, if any one has been reporting
circumstances _unfavourable_ to Mary Monson in your presence?”
“Or in her _favour_,” put in Williams, with a sneer.
“Juror,” interposed the judge—“tell us if any one has spoken to you on
the merits of this case—for or against?”
“_Merits_”—repeated Trueman, seeming to reflect again—“No, your honour;
I can’t say that there has.”
Now, this was as bold a falsehood as was ever uttered; but Trueman
reconciled the answer to his conscience by choosing to consider that the
conversation he had heard had been on the _demerits_ of the accused.
“I do not see, gentlemen, that you can challenge for cause,” observed
his Honour—“unless you have further facts.”
“Perhaps we have, sir,” answered Williams. “You were saying, Mr.
Trueman, that you met David Johnson as you were going from the inn to
the court-house—Did I understand you correctly?”
“Just so, ’Squire. I had been having a long talk with Peter Titus”—one
of Williams’s most active and confidential agents—“when Johnson came up.
Johnson says, says he, ‘a pleasant day, gentlemen—I’m glad to see you
both out; for the faces of old friends is getting scarce——’”
“I see no objection to the juror’s being received,” Williams carelessly
remarked; satisfied that Titus had not neglected his duty in that long
talk.
“Yes, he is as good a juror as Duke’s can furnish,” observed Timms,
perfectly sure Johnson had turned to account the advantage of having the
last word. Trueman was accordingly admitted to the box, as the second
man of the twelve. The two managers of this cause were both right. Titus
_had_ crammed his old acquaintance Trueman with all that was circulating
to the prejudice of the prisoner; expressing surprise when he had said
all he had to say, at hearing that his friend was on the pannel. “Well,”
said Titus, as Johnson approached, “if questioned, you’ll remember I
said I didn’t dream of your being a juryman—but, just as like as not,
you’ll not be drawn for the case at all.” On the other hand, Johnson was
quite eloquent and pathetic in giving his old acquaintance the history
of Mary Monson’s case, whom he pronounced “a most injured and parsecuted
woman.” Trueman, a shrewd, managing fellow in general, fancied himself
just as impartial and fit to try the cause, after he had heard the
stories of the two men, as he had ever been; but in this he was
mistaken. It requires an unusually clear head, exceedingly high
principles, and a great knowledge of men, to maintain perfect
impartiality in these cases; and certainly Trueman was not the man to
boast of all these rare qualities. In general, the last word tells; but
it sometimes happens that first impressions become difficult to
eradicate. Such was the fact in the present instance; Trueman taking his
seat in the jury-box with an exceedingly strong bias against the
accused.
We are aware that these are not the colours in which it is the fashion
to delineate the venerable and much vaunted institution of the jury;
certainly a most efficient agent in curtailing the power of a prince;
but just as certainly a most irresponsible, vague, and quite often an
unprincipled means of administering the law, when men are not urged to
the desire of doing right by political pressure from without, and are
left to the perverse and free workings of a very evil nature. We
represent things as we believe them to exist, knowing that scarce a case
of magnitude occurs in which the ministers of corruption are not at work
among the jurors, or a verdict rendered in which the fingers of the
Father of Lies might not be traced, were the veil removed, and the facts
exposed to the light of day. It is true, that in trials for life, the
persecution of the prisoner rarely takes so direct a form as has been
represented in the case of Mary Monson; but the press and the tongue do
an incalculable amount of evil, even in such cases; all the ancient
safeguards of the law having been either directly removed by
ill-considered legislation, or rendered dead-letters by the “ways of the
hour.”
It was regarded as exceedingly good progress to get two jurors into the
box, in a capital case, in the first half-hour. His Honour had evidently
resigned himself to a twenty-four hours’ job; and great was his
satisfaction when he saw Wattles and Trueman safely seated on their hard
and uncomfortable seats; for it would almost seem that discomfort has
been brought into the court-houses as a sort of auxiliary to the old
practice of starving a jury into a verdict.
Whether it was owing to a suspicion, on the part of Timms, of the truth
in regard to his being over-reached in the case of Trueman, or to some
other cause, he raised no objections to either of the six jurors next
called. His moderation was imitated by Williams. Then followed two
peremptory challenges; one in behalf of the prisoner, and one in behalf
of the people, as it is termed. This was getting on so much better than
everybody expected, that all were in good humour; and it is not
exceeding the truth if we add, in a slight degree more disposed to view
the prisoner and her case with favour. On such trifles do human
decisions very often depend.
All this time, fully an hour, did Mary Monson sit in resigned submission
to her fate, composed, attentive, and singularly lady-like. The
spectators were greatly divided in their private speculations on her
guilt or innocence. Some saw in her quiet manner, curious interest in
the proceedings, and unchanging colour, proofs not only of a hardened
conscience, but of an experience in scenes similar to that in which she
was now engaged; overlooking all the probabilities, to indulge in
conjectures so severe against one so young.
“Well, gentlemen,” cried the judge, “time is precious. Let us proceed.”
The ninth juror was drawn, and it proved to be a country trader of the
name of Hatfield. This person was known to be a man of considerable
influence among persons of his own class, and to have a reputation for
judgment, if not for principles. “They might as well send the other
eleven home, and let Hatfield pronounce the verdict,” whispered one
lawyer to another; “there is no material in that box to withstand his
logic.”
“Then he will hold this young woman’s life in his hand,” was the reply.
“It will be pretty much so. The glorious institution of the jury is
admirably devised to bring about such results.”
“You forget the judge. He has the last word, you will remember.”
“Thank God it is so; else would our condition be terrible. Lynch law is
preferable to laws administered by jurors who fancy themselves so many
legislators.”
“It cannot be concealed that the spirit of the times has invaded the
jury-box; and the court has not one-half its ancient influence. I should
not like to have this Hatfield against me.”
It would seem that Williams was of the same way of thinking; for he
muttered to himself, desired the juror not to enter the box, and seemed
to be pondering on the course he ought to pursue. The truth was that he
himself had recently sued Hatfield for debt, and the proceedings had
been a little vindictive. One of the dangers that your really skilful
lawyer has to guard against is the personal animosity that is engendered
by his own professional practice. Many men have minds so constituted
that their opinions are affected by prejudices thus created; and they do
not scruple to transfer their hostility from the counsel to the cause he
is employed to defend. It is consequently incumbent on the prudent
lawyer to make his estimate of character with judgment, and be as sure
as the nature of the case will allow, that his client is not to suffer
for his own acts. As hostility to the counsel is not a legal objection
to a juror, Williams was under the necessity of presenting such as would
command the attention of the court.
“I wish the juror may be sworn true answers to make”—said Williams.
Timms now pricked up his ears; for, if it were of importance for
Williams to _oppose_ the reception of this particular individual, it was
probably of importance to Mary Monson to have him received. On this
principle, therefore, he was ready to resist the attack on the juror,
who was at once sworn.
“You reside in the adjoining town of Blackstone, I believe, Mr.
Hatfield?” asked Williams.
A simple assent was the reply.
“In practice there, in one of the learned professions?”
Hatfield was certain his interrogator knew better, for Williams had been
in his store fifty times; but he answered with the same innocent manner
as that with which the question was put.
“I’m in trade.”
“In trade!—Keep a store, I dare say, Mr. Hatfield?”
“I do—and one in which I have sold you hundreds myself.”
A general smile succeeded this sally; and Timms looked round at the
audience, with his nose pointing upwards, as if he scented his game.
“I dare say—I pay as I go,” returned Williams; “and my memory is not
loaded with such transactions——”
“Mr. Williams,” interrupted the judge, a little impatiently, “the time
of the court is very precious.”
“So is the dignity of the outraged laws to the State, your Honour. We
shall soon be through, sir—Many people in the habit of frequenting your
store, Mr. Hatfield?”
“As much so as is usual in the country.”
“Ten or fifteen at a time, on some occasions?”
“I dare say there may be.”
“Has the murder of Peter Goodwin ever been discussed by your customers
in your presence?”
“I don’t know but it has—such a thing is very likely; but one hears so
much, I can’t say.”
“Did you never join in such a discussion yourself?”
“I may, or I may not.”
“I ask you, now, distinctly, if you had no such discussion on the 26th
of May last, between the hours of eleven and twelve in the forenoon?”
The sharpness of the manner in which this question was put, the
minuteness of the details, and the particularity of the interrogatories,
quite confounded the juror, who answered accordingly.
“Such a thing _might_ have taken place, and it might _not_. I do not
remember.”
“Is Jonas White (a regular country loafer) in the habit of being in your
store?”
“He is—it is a considerable lounge for labouring men.”
“And Stephen Hook?”
“Yes; he is there a good deal of his time.”
“Now, I beg you to remember—did not such a conversation take place, in
which you bore a part, between the hours of eleven and twelve in the
forenoon; White and Hook being present?”
Hatfield seemed perplexed. He very conscientiously desired to tell the
truth, having nothing to gain by an opposite course; but he really had
no recollection of any such discussion, as well might be the case; no
such conversation ever having taken place. Williams knew the habits of
the loafers in question, had selected the time a little at random, and
adopted the particularity merely as a means of confounding the juror, of
whom he was seriously afraid.
“Such a thing _may_ have happened,” answered Hatfield, after a pause—“I
don’t remember.”
“It _may_ have happened—Now, sir, allow me to ask you if, in that
conversation, you did not express an opinion that you did not, and
_could_ not believe that a lady educated and delicate, like the prisoner
at the bar, did, or would, under any circumstances, commit the offence
with which Mary Monson is charged?”
Hatfield grew more and more confounded; for Williams’s manner was more
and more confident and cool. In this state of feeling he suffered the
reply to escape him—
“I _may_ have said as much—it seems quite natural.”
“I presume, after this,” observed Williams, carelessly, “your Honour
will order the juror not to enter the box?”
“Not so fast—not so fast, brother Williams,” put in Timms, who felt it
was now his turn to say a word, and who was thumbing a small
pocket-almanac very diligently the while.
“This discussion, I understand the learned gentleman, took place in the
juror’s store?”
“It did, sir,” was the answer—“a place where such discussions are very
apt to occur. Hook and White loaf half their time away in that store.”
“All quite likely—very likely to happen—Mr. Hatfield, do you open your
store on the Sabbath?”
“Certainly not—I am very particular to do nothing of the sort.”
“A church-member, I suppose, sir?”
“An undeserving one, sir.”
“Never, on any account, in the practice of opening your store of a
Sabbath, I understand you to say?”
“Never, except in cases of sickness. We must all respect the wants of
the sick.”
“Are Hook and White in the habit of loafing about on your premises of a
Sunday?”
“Never—I wouldn’t tolerate it. The store is a public place of a
week-day, and they can come in if they please; but I wouldn’t tolerate
such visits on the Sabbath.”
“Yet, if the court please, the 26th of last May happened to fall on the
Sabbath day! My brother Williams forgot to look into the almanac before
he made up his brief.”
Here Timms sat down, cocking his nose still higher, quite certain of
having made a capital hit towards his views on the Senate, though he
actually gained nothing for the cause. There was a general simper in the
audience; and Williams felt that he had lost quite as much as his
opponent had gained.
“Well, gentlemen, time is precious—let us get on,” interposed the
judge—“Is the juror to enter the box or not?”
“I trust a trifling mistake as to the day of the month is not about to
defeat the ends of justice,” answered Williams, raising himself higher
on his stilts, as he found himself sinking lower in his facts. “I put it
on the 26th by a miscalculation, I can now see. It was probably on the
25th—Saturday is the loafer’s holiday;—yes, it must have been on
Saturday the 25th that the conversation took place.”
“Do you remember this fact, juror?”
“I remember, now so much has been said on the subject,” answered
Hatfield, firmly, “that I was not at home at all between the 20th and
the 27th of May last. I could have held no such conversation on the 25th
or 26th of May; nor do I know that I think Mary Monson either innocent
or guilty.”
As all this was true, and was uttered with the confidence of truth, it
made an impression on the audience. Williams doubted; for so fine was
his skill in managing men, that he often succeeded in gaining jurors by
letting them understand he suspected them of being prejudiced against
his case. With the weak and vain, this mode of proceeding has frequently
more success than a contrary course; the party suspected being doubly
anxious to illustrate his impartiality in his verdict. This was what
Williams, and indeed the bar, very generally calls “standing so erect as
to lean backward.”
“Mr. Williams,” said the judge, “you must challenge peremptorily, or the
juror will be received.”
“No, your Honour, the State will accept the juror; I now see that my
information has been wrong.”
“We challenge for the defence,” said Timms, deciding on the instant, on
the ground that if Williams was so ready to change his course of
proceeding, there must be a good reason for it. “Stand aside, juror.”
“Peter Bailey,” called the clerk.
No objection being made, Peter Bailey took his seat. The two next jurors
were also received unquestioned; and it only remained to draw the
twelfth man. This was so much better luck than commonly happens in
capital cases, that everybody seemed more and more pleased, as if all
were anxious to come to the testimony. The judge evidently felicitated
himself, rubbing his hands with very great satisfaction. The bar,
generally, entered into his feelings; for it helped along its business.
“On the whole,” observed one of the lawyers who was in extensive
practice, speaking to another at his side, “I would as soon try one of
these murder-cases as to go through with a good water-cause.”
“Oh! _they_ are excruciating! Get into a good water-cause, with about
thirty witnesses on a side, and you are in for a week. I was three days
at one, only last circuit.”
“Are there many witnesses in this case?”
“About forty, I hear,” glancing towards the benches where most of the
females sat. “They tell me there will be a very formidable array as to
character. Ladies from York by the dozen!”
“They will be wanted, if all they say is true.”
“If all you hear is true, we have reached a new epoch in the history of
mankind. I have never seen the day when half of that I hear is more than
half true. I set the rest down as ‘leather and prunella.’”
“Robert Robinson,” cried the clerk.
A respectable-looking man of fifty presented himself, and was about to
enter the box without stopping to ascertain whether or not he would be
welcome there. This person had much more the air of the world than
either of the other jurors; and with those who are not very particular,
or very discriminating in such matters, might readily enough pass for a
gentleman. He was neatly dressed, wore gloves, and had certain chains,
an eye-glass, and other appliances of the sort, that it is not usual to
see at a country circuit. Neither Williams nor Timms seemed to know the
juror; but each looked surprised, and undecided how he ought to act. The
peremptory challenges were not exhausted; and there was a common impulse
in the two lawyers, first to accept one so respectable in mien, and
attire, and general air; and then, by a sudden revolution of feeling, to
reject one of whom they knew nothing.
“I suppose the summons is all right,” Williams carelessly remarked. “The
juror resides in Duke’s?”
“I do,” was the answer.
“Is a freeholder, and entitled to serve?”
A somewhat supercilious smile came over the countenance of the juror;
and he looked round at the person who could presume to make such a
remark, with something very like an air of contempt.
“I am _Doctor_ Robinson,” he then observed, laying emphasis on his
learned appellation.
Williams seemed at a loss; for, to say the truth, he had never heard of
any such physician in the county. Timms was quite as much mystified;
when a member of the bar leaned across a table, and whispered to
Dunscomb that the juror was a celebrated quack, who made pills that
would cure all diseases; and who, having made a fortune, had bought a
place in the county, and was to all legal purposes entitled to serve.
“The juror can stand aside,” said Dunscomb, rising in his slow dignified
manner. “If it please the court, _we_ challenge peremptorily.”
Timms looked still more surprised; and when told the reason for the
course taken by his associate, he was even sorry.
“The man is a _quack_,” said Dunscomb, “and there is quackery enough in
this system of a jury, without calling in assistance from the more open
practitioners.”
“I’m afraid, ’Squire, he is just the sort of man we want. I can work on
such spirits, when I fail altogether with more everyday-kind of men. A
little quackery does no harm to some causes.”
“Ira Kingsland,” called out the clerk.
Ira Kingsland appeared, a staid, solid, respectable husbandman—one of
those it is a mistaken usage of the country to term yeomen; and of a
class that contains more useful information, practical good sense and
judgment, than might be imagined, under all the circumstances.
As no objection was raised, this juror was received, and the pannel was
complete. After cautioning the jurors about listening and talking, in
the usual way, the judge adjourned the court for dinner.