“Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes,
And wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm,
To raise one from amidst this plunge of sorrow?”
_Addison._
“Call the names of the jurors, Mr. Clerk,” said the judge. “Mr. Sheriff,
I do not see the prisoner in her place.”
This produced a stir. The jurors were called, and answered to their
names; and shortly after, Mary Monson appeared. The last was accompanied
by the ladies, who might now be said to belong to her party, though no
one but herself and Marie Moulin came within the bar.
There was profound stillness in the hall, for it was felt that now the
issue of life or death was actually approaching. Mary Monson gazed, not
with disquietude but interest, at the twelve men who were to decide on
her innocence or guilt—men of habits and opinions so different from her
own—men so obnoxious to prejudices against those whom the accidents of
life had made objects of envy or hatred—men too much occupied with the
cares of existence to penetrate the arcana of thought, and who
consequently held their opinions at the mercy of others—men unskilled,
because without practice, in the very solemn and important office now
imposed on them by the law—men who might indeed be trusted, so long as
they would defer to the court and reason, but who were terrible and
dangerous, when they listened, as is too apt to be the case, to the
suggestions of their own impulses, ignorance and prejudice. Yet these
men were Mary Monson’s peers, in the eyes of the law—would have been so
viewed and accepted in a case involving the feelings and practices of
social castes, about which they knew absolutely nothing, or, what is
worse than nothing, a very little through the medium of
misrepresentation and mistaken conclusions.
It is the fashion to extol the institution of the jury. Our own
experience, by no means trifling, as foreman, as suitor, and as a
disinterested spectator, does not lead us to coincide in this opinion. A
narrative of the corrupt, misguided, partial, prejudiced, or ignorant
conduct that we have ourselves witnessed in these bodies, would make a
legend of its own. The power that most misleads such men, is one unseen
by themselves, half the time, and is consequently so much the more
dangerous. The feelings of neighbourhood, political hostility, or party
animosities, are among the commonest evils that justice has to
encounter, when brought in contact with tribunals thus composed. Then
come the feelings engendered by social castes, an inexhaustible source
of evil passions. Mary Monson had been told of the risks she ran from
that source; though she had also been told, and with great truth, that
so much of the spirit of God still remains in the hearts and minds of
men, as to render a majority of those who were to be the arbiters of her
fate conscientious and careful in a capital case. Perhaps, as a rule,
the singularity of his situation, with a man who finds himself, for the
first time, sitting as a juror in a trial for a human life, is one of
the most available correctives of his native tendencies to do evil.
“Mr. District Attorney, are you ready to proceed?” inquired the judge.
This functionary rose, bowed to the court and jury, and commenced his
opening. His manner was unpretending, natural, and solemn. Although high
talent and original thought are very rare in this country, as they are
everywhere else, there is a vast fund of intellect of a secondary order,
ever at the command of the public. The District Attorney of Duke’s was a
living witness of this truth. He saw all within his reach clearly, and,
possessing great experience, he did his duty, on this occasion, in a
very creditable manner. No attempt was made to awaken prejudice of any
sort against the accused. She was presented by the grand inquest, and it
was his and their painful duty, including his honour on the bench, to
investigate this matter, and make a solemn decision, on their oaths.
Mary Monson was entitled to a fair hearing, to all the advantages that
the lenity of the criminal law of a very humane state of society could
afford, and “for God’s sake let her be acquitted should the State fail
to establish her guilt!”
Mr. District Attorney then proceeded to give a narrative of the events
as he supposed them to have occurred. He spoke of the Goodwins as
“_poor_, but _honest_” people, a sort of illustration that is in much
favour, and deservedly so, when true. “It seems, gentlemen,” the
District Attorney continued, “that the wife had a propensity, or a
fancy, to collect gold pieces, no doubt as a store against the wants of
age. This money was kept in a stocking, according to the practice of
country ladies, and was often exhibited to the neighbours. We may have
occasion, gentlemen, to show you that some fifteen or twenty persons, at
different times, have seen and handled this gold. You need not be told
what natural curiosity is, but must all know how closely persons little
accustomed to see money of this sort, would be apt to examine the more
rare pieces, in particular. There happened to be several of these pieces
among the gold of Mrs. Goodwin; and one of them was an Italian or a
Dutch coin, of the value of four dollars, which commonly goes by the
name of the king whose likeness is on the piece. This Dutch or Italian
coin, no matter which, or William, was seen, and handled, and examined
by several persons, as we shall show you.
“Now, gentlemen, the stocking that contained the gold coins, was kept in
a bureau, which bureau was saved from the fire, with all its contents:
but the stocking and the gold were missing! These facts will be shown to
you by proof that puts them beyond a peradventure. We shall next show to
you, gentlemen, that on a public examination of the prisoner at the bar,
the contents of her purse were laid open, and the Dutch or Italian coin
I have mentioned was found, along with more than a hundred dollars of
other pieces, which being in American coin, cannot so readily be
identified.
“The prosecution relies, in a great degree, on the proof that will be
offered in connection with this piece of money, to establish the guilt
of the prisoner. We are aware that, when this piece of money was found
on her person, she affirmed it was hers; that she had been possessed of
_two_ such pieces, and that the one seen in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking had
been a present from herself to that unfortunate woman.
“Gentlemen, if persons accused of crimes could vindicate themselves by
their own naked statements, there would be very few convictions. Reason
tells us that proof must be met by proof. Assertions will not be
received, as against the accused, nor will they be taken in her favour.
Your own good sense will tell you, gentlemen, that if it be shown that
Dorothy Goodwin possessed this particular piece of gold, valued it
highly, and was in the practice of hoarding all the gold she could lay
her hands on lawfully; that the said Dorothy Goodwin’s residence was
burned, she herself murdered by a savage and cruel blow or blows on the
occiput, or head; that Mary Monson, the prisoner at the bar, knew of the
existence of this little stock of gold coins, had seen it, handled it,
and doubtless _coveted_ it; residing in the same house, with easy access
to the bedside of the unhappy couple, with easy access to the bureau, to
the keys which opened that bureau, for its drawers were found locked,
just as Mrs. Goodwin was in the habit of leaving them;—but, gentlemen,
if all this be shown to you, and we then trace the aforesaid piece or
coin to the pocket of Mary Monson, we make out a _prima facie_ case of
guilt, as I conceive; a case that will throw on her the _onus_ of
showing that she came in possession of the said piece of coin lawfully,
and by no improper means. Failing of this, your duty will be plain.
“It is incumbent on the prosecution to make out its case, either by
direct proof, on the oaths of credible witnesses, or by such
circumstances as shall leave no doubt in your minds of the guilt of the
accused. It is also incumbent that we show that the crimes, of which the
prisoner is accused, have been committed, and committed by her.
“Gentlemen, we shall offer you this proof. We shall show you that the
skeletons of which I have spoken, and which lie under that pall, sad
remains of a most ruthless scene, are beyond all question the skeletons
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin. This will be shown to you by proof; though
all who knew the parties, can almost see the likeness in these sad
relics of mortality. Peter Goodwin, as will be shown to you, was a very
short, but sturdy man, while Dorothy, his wife, was a woman of large
size. The skeletons meet this description exactly. They were found on
the charred wood of the bedstead the unhappy couple habitually used, and
on the very spot where they had passed so many previous nights in
security and peace. Everything goes to corroborate the identity of the
persons whose remains have been found, and I regret it should be my duty
to add, that everything goes to fasten the guilt of these murders on the
prisoner at the bar.
“Gentlemen, although we rely mainly on the possession of the Dutch or
Italian coin, no matter which, to establish the case for the state, we
shall offer you a great deal of sustaining and secondary proof. In the
first place, the fact that a female, young, handsome, well, nay,
expensively educated, coming from nobody knows whence, to go nobody
knows whither, should suddenly appear in a place as retired as the house
of Peter Goodwin, why no one can say, are in themselves very suspicious.
Gentlemen, ‘all is not gold that glitters.’ Many a man, and many a
woman, in places large as New York, are not what they seem to be. They
dress, and laugh, and sing, and appear to be among the gayest of the
gay, when they do not know where to lay their heads at night. Large
towns are moral blotches, they say, on the face of the community, and
they conceal many things that will not bear the light. From one of these
large towns, it is to be presumed from her dress, manners, education,
amusements, and all belonging to her, came Mary Monson, to ask an asylum
in the dwelling of the Goodwins. Gentlemen, why did she come? Had she
heard of the hoard of Mrs. Goodwin, and did she crave the possession of
the gold? These questions it will be your duty to answer in your
verdict. Should the reply be in the affirmative, you obtain, at once, a
direct clue to the motives for the murder.
“Among the collateral proof that will be offered are the following
circumstances, to which I now ask your particular attention, in order
that you may give to the testimony its proper value. It will be shown
that Mary Monson had a large sum in gold in her possession, _after_ the
arson and murders, and consequently _after_ the robbery, but no one knew
of her having any _before_. It will be shown that she has money in
abundance, scattering it right and left, as we suppose to procure her
acquittal, and this money we believe she took from the bureau of Mrs.
Goodwin—how much, is not known. It is thought that the sum was very
large; the gold alone amounted to near a thousand dollars, and two
witnesses will testify to a still larger amount in bank notes. The
Goodwins talked of purchasing a farm, valued at five thousand dollars;
and as they were known never to run in debt, the fair inference is, that
they must have had at least that sum by them. A legacy was left Dorothy
Goodwin within the last six months, which we hear was very considerable,
and we hope to be able to put a witness on the stand who will tell you
all about it.
“But, gentlemen, a circumstance worthy of all attention in an
investigation like this, is connected with an answer to this
question—Who is Mary Monson? What are her parentage, birthplace,
occupation, and place of residence? Why did she come to Biberry at all?
In a word, what is her past history? Let this be satisfactorily
explained, and a great step is taken towards her vindication from these
most grave charges. Shall we have witnesses to character? No one will be
happier to listen to them than myself. My duty is far from pleasant. I
sincerely hope the prisoner will find lawful means to convince you of
her innocence. There is not one within the walls of this building who
will hear such a verdict, if sustained by law and evidence, with greater
pleasure than it will be heard by me.”
After pursuing this vein some time longer, the worthy functionary of the
state showed a little of that cloven foot which seems to grow on all,
even to the cleanest heels, who look to the popular voice for
preferment. No matter who the man is, rich or poor, young or old,
foolish or wise, he bows down before the idol of Numbers, and there
worships. Votes being the one thing wanted, must be bought by sacrifices
on the altar of conscience. Now it is by wild, and, half the time,
impracticable schemes of philanthropy, that while they seem to work good
to the majority, are quite likely to disregard the rights of the
minority; now they are flourishes against negro slavery, or a revolution
in favour of the oppressed inhabitants of Crim-Tartary, of the real
state of which country we are all as ignorant as its inhabitants are
ignorant of us; now, it’s an exemption law, to enable a man to escape
from the payment of his just debts, directly in the teeth of the sound
policy, not to say morality, that if a man owe he should be made to pay
as long as he has anything to do it with; now, it is a hymn in praise of
a liberty that the poet neither comprehends nor cares to look into
farther than may suit his own selfish patriotism; and now, it is some
other of the thousand modes adopted by the designing to delude the
masses and advance themselves.
On this occasion the District Attorney was very cautious, but he showed
the cloven foot. He paid a passing tribute to the god of Numbers,
worshipped before the hierarchy of votes. “Gentlemen,” he continued,
“like myself, you are plain, unpretending citizens. Neither you, nor
your wives and daughters, speak in foreign tongues, or play on foreign
instruments of music. We have been brought up in republican simplicity,
[God bless it! say we, could we ever meet with it,] and lay no claims to
superiority of any sort. Our place is in the body of the nation, and
there we are content to remain. We shall pay no respect to dress,
accomplishments, foreign languages, or foreign music; but, the evidence
sustaining us, will show the world that the law frowns as well on the
great as on the little; on the pretending, as well as on the
unpretending.”
As these grandiose sentiments were uttered, several of the jurors half
rose from their seats, in the eagerness to hear, and looks of
approbation passed from eye to eye. This was accepted as good republican
doctrine; no one there seeing, or feeling, as taste and truth would have
shown, that the real pretension was on the side of an exaggerated
self-esteem, that prompted to resistance ere resistance was necessary,
under the influence of, perhaps, the lowest passion of human nature—we
allude to envy. With a little more in the same vein, the District
Attorney concluded his opening.
The great coolness, not to say indifference, with which Mary Monson
listened to this speech, was the subject of general comment among the
members of the bar. At times she had been attentive, occasionally
betraying surprise; then indignation would just gleam in her remarkable
eye; but, on the whole, an uncommon calmness reigned in her demeanour.
She had prepared tablets for notes; and twice she wrote in them as the
District Attorney proceeded. This was when he adverted to her past life,
and when he commented on the Dutch coin. While he was speaking of
castes, flattering one set under the veil of pretending humility, and
undermining their opposites, a look of quiet contempt was apparent in
every feature of her very expressive face.
“If it please the court,” said Dunscomb, rising in his deliberate way,
“before the prosecution proceeds with its witnesses, I could wish to
appeal to the courtesy of the gentlemen on the other side for a list of
their names.”
“I believe we are not bound to furnish any such list,” answered
Williams, quickly.
“Perhaps not bound exactly in law; but, it strikes me, bound in justice.
This is a trial for a life; the proceedings are instituted by the State.
The object is justice, not vengeance—the protection of society, through
the agency of an impartial, though stern justice. The State cannot wish
to effect anything by surprise. We are accused of murder and arson, with
no other notice of what is to be shown, or _how_ anything is to be
shown, than what is contained in the bill or complaint. Any one can see
how important it may be to us, to be apprised of the names of the
witnesses a little in advance, that we may inquire into character and
note probabilities. I do not insist on any _right_; but I ask a favour
that humanity sanctions.”
“If it please the court,” said Williams, “we have an important trust. I
will here say that I impute nothing improper to either of the prisoner’s
counsel; but it is my duty to suggest the necessity of our being
cautious. A great deal of money has been expended already in this case;
and there is always danger of witnesses being bought off. On behalf of
my client, I protest against the demand’s being complied with.”
“The court has no objection to the course asked by the prisoner’s
counsel,” observed the judge, “but cannot direct it. The State can never
wish its officers to be harsh or exacting; but it is their duty to be
prudent. Mr. District Attorney, are you ready with your evidence? Time
is precious, sir.”
The testimony for the prosecution was now offered. We shall merely
advert to most of it, reserving our details for those witnesses on whom
the cause might be said to turn. Two very decent-looking and
well-behaved men, farmers who resided in the vicinity of Biberry, were
put on the stand to establish the leading heads of the case. They had
known Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; had often stopped at the house; and
were familiarly acquainted with the old couple, as neighbours.
“Remembered the fire—was present at it, towards its close. Saw the
prisoner there; saw her descend, by a ladder; and assisted in saving her
effects. Several trunks, carpet-bags, bandboxes, writing-desks, musical
instruments, &c. &c. All were saved. “_It seemed to them that they had
been placed near the windows, in a way to be handy._” After the fire,
had never seen or heard anything of the old man and his wife, unless two
skeletons that had been found were their skeletons. Supposed them to be
the skeletons of Peter Goodwin and his wife”—Here the remains were for
the first time on that trial exposed to view. “Those are the same
skeletons, should say—had no doubt of it; they are about the size of the
old couple. The husband was short; the wife tall. Little or no
difference in their height. Had never seen the stocking or the gold; but
had heard a good deal of talk of them, having lived near neighbours to
the Goodwins five-and-twenty years.”
Dunscomb conducted the cross-examination. He was close, discriminating,
and judicious. Separating the hearsay and gossip from the facts known,
he at once threw the former to the winds, as matter not to be received
by the jury. We shall give a few of his questions and their answers that
have a bearing on the more material points of the trial.
“I understand you to say, witness, that you knew both Peter Goodwin and
his wife?”
“I did—I knew them well—saw them almost every day of my life.”
“For how long a time?”
“This many a day. For five-and-twenty years, or a little more.”
“Will you say that you have been in the habit of seeing Peter Goodwin
and his wife daily, or almost daily, for five-and-twenty years?”
“If not right down daily, quite often; as often as once or twice a week,
certainly.”
“Is this material, Mr. Dunscomb?” inquired the judge. “The time of the
court is very precious.”
“It _is_ material, your honour, as showing the looseness with which
witnesses testify; and as serving to caution the jury how they receive
their evidence. The opening of the prosecution shows us that if the
charge is to be made out at all against the prisoner, it is to be made
out on purely circumstantial evidence. It is not pretended that any one
_saw_ Mary Monson kill the Goodwins; but the crime is to be _inferred_
from a series of collateral facts, that will be laid before the court
and jury. I think your honour will see how important it is, under the
circumstances, to analyze the testimony, even on points that may not
seem to bear directly on the imputed crimes. If a witness testify
loosely, the jury ought to be made to see it. I have a life to defend,
your honour will remember.”
“Proceed, sir; the court will grant you the widest latitude.”
“You now say, as often as once or twice a week, witness; on reflection,
will you swear to even _that?_”
“Well, if not twice, I am sure I can say _once_.”
Dunscomb was satisfied with this answer, which went to show that the
witness could reply a little at random, and was not always certain of
his facts, when pressed.
“Are you certain that Dorothy Goodwin is dead?”
“I suppose I am as certain as any of the neighbours.”
“That is not an answer to my question. Will you, and do you swear on
your oath, that Peter Goodwin, the person named in the indictment, is
actually dead?”
“I’ll swear that I _think_ so.”
“That is not what I want. You see those skeletons—will you say, on your
oath, that you _know_ them to be the skeletons of Peter and Dorothy
Goodwin?”
“I’ll swear that I believe it.”
“That does not meet the question. Do you _know_ it?”
“How can I know it? I’m not a doctor, or a surgeon. No, I do not
absolutely _know_ it. Still, I believe that one is the skeleton of Peter
Goodwin, and the other the skeleton of his wife.”
“Which do you suppose to be the skeleton of Peter Goodwin?”
This question puzzled the witness not a little. To the ordinary eye,
there was scarcely any difference in the appearance of these sad
remains; though one skeleton had been ascertained by actual measurement
to be about an inch and a half longer than the other. This fact was
known to all in Biberry; but it was not easy to say which was which, at
a glance. The witness took the safe course, therefore, of putting his
opinion altogether on a different ground.
“I do not pretend to tell one from the other,” was the answer. “What I
know of my own knowledge is this, and this only. I knew Peter and
Dorothy Goodwin; knew the house they lived in; know that the house has
been burnt down, and that the old folks are not about their old ha’nts.
The skeletons I never saw until they were moved from the place where
they tell me they were found; for I was busy helping to get the articles
saved under cover.”
“Then you do not pretend to know which skeleton is that of a man, or
which that of a woman?”
This question was ingeniously put, and had the effect to make all the
succeeding witnesses shy on this point; for it created a belief that
there was a difference that might be recognized by those who are skilled
in such matters. The witness assented to the view of Dunscomb; and
having been so far sifted as to show he knew no more than all the rest
of the neighbours, he was suffered to quit the stand. The result was
that very little was actually established by means of this testimony. It
was evident that the jury was now on the alert, and not disposed to
receive all that was said as gospel.
The next point was to make out all the known facts of the fire, and of
the finding of the skeletons. The two witnesses just examined had seen
the close of the fire, had _heard_ of the skeletons, but had said very
little more to the purpose. Dunscomb thought it might be well to throw
in a hint to this effect in the present state of the case, as he now did
by remarking—
“I trust that the District Attorney will see precisely where he stands.
All that has yet been shown by legal proof are the facts that there were
such persons as Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; facts we are not at all
disposed to deny——”
“And that they have not appeared in the flesh since the night of the
fire?” put in Williams.
“Not to the witnesses; but, to how many others, does not appear.”
“Does the learned counsel mean to set up the defence that Goodwin and
his wife are not dead?”
“It is for the prosecution to show the contrary affirmatively. If it be
so, it is fair to presume they can do it. All I now contend for, is the
fact that we have no proof as yet that either is dead. We have proof
that the house was burnt; but we are now traversing an indictment for
murder, and not that for arson. As yet, it strikes me, therefore,
nothing material has been shown.”
“It is certainly material, Mr. Dunscomb, that there should have been
such persons as the Goodwins, and that they have disappeared since the
night of the fire; and this much is proved, unless you impeach the
witnesses,” observed the judge.
“Well, sir, that much we are not disposed to deny. There _were_ such
persons as the Goodwins, and they have disappeared from the
neighbourhood. We believe that much ourselves.”
“Crier, call Peter Bacon.”
Bacon came forward, dressed in an entire new suit of clothes, and
appearing much more respectable than was his wont. This man’s testimony
was almost word for word as it has already been given in the coroner’s
inquest. He established the facts of the fire, about which there could
be no prudent contention indeed, and of the finding of the skeletons;
for he had been one of those who aided in first searching the ruins for
the remains. This man told his story in an extremely vulgar dialect, as
we have had already occasion to show; but in a very clear, distinct
manner. He meant to tell the truth, and succeeded reasonably well; for
it does not occur to all who have the same upright intentions to effect
their purposes as well as he did himself. Dunscomb’s cross-examination
was very brief; for he perceived it was useless to attempt to deny what
had been thus proved.
“Jane Pope”—called out the District Attorney—“Is Mrs. Jane Pope in
court?”
The widow Pope was on the spot, and ready and willing to answer. She
removed her bonnet, took the oath, and was shown to the seat with which
it is usual to accommodate persons of her sex.
“Your name,” said Dunscomb, holding his pen over the paper.
“Pope—Jane Pope since my marriage; but Jane Anderson from my parents.”
Dunscomb listened politely, but recorded no more than the appellation of
the widow. Mrs. Pope now proceeded to tell her story, which she did
reasonably well, though not without a good deal of unnecessary
amplitude, and some slight contradictions. It was _her_ intention, also,
to tell nothing but the truth; but persons whose tongues move as nimbly
as that of this woman’s, do not always know exactly what they do say.
Dunscomb detected the contradictions; but he had the tact to see their
cause, saw that they were not material, and wisely abstained from
confounding whatever of justice there was in the defence with points
that the jury had probably sufficient sagacity to see were of no great
moment. He made no note, therefore, of these little oversights, and
allowed the woman to tell her whole story uninterrupted. When it came to
his turn to cross-examine, however, the duty of so doing was not
neglected.
“You say, Mrs. Pope, that you had often seen the stocking in which Mrs.
Goodwin kept her gold. Of what material was that stocking?”
“Wool—yes, of blue woollen yarn. A stocking knit by hand, and very
darny.”
“Should you know the stocking, Mrs. Pope, were you to see it again?”
“I think I might. Dolly Goodwin and I looked over the gold together more
than once; and the stocking got to be a sort of acquaintance.”
“Was this it?” continued Dunscomb, taking a stocking of the sort
described from Timms, who sat ready to produce the article at the proper
moment.
“If it please the court,” cried Williams, rising in haste, and preparing
eagerly to interrupt the examination.
“Your pardon, sir,” put in Dunscomb, with great self-command, but very
firmly—“words must not be put into the witness’s mouth, nor ideas into
her head. She has sworn, may it please your honour, to a certain
stocking; which stocking she described in her examination in chief; and
we now ask her if this is that stocking. All this is regular, I believe;
and I trust we are not to be interrupted.”
“Go on, sir,” said the judge; “the prosecution will not interrupt the
defence. But time is very precious.”
“Is this the stocking?” repeated Dunscomb.
The woman examined the stocking, looking inside and out, turning it over
and over, and casting many a curious glance at the places that had been
mended.
“It’s dreadful darney, isn’t it?” she said, looking inquiringly at the
counsellor.
“It is as you see, Ma’am. I have made no alteration in it.”
“I declare I believe this _is_ the very stocking.”
“At the proper time, your honour, we shall show that this is _not_ the
stocking, if indeed there ever was such a stocking at all,” said Timms,
rolling up the article in question, and handing it to the clerk to keep.
“You saw a certain piece of gold, you say,” resumed Dunscomb, “which
piece of gold I understand you to say was afterwards found in the pocket
of Mary Monson. Will you have the goodness to say whether the piece of
gold which you saw in Mrs. Goodwin’s possession is among these?”—showing
a dozen coins; “or whether one resembling it is here?”
The woman was greatly puzzled. She meant to be honest; had told no more
than was true, with the exception of the little embellishments that her
propensity to imagine and talk rendered almost unavoidable; but, for the
life of her, she could not distinguish the piece of money, or its
counterpart. After examining the coins for several minutes she frankly
admitted her ignorance.
“It is scarcely necessary to continue this cross-examination,” said
Dunscomb, looking at his watch. “I shall ask the court to adjourn, and
to adjourn over until morning. We have reached the hour for lighting
candles; but we have agents out in quest of most important witnesses;
and we ask the loss of this evening as a favour. It can make no great
difference as to the length of the trial; and the jurors will be all the
fresher for a good night’s rest.”
The court acquiesced, and allowed of the adjournment, giving the jury
the usual charge about conversing or making up their opinions until they
had heard the whole testimony; a charge that both Williams and Timms
took very good care to render of no use in several instances, or as
regarded particular individuals.
A decided impression was made in favour of the prisoner by Mrs. Pope’s
failure to distinguish the piece of money. In her examination in chief
she saw no difficulty in recognizing the single piece then shown to her,
and which was the Dutch coin actually found in Mary Monson’s purse; but,
when it was put among a dozen others resembling it, more or less, she
lost all confidence in herself, and, to a certain point, completely
broke down as a witness. But Dunscomb saw that the battle had not yet in
truth begun. What had passed was merely the skirmishing of light troops,
feeling the way for the advance of the heavy columns and the artillery
that were to decide the fortunes of the day.