“I challenge envy,
Malice, and all the practices of hell,
To censure all the actions of my past
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can.”
_The Orphan._
It is to be presumed that Timms found the means to communicate to
Williams the rejection of the latter’s offer, before the court met next
morning. It is certain that the counsel associated with the
Attorney-General manifested unusual zeal in the performance of duties
that most men would have found unpleasant, if not painful, and that he
was captious, short, and ill-natured. Just as Mary Monson came within
the bar, a letter was put into the hands of Dunscomb, who quietly broke
the seal, and read it twice, as the observant Timms fancied; then put it
in his pocket, with a mien so undisturbed that no mere looker-on would
have suspected its importance. The letter was from Millington, and it
announced a general want of success in his mission. The whereabouts of
M. de Larocheforte could not be ascertained; and those who knew anything
about his movements, were of opinion that he was travelling in the West,
accompanied by his fair, accomplished, and affluent young consort. None
of those who would naturally have heard of such an event, had it
occurred, could say there had ever been a separation between the French
husband and the American wife. Millington, himself, had never seen his
kinswoman, there being a coolness of long standing between the two
branches of the family, and could give little or no information on the
subject. In a word, he could discover nothing to enable him to carry out
the clue obtained in the rumour; while, on the other hand, he found a
certain set, who occupied themselves a good deal with intelligence of
that sort, were greatly disposed to believe the report, set on foot by
herself, that Mary Monson was a stool-pigeon of a gang of marauders, and
doubtless guilty of everything of which she had been accused. Millington
would remain in town, however, another day, and endeavour to push his
inquiries to some useful result. Cool, clear-headed, and totally without
romance, Dunscomb knew that a better agent than his young friend could
not be employed, and was fain to wait patiently for the discoveries he
might eventually succeed in making. In the mean time the trial
proceeded.
“Mr. Clerk,” said his honour, “let the jury be called.”
This was done, and Mary Monson’s lips moved, while a lurking smile
lighted her countenance, as her eyes met the sympathy that was expressed
in the countenances of several of the grave men who had been drawn as
arbiters, in her case, between life and death. To her it was apparent
that her sex, her youth, perhaps her air and beauty, stood her friends,
and that she might largely count on the compassion of that small but
important body of men. One of her calculations had succeeded to the
letter. The tale of her being a stool-pigeon had been very actively
circulated, with certain additions and embellishments that it was very
easy to disprove; and another set of agents had been hard at work, all
the morning, in brushing away such of the collateral circumstances as
had, at first, been produced to confirm the main story, and which, in
now being pulled to pieces as of no account, did not fail to cast a
shade of the darkest doubt over the whole rumour. All this Mary Monson
probably understood, and understanding, enjoyed; a vein of wild
wilfulness certainly running through her character, leading in more
directions than one.
“I hope there will be no delay on account of witnesses,” observed the
judge. “Time is very precious.”
“We are armed at all points, your honour, and intend to bring the matter
to an early conclusion,” answered Williams, casting one of those glances
at the prisoner which had obtained for him the merited _sobriquet_ of
“saucy.” “Crier, call Samuel Burton.”
Timms fairly started. This was breaking ground in a new spot, and was
producing testimony from a source that he much dreaded. The Burtons had
been the nearest neighbours of the Goodwins, and were so nearly on a
social level with them, as to live in close and constant communication.
These Burtons consisted of the man, his wife, and three maiden sisters.
At one time, the last had conversed much on the subject of the murders;
but, to Timms’ great discontent, they had been quite dumb of late. This
had prevented his putting in practice a method of anticipating
testimony, that is much in vogue, and which he had deliberately
attempted with these sometime voluble females. As the reader may not be
fully initiated in the mysteries of that sacred and all-important master
of the social relations, the law, we shall set forth the manner in which
justice is often bolstered, when its interests are cared for by
practitioners of the Timms’ and Williams’ school.
No sooner is it ascertained that a particular individual has a knowledge
of an awkward fact, than these worthies of the bar set to work to
extract the dangerous information from him. This is commonly attempted,
and often effected, by inducing the witness to relate what he knows, and
by leading him on to make statements that, on being sworn to in court,
will either altogether invalidate his testimony, or throw so much doubt
on it as to leave it of very little value. As the agents employed to
attain this end are not very scrupulous, there is great danger that
their imaginations may supply the defects in the statements, and
substitute words and thoughts that the party never uttered. It is so
easy to mistake another’s meaning, with even the best intentions, that
we are not to be surprised if this should seriously happen when the
disposition is to mislead. With the parties to suits, this artifice is
often quite successful, admissions being obtained, or supposed to be
obtained, that they never, for an instant, intended to make. In the
states where speculation has cornered men, and left them loaded with
debt, these devices of the eaves-droppers and suckers are so common, as
to render their testimony no immaterial feature in nearly every cause of
magnitude that is tried. In such a state of society it is, indeed,
unsafe for a suitor to open his lips on his affairs, lest some one near
him be employed to catch up his words, and carry them into court with
shades of meaning gathered from his own imagination.
At first, Timms was under the impression that the Burtons were going to
sustain the defence, and he was placing himself on the most amiable
footing with the females, three of whom might very reasonably be placed
within the category of matrimony with this rising lawyer; but, it was
not long ere he ascertained that Williams was getting to be intimate,
and had proved to be a successful rival. Davis, the nephew and heir of
the Goodwins, was a single man, too, and it is probable that his
frequent visits to the dwelling of the Burtons had a beneficial
influence on his own interests. Let the cause be what it might, the
effect was clearly to seal the lips of the whole family, not a member of
which could be induced, by any art practised by the agents of Timms, to
utter a syllable on a subject that now really seemed to be forbidden.
When, therefore, Burton appeared on the stand, and was sworn, the two
counsel for the defence waited for him to open his lips, with a profound
and common interest.
Burton knew the deceased, had lived all his life near them, was at home
the night of the fire, went to assist the old people, saw the two
skeletons, had no doubt they were the remains of Peter Goodwin and his
wife, observed the effects of a heavy blow across the foreheads of each,
the same that was still to be seen, inferred that this blow had
destroyed them, or so far stunned them as to leave them incapable of
escaping from the fire.
This witness was then questioned on the subject of the stocking, and
Mrs. Goodwin’s hoard of money. He had seen the stocking but once, had
often heard it mentioned by his sisters, did not think his wife had ever
alluded to it, did not know the amount of the gold, but supposed it
might be very considerable, saw the bureau examined, and knew that the
stocking could not be found. In a word, his testimony in chief went
generally to sustain the impression that prevailed relative to the
murders, though it is unnecessary to repeat it in this form, as the
cross-examination will better explain his statements and opinions.
“Mr. Burton,” said Dunscomb, “you knew the Goodwins well?”
“Very well, sir. As well as near neighbours generally know each other.”
“Can you swear that those are the skeletons of Peter and Dorothy
Goodwin?”
“I can swear that I _believe_ them to be such—have no doubt of the
fact.”
“Point out that which you suppose to be the skeleton of Peter Goodwin.”
This request embarrassed the witness. In common with all around him, he
had no other clue to his facts than the circumstances under which these
vestiges of mortality had been found, and he did not know what ought to
be his reply.
“I suppose the shortest of the skeletons to be Peter Goodwin’s, and the
longest that of his wife,” he at length answered. “Peter was not as tall
as Dorothy.”
“Which is the shortest of these remains?”
“That I could not say, without measuring. I know that Goodwin was not as
tall as his wife by half an inch, for I have seen them measure.”
“Then you would say that, in your opinion, the longest of these two
skeletons is that of Dorothy Goodwin, and the shortest that of her
husband?”
“Yes, sir; that is my opinion—formed to the best of my knowledge. I have
seen them measure.”
“Was this measurement accurate?”
“Very much so. They used to dispute about their height, and they
measured several times, when I was by; generally in their stocking feet,
and once barefoot.”
“The difference being half an inch in favour of the wife?”
“Yes, sir, as near as could be; for I was umpire more than once.”
“Did Peter Goodwin and his wife live happily together?”
“Tolerable—much as other married folks get along.”
“Explain what you mean by that.”
“Why, there’s ups and downs, I suppose, in all families. Dorothy was
high-tempered, and Peter was sometimes cross-grained.”
“Do you mean that they quarrelled?”
“They got r’iled with each other, now and then.”
“Was Peter Goodwin a sober man?”
The witness now appeared to be bothered. He looked around him, and
meeting everywhere with countenances which evidently reflected ‘yes,’ he
had not the moral courage to run counter to public opinion, and say
‘no.’ It is amazing what a tyrant this concentration of minds gets to be
over those who are not very clear-headed themselves, and who are not
constituted, morally, to resist its influence. It almost possesses a
power to persuade these persons not to put faith in their own senses,
and disposes them to believe what they hear, rather than what they have
seen. Indeed, one effect is to cause them to see with the eyes of
others. As the ‘neighbours,’ those inquisitors who know so much of
persons of their association and intimacy, and so little of all others,
very generally fancied Peter a sober man, Burton scarce knew what to
answer. Circumstances had made him acquainted with the delinquency of
the old man, but his allegations would not be sustained were he to speak
the whole truth, since Peter had succeeded in keeping his infirmity from
being generally known. To a man like the witness, it was easier to
sacrifice the truth than to face a neighbourhood.
“I suppose he was much as others,” answered Burton, after a delay that
caused some surprise. “He was human, and had a human natur’.
Independence days, and other rejoicings, I’ve known him give in more
than the temperance people think is quite right; but I shouldn’t say he
was downright intemperate.”
“He drank to excess, then, on occasions?”
“Peter had a very weak head, which was his greatest difficulty.”
“Did you ever count the money in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking?”
“I never did. There was gold and paper; but how much I do not know.”
“Did you see any strangers in or about the house of the Goodwins, the
morning of the fire?”
“Yes; two strange men were there, and were active in helping the
prisoner out of the window, and afterwards in getting out the furniture.
They were very particular in saving Mary Monson’s property.”
“Were those strangers near the bureau?”
“Not that I know. I helped carry the bureau out myself; and I was
present afterwards in court when it was examined for the money. We found
none.”
“What became of those strangers?”
“I cannot tell you. They were lost to me in the confusion.”
“Had you ever seen them before?”
“Never.”
“Nor since?”
“No, sir.”
“Will you have the goodness to take that rod, and tell me what is the
difference in length between the two skeletons?”
“I trust, your honour, that this is testimony which will not be
received,” put in Williams. “The fact is before the jury, and they can
take cognizance of it for themselves.”
Dunscomb smiled as he answered—
“The zeal of the learned gentleman runs ahead of his knowledge of the
rules of evidence. Does he expect the jury to measure the remains; or
are we to show the fact by means of witnesses?”
“This is a cross-examination; and the question is one in chief. The
witness belongs to the defence, if the question is to be put at all.”
“I think not, your honour. The witness has testified, in chief, that he
believes these remains to be those of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; he has
further said, on his cross-examination, that Dorothy was half an inch
taller than Peter; we now wish to put to the test the accuracy of the
first opinion, by comparing the two facts—his knowledge of the
difference by the former measurement as compared with the present. It
has been said that these two skeletons are very nearly of a length. We
wish the truth to be seen.”
“The witness will answer the question,” said the judge.
“I doubt the power of the court to compel a witness to obtain facts in
this irregular mode,” observed the pertinacious Williams.
“You can note your exceptions, brother Williams,” returned the judge,
smiling; “although it is not easy to see with what useful consequences.
If the prisoner be acquitted, you can hardly expect to try her again;
and, if convicted, the prosecution will scarcely wish to press any
objection.”
Williams, who was as much influenced by a bull-dog tenacity, as by any
other motive, now submitted; and Burton took the rod and measured the
skeletons, an office he might have declined, most probably, had he seen
fit. The spectators observed surprise in his countenance; and he was
seen to repeat the measurement, seemingly with more care.
“Well, sir, what is the difference in the length of those skeletons?”
inquired Dunscomb.
“I make it about an inch and a half, if these marks are to be relied
on,” was the slow, cautious, well-considered reply.
“Do you now say that you believe these skeletons to be the remains of
Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?”
“Whose else can they be? They were found on the spot where the old
couple used to sleep.”
“I ask you to answer _my_ question; I am not here to answer _yours_. Do
you still say that you believe these to be the skeletons of Peter and
Dorothy Goodwin?”
“I am a good deal non-plussed by this measurement—though the flesh, and
skin, and muscles, may have made a considerable difference in life.”
“Certainly,” said Williams, with one of his withering sneers—sneers that
had carried many a cause purely by their impudence and sarcasm—“Every
one knows how much more muscle a man has than a woman. It causes the
great difference in their strength. A bunch of muscles, more or less in
the heel, would explain all this, and a great deal more.”
“How many persons dwelt in the house of Goodwin at the time of the
fire?” demanded Dunscomb.
“They tell me Mary Monson was there, and I saw her there during the
fire; but I never saw her there before.”
“Do you know of any other inmate besides the old couple and the
prisoner?”
“I did see a strange woman about the house for a week or two before the
fire, but I never spoke to her. They tell me she was High Dutch.”
“Never mind what they _tell_ you, Mr. Burton”—observed the
judge—“testify only to what you _know_.”
“Did you see this strange woman at the fire, or after the fire?”
continued Dunscomb.
“I can’t say that I did. I remember to have looked round for her, too;
but I did not find her.”
“Was her absence spoken of in the crowd at the time?”
“Something was said about it; but we were too much taken up with the old
couple to think a great deal of this stranger.”
This is an outline of Burton’s testimony; though the cross-examination
was continued for more than an hour, and Williams had him again examined
in chief. That intrepid practitioner contended that the defence had made
Burton its own witness in all that related to the measurement of the
skeletons; and that he had a right to a cross-examination. After all
this contest, the only fact of any moment elicited from the witness
related to the difference in stature between Goodwin and his wife, as
has been stated already.
In the mean time, Timms ascertained that the last report set on foot by
his own agents, at the suggestion of Mary Monson herself, was
circulating freely; and, though it was directly opposed to the preceding
rumour, which had found great favour with the gossips, this extravagant
tale was most greedily swallowed. We conceive that those persons who are
so constituted, morally, as to find pleasure in listening to the idle
rumours that float about society, are objects of pity; their morbid
desire to talk of the affairs of others being a disease that presses
them down beneath the level they might otherwise occupy. With such
persons, the probabilities go for nothing; and they are more inclined to
give credit to a report that excites their interest, by running counter
to all the known laws of human actions, than to give faith to its
contradiction, when sustained by every reason that experience sustains.
Thus was it on the present occasion. There was something so audacious in
the rumour that Mary Monson belonged to a gang of rogues in town, and
had been sent especially to rob the Goodwins, that vulgar curiosity
found great delight in it; the individual who heard the report usually
sending it on with additions of his own, that had their authority purely
in the workings of a dull imagination. It is in that way that this great
faculty of the mind is made to perform a double duty; which in the one
case is as pure and ennobling, as in the other it is debasing and
ignoble. The man of a rich imagination, he who is capable of throwing
the charms of poetical feeling around the world in which we dwell, is
commonly a man of truth. The high faculty which he possesses seems, in
such cases, to be employed in ferreting out facts which, on proper
occasions, he produces distinctly, manfully, and logically. On the other
hand, there is a species of subordinate imagination that is utterly
incapable of embellishing life with charms of any sort, and which
delights in the false. This last is the imagination of the gossip. It
obtains some modicum of fact, mixes it with large quantities of stupid
fiction, delights in the idol it has thus fashioned out of its own head,
and sends it abroad to find worshippers as dull, as vulgar-minded, and
as uncharitable, as itself.
Timms grew frightened at the success of his client’s scheme, and felt
the necessity of commencing the reaction at once, if the last were to
have time in which to produce its effect. He had been warmly opposed to
the project in the commencement, and had strenuously resisted its
adoption; but Mary Monson would not listen to his objections. She even
threatened to employ another, should he fail her. The conceit seemed to
have taken a strong hold on her fancy; and all the wilfulness of her
character had come in aid of this strange scheme. The thing was done;
and it now remained to prevent its effecting the mischief it was so well
adapted to produce.
All this time, the fair prisoner sat in perfectly composed silence,
listening attentively to everything that was said, and occasionally
taking a note. Timms ventured to suggest that it might be better were
she to abstain from doing the last, as it gave her the air of knowing
too much, and helped to deprive her of the interesting character of an
unprotected female; but she turned a perfectly deaf ear to his
admonitions, hints, and counsel. He was a safe adviser, nevertheless, in
matters of this sort; but Mary Monson was not accustomed so much to
follow the leadings of others, as to submit to her own impulses.
The sisters of Burton were next examined. They proved all the admitted
facts; testified as to the stocking and its contents; and two of them
recognised the piece of gold which was said to have been found in Mary
Monson’s purse, as that which had once been the property of Dorothy
Goodwin. On this head, the testimony of each was full, direct, and
explicit. Each had often seen the piece of gold, and they had noted a
very small notch or scratch near the edge, which notch or scratch was
visible on the piece now presented in court. The cross-examination
failed to shake this testimony, and well it might, for every word these
young women stated was strictly true. The experiment of placing the
piece of coin among other similar coin, failed with them. They easily
recognized the true piece by the notch. Timms was confounded; Dunscomb
looked very grave; Williams raised his nose higher than ever; and Mary
Monson was perfectly surprised. When the notch was first mentioned, she
arose, advanced far enough to examine the coin, and laid her hand on her
forehead, as if she pondered painfully on the circumstance. The
testimony that this was the identical piece found in her purse was very
ample, the coin having been sealed up and kept by the coroner, who had
brought it into court; while it must now be admitted that a very strong
case was made out to show that this foreign coin had once been among the
hoards of Dorothy Goodwin. A very deep impression was made by this
testimony on all who heard it, including the court, the bar, the jury
and the audience. Every person present, but those who were in the
immediate confidence of the accused, was firmly convinced of Mary
Monson’s guilt. Perhaps the only other exceptions to this mode of
thinking were a few experienced practitioners, who, from long habit,
knew the vast importance of hearing both sides, before they made up
their minds in a matter of so much moment.
We shall not follow Dunscomb through his long and arduous
cross-examination of the sisters of Burton; but confine ourselves to a
few of the more pertinent of the interrogatories that he put to the
eldest, and which were duly repeated when the other two were placed on
the stand.
“Will you name the persons dwelling in the house of the Goodwins at the
time of the fire?” asked Dunscomb.
“There were the two old folks, this Mary Monson, and a German woman
named Yetty (Jette), that aunt Dorothy took in to wait on her boarders.”
“Was Mrs. Goodwin your aunt, then?”
“No; we wasn’t related no how; but, being such near neighbours, and she
so old, we just called her aunt by way of a compliment.”
“I understand that,” said Dunscomb, arching his brows—“I am called
uncle, and by very charming young persons, on the same principle. Did
you know much of this German?”
“I saw her almost every day for the time she was there, and talked with
her as well as I could; but she spoke very little English. Mary Monson
was the only person who could talk with her freely; she spoke her
language.”
“Had you much acquaintance with the prisoner at the bar?”
“I was some acquainted; as a body always is, when they live such near
neighbours.”
“Were your conversations with the prisoner frequent, or at all
confidential?”
“To own the truth, I never spoke to her in my life. Mary Monson was much
too grand for me.”
Dunscomb smiled; he understood how common it was for persons in this
country to say they are “well acquainted” with this or that individual,
when their whole knowledge is derived from the common tongue. An
infinity of mischief is done by this practice; but the ordinary American
who will admit that he lives near any one, without having an
acquaintance with him, if acquaintance is supposed to confer credit, is
an extraordinary exception to a very general rule. The idea of being
“too grand” was of a nature to injure the prisoner and to impair her
rights; and Dunscomb deemed it best to push the witness a little on this
point.
“Why did you think Mary Monson was ‘too grand’ for you?” he demanded.
“Because she _looked_ so.”
“_How_ did she look?—In what way does or did her looks indicate that she
was, or thought herself ‘too grand’ for your association?”
“Is this necessary, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the judge.
“I beg your honour will suffer the gentleman to proceed,” put in
Williams, cocking his nose higher than ever, and looking round the
court-room with an air of intelligence that the great York counsellor
did not like. “It is an interesting subject; and we poor, ignorant,
Duke’s county folks, may get useful ideas, to teach us how to look ‘too
grand!’”
Dunscomb felt that he had made a false step; and he had the self-command
to stop.
“Had you any conversation with the German woman?” he continued, bowing
slightly to the judge to denote submission to _his_ pleasure.
“She couldn’t talk English. Mary Monson talked with her, I didn’t, to
any account.”
“Were you at the fire?”
“I was.”
“Did you see anything of this German during the fire, or afterwards?”
“I didn’t. She disappeared, unaccountable!”
“Did you visit the Goodwins as often after Mary Monson came to live with
them, as you had done previously?”
“I didn’t—grand looks and grand language isn’t agreeable to me.”
“Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?”
“I think, your honour,” objected Williams, who did not like the
question, “that this is travelling out of the record.”
“Let the gentleman proceed—time is precious, and a discussion would lose
us more of it than to let him proceed—go on, Mr. Dunscomb.”
“Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?”
“She never did, to my knowledge.”
“What, then, do you mean by ‘grand language?’”
“Why, when she spoke to aunt Dorothy, she didn’t speak as I was used to
hear folks speak.”
“In what respect was the difference?”
“She was grander in her speech, and more pretending like.”
“Do you mean louder?”
“No—perhaps she wasn’t as loud as common—but ’twas more like a book, and
uncommon.”
Dunscomb understood all this perfectly, as well as the feeling which lay
at its bottom, but he saw that the jury did not; and he was forced to
abandon the inquiry, as often happens on such occasions, on account of
the ignorance of those to whom the testimony was addressed. He soon
after abandoned the cross-examination of the sister of Burton; when his
wife was brought upon the stand by the prosecution.
This woman, coming from a different stock, had none of the family
characteristics of the sisters. As they were garrulous, forward, and
willing enough to testify, she was silent, reserved in manner,
thoughtful, and seemingly so diffident that she trembled all over, as
she laid her hand on the sacred volume. Mrs. Burton passed for a very
good woman among all who dwelt in or near Biberry; and there was much
more confidence felt in her revelations than in those of her
sisters-in-law. Great modesty, not to say timidity of manner, an air of
singular candour, a low, gentle voice, and an anxious expression of
countenance, as if she weighed the import of every syllable she uttered,
soon won for this witness the sympathy of all present, as well as
perfect credence. Every word she uttered had a direct influence on the
case; and this so much the more since she testified reluctantly, and
would gladly have been permitted to say nothing.
The account given by Mrs. Burton, in her examination in chief, did not
materially differ from that previously stated by her sisters-in-law. She
knew more, in some respects, than those who had preceded her, while, in
others, she knew less. She had been more in the confidence of Dorothy
Goodwin than any other member of her family, had seen her oftener, and
knew more of her private affairs. With the stocking and its contents she
admitted that she was familiarly acquainted. The gold exceeded twelve
hundred dollars in amount; she had counted it, in her own hands. There
was paper, also, but she did not know how much, exactly, as Dorothy kept
_that_ very much to herself. She knew, however, that her neighbours
talked of purchasing a farm, the price of which was quite five thousand
dollars, a sum that Dorothy often talked of paying down. She thought the
deceased must have had money to that amount, in some form or other.
On the subject of the piece of gold found in Mary Monson’s purse, Mrs.
Burton gave her testimony with the most amiable discretion. Every one
compared the reserve and reluctance of her manner most favourably with
the pert readiness of Mrs. Pope and the sisters. This witness appeared
to appreciate the effect of all she said, and uttered the facts she knew
with a gentleness of manner that gave great weight to her testimony.
Dunscomb soon saw that this was the witness the defence had most reason
to dread, and he used the greatest care in having every word she said
written out with precision.
Mrs. Burton swore point blank to the piece of notched gold, although she
fairly trembled as she gave her testimony. She knew it was the very
piece that she had often seen in Dorothy Goodwin’s possession; she had
examined it, at least a dozen times, and could have selected it among a
thousand similar coins, by means of its private marks. Besides the
notch, there was a slight defect in the impression of the date. This had
been pointed out to her by Dorothy Goodwin herself, who had said it was
a good mark by which to know the piece, should it be stolen. On this
head, the witness’s testimony was firm, clear, and full. As it was
corroborated by so much other evidence, the result was a deep and very
general impression of the prisoner’s guilt.
It was late when the examination in chief of Mrs. Burton terminated. She
stated that she was much fatigued, and was suffering under a severe
headache; and Williams asked, in her behalf, that the court would
adjourn over, until next day, ere the cross-examination was gone into.
This suited Dunscomb’s views altogether, for he knew he might lose an
essential advantage by allowing the witness a night to arrange her
thoughts, pending so searching a process. There being no resistance on
the part of the prisoner, to the request of the prosecution, the judge
so far waived his regard for the precious time of the court, as to
consent to adjourn at eight o’clock in the evening, instead of pushing
the case to ten or eleven. As a consequence the jurors took their rest
in bed, instead of sleeping in the jury-box.
Dunscomb left the court-house, that night, dejected, and with no great
expectation of the acquittal of his client. Timms had a better feeling,
and thought nothing had yet appeared that might not be successfully
resisted.