“Now Marcia, now call up to thy assistance,
Thy wonted strength and constancy of mind;
Thou can’st not put it to a greater trial.”
_Addison._
Bench, bar, jury, witnesses and audience, were all astounded. The trial
had been carried on in the most perfect good faith; and not a human
being but the few who had felt the force of McBrain’s testimony, doubted
of the death of the individual who now appeared alive, if not well, in
open court. The reader can better imagine than we can describe, the
effects of a resurrection so entirely unexpected.
When the confusion naturally produced by such a scene had a little
subsided; when all had actually seen, and many had actually felt, the
supposed murdered man, as if to assure themselves of his being really in
the flesh, order was restored; and the court and bar began to reflect on
the course next to be pursued.
“I suppose, Mr. District Attorney,” observed his honour, “there is no
mistake in the person of this individual; but it were better if we had
an affidavit or two. Will you walk this way, sir?”
A long, private conference, now took place between the public prosecutor
and the judge. Each expressed his astonishment at the result, as well as
some indignation at the deception which had been practised on the court.
This indignation was a little mollified by the impression, now common to
both, that Mary Monson was a person not exactly in her right mind. There
was so much deception practised among persons accused of crimes,
however, and in connection with this natural infirmity, that public
functionaries like themselves were necessarily very cautious in
admitting the plea. The most offensive part of the whole affair was the
discredit brought on the justice of Duke’s! It was not in nature for
these individuals to be insensible to the sort of disgrace the
reappearance of Peter Goodwin entailed on the county and circuit; and
there was a very natural desire to wipe off the stain. The conference
lasted until the affidavits to establish the facts connected with
Goodwin’s case were ready.
“Had these affidavits been presented earlier,” said his honour, as soon
as the papers were read, “sentence would not have been pronounced. The
case is novel, and I shall want a little time to reflect on the course I
am to take. The sentence must be gotten rid of by some means or other;
and it shall be my care to see it done. I hope, brother Dunscomb, the
counsel for the accused have not been parties to this deception?”
“I am as much taken by surprise as your honour can possibly be,”
returned the party addressed, with earnestness, “not having had the most
remote suspicion of the existence of the man said to have been murdered;
else would all the late proceedings have been spared. As to the course
to be taken next, I would respectfully suggest that the Code be
examined. It is an omnium gatherum; and must contain something to tell
us how to undo all we have done.”
“It were better for all parties had they so been. There are still two
indictments pending over Mary Monson; one for the arson, and the other
for the murder of Dorothy Goodwin. Mr. District Attorney feels the
necessity of trying these cases, or one of them at least, in vindication
of the justice of the State and county; and I am inclined to think that,
under all the circumstances, this course should be taken. I trust we
shall have no more surprises, and that Dorothy Goodwin will be brought
forward at once, if still living—time is precious.”
“Dorothy Goodwin is dead,” said Mary Monson, solemnly. “Poor woman! she
was called away suddenly, and in her sins. Little fear of her ever
coming here to flout your justice.”
“It may be well to caution your client, Mr. Dunscomb, against hasty and
indiscreet admissions. Let the accused be arraigned, and a jury be
empannelled. Which case do you choose to move on, Mr. District
Attorney?”
Dunscomb saw that his honour was offended, and much in earnest. He was
offended himself, and half disposed to throw up his brief; but he felt
for the situation of a lovely and defenceless woman. Then his doubts
touching his client’s sanity began to take the character of certainty;
and he saw how odious it would be to abandon one so afflicted in her
emergency. He hinted his suspicion to the court; but was told that the
fact, under all the circumstances of the case, was one properly for the
jury. After reflection, the advocate determined not to desert his trust.
We pass over the preliminary proceedings. A jury was empannelled with
very little difficulty; not a challenge having been made. It was
composed, in part, of those who had been in the box on the late
occasion; and, in part, of new men. There was an air of earnestness and
business about them all, that Timms did not like; but it was too late to
raise objections. To own the truth, the senior counsel cared much less
than before for the result; feeling satisfied that his contemplated
application at Albany would meet with consideration. It is true, Mary
Monson was no anti-renter. She could not come forward with her demand
for mercy with hands dyed in the blood of an officer of that public
which lives under the deception of fancying it rules the land; murderers
who added to their crimes the hateful and pestilent fraud of attempting
to cloak robbery in the garb of righteous liberty; nor could she come
sustained by numbers around the ballot-box, and bully the executive into
acts which the reason and conscience of every honest man condemn; but
Dunscomb believed that she might come with the plea of a being visited
by the power of her Creator, in constituting her as she was, a woman not
morally accountable for her acts.
All the leading facts, as shown on the former trial, were shown on this.
When the country practitioners were called on to give their opinions
concerning the effect of the blow, they necessarily became subject to
the cross-examination of the counsel for the prisoner, who did not spare
them.
“Were you examined, sir, in the late trial of Mary Monson, for the
murder of Peter Goodwin?” demanded Dunscomb of the first of these modern
Galens who was put on the stand.
“I was, sir.”
“What did you say on that occasion”—looking at his notes of the other
trial, “touching the sex of the persons to whom those skeletons were
thought to have belonged?”
“I said I _believed_—not _knew_, but _believed_, they were the remains
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin.”
“Did you not use stronger language than that?”
“Not that I remember—I may have done so; but I do not remember it.”
“Did you not say you had ‘_no doubt_’ that those were the remains of
Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?”
“I may have said as much as that. Now you mention the words, I believe I
did.”
“Do you think so now?”
“Certainly not. I cannot think so, after what I have seen.”
“Do you know Peter Goodwin, personally?”
“Very well. I have practised many years in this neighbourhood.”
“Whom, then, do you say that this unfortunate man here, whom we see
alive, though a driveller, really is?”
“Peter Goodwin—he who was thought to have been murdered. We are all
liable to mistakes.”
“You have testified in chief that, in your judgment, the two persons, of
whom we have the remains here in court, were stunned at least, if not
absolutely killed, by the blow that you think fractured each of their
skulls. Now, I would ask if you think the prisoner at the bar possesses
the physical force necessary to enable her to strike such a blow?”
“That would depend on the instrument she used. A human skull may be
fractured easily enough, by a moderate blow struck by a heavy
instrument.”
“What sort of instrument, for instance?”
“A sword—a bar of iron—or anything that has weight and force.”
“Do you believe those fractures were given by the same blow?”
“I do. By one and the same blow.”
“Do you think Mary Monson possesses the strength necessary to cause
those two fractures at a single blow?”
Witness had no opinion on the subject.
“Are the fractures material?”
“Certainly—and must have required a heavy blow to produce them.”
This was all that could be got from either of the witnesses on that
material point. As respected McBrain, he was subsequently examined in
reference to the same facts. Dunscomb made good use of this witness, who
now commanded the respect of all present. In the first place, he was
adroitly offered to the jury, as the professional man who had, from the
first, given it as his opinion that both the skeletons were those of
females; and this in the face of all the collected wisdom of Duke’s
county; an opinion that was now rendered so probable as almost to amount
to certainty. He (Dunscomb) believed most firmly that the remains were
those of Dorothy Goodwin and the German woman who was missing.
“Have you examined those skeletons, Dr. McBrain?” Dunscomb asked.
“I have, sir; and carefully, since the late trial.”
“How do you think the persons to whom they belonged came to their
deaths?”
“I find fractures in the skulls of both. If they lie now as they did
when the remains were found, (a fact that had been proved by several
witnesses,) I am of opinion that a single blow inflicted the injuries on
both; it may be, that blow was not sufficient to produce death; but it
must have produced a stupor, or insensibility, which would prevent the
parties from seeking refuge against the effects of the flames——”
“Is the learned witness brought here to sum up the cause?” demanded
Williams, with one of those demoniacal sneers of his, by means of which
he sometimes carried off a verdict. “I wish to know, that I may take
notes of the course of his argument.”
McBrain drew back, shocked and offended. He was naturally diffident, as
his friend used to admit, in everything but wives; and as regarded them
“he had the impudence of the devil. Ned would never give up the trade
until he had married a dozen, if the law would see him out in it. He
ought to have been a follower of the great Mahomet, who made it a point
to take a new wife at almost every new moon!” The judge did not like
this sneer of Williams; and this so much the less, because, in common
with all around him, he had imbibed a profound respect for the knowledge
of the witness. It is true, he was very much afraid of the man, and
dreaded his influence at the polls; but he really had too much
conscience to submit to everything. A judge may yet have a conscience—if
the Code will let him.
“This is very irregular, Mr. Williams, not to say improper,” his honour
mildly remarked. “The witness has said no more than he has a right to
say; and the court must see him protected. Proceed with your testimony,
sir.”
“I have little more to say, if it please the court,” resumed McBrain,
too much dashed to regain his self-possession in a moment. As this was
all Williams wanted, he permitted him to proceed in his own way; and all
the doctor had to say was soon told to the jury. The counsel for the
prosecution manifested great tact in not cross-examining the witness at
all. In a subsequent stage of the trial, Williams had the impudence to
insinuate to the jury that they did not attach sufficient importance to
his testimony, to subject him to this very customary ordeal.
But the turning point of this trial, as it had been that of the case
which preceded it, was the evidence connected with the piece of money.
As the existence of the notch was now generally known, it was easy
enough to recognise the coin that had been found in Mary Monson’s purse;
thus depriving the accused of one of her simplest and best means of
demonstrating the ignorance of the witnesses. The notch, however, was
Mrs. Burton’s great mark, under favour of which her very material
testimony was now given as it had been before.
Dunscomb was on the point of commencing the cross-examination, when the
clear melodious voice of Mary Monson herself was heard for the first
time since the commencement of the trial.
“Is it permitted to _me_ to question this witness?” demanded the
prisoner.
“Certainly,” answered the judge. “It is the right of every one who is
arraigned by the country. Ask _any_ question that you please.”
This was a somewhat liberal decision as to the right of cross-examining;
and the accused put on it a construction almost as broad as the
privilege. As for the witness, it was very apparent she had little taste
for the scrutiny that she probably foresaw she was about to undergo; and
her countenance, attitude, and answers, each and all betrayed how much
distaste she had for the whole procedure. As permission was obtained,
however, the prisoner did not hesitate to proceed.
“Mrs. Burton,” said Mary Monson, adopting, as well as she knew how, the
manner of the gentlemen of the bar, “I wish you to tell the court and
jury _when_ you first saw the notched piece of money?”
“When I first saw it? I saw it first, when aunt Dolly first showed it to
me,” answered the witness.
Most persons would have been dissatisfied with this answer, and would
probably have caused the question to be repeated in some other form; but
Mary Monson seemed content, and went on putting her questions, just as
if she had obtained answers to meet her views.
“Did you examine it well?”
“As well as I desired to. There was nothing to prevent it.”
“Did you know it immediately, on seeing it in my purse?”
“Certainly—as soon as I saw the notch.”
“Did Mrs. Goodwin point out the notch to you, or did you point out the
notch to her?”
“She pointed it out to me; she feared that the notch might lessen the
value of the coin.”
“All this I have heard before; but I now ask you, Mrs. Burton, in the
name of that Being whose eye is everywhere, did you not yourself put
that piece of money in my purse, when it was passing from hand to hand,
and take out of it the piece without a notch? Answer me, as you have a
regard for your soul?”
Such a question was altogether out of the rules regulating the queries
that may be put to witnesses, an answer in the affirmative going
directly to criminate the respondent; but the earnest manner, solemn
tones, and, we may add, illuminated countenance of Mary Monson, so far
imposed on the woman, that she quite lost sight of her rights, if she
ever knew them. What is much more remarkable, neither of the counsel for
the prosecution interposed an objection. The District Attorney was
willing that justice should have its way; and Williams began to think it
might be prudent to manifest less anxiety for a conviction than he had
done in the case in which the party murdered had been resuscitated. The
judge was entranced by the prisoner’s manner.
“I believe I have as much regard for my soul as any of the neighbours
have for theirs,” answered Mrs. Burton, sullenly.
“Let us learn that in your reply—Did you, or did you not, change those
pieces of gold?”
“Perhaps I might—It’s hard to say, when so much was said and done.”
“How came you with the other piece, with which to make the exchange?
Answer, Sarah Burton, as you fear God?”
The witness trembled like an aspen-leaf. So remarkable was the scene,
that no one thought of interfering; but the judge, the bar, and the
jury, seemed equally willing to leave the two females to themselves, as
the most efficient means of extorting the truth. Mary Monson’s colour
heightened; her mien and countenance grew, as it were, with the
occasion; while Sarah Burton’s became paler and paler, as each question
was put, and the reply pressed.
“I can have money, I hope, as well as other folks,” answered the
witness.
“That is no reply. How came you with the piece of gold that is notched,
that you could exchange it for the piece which was not notched, and
which was the one really found in my purse? Answer me that, Sarah
Burton; here, where we both stand in the presence of our great Creator?”
“There’s no need of your pressing a body so awfully—I don’t believe it’s
law.”
“I repeat the question—or I will answer it for you. When you fired the
house——”
The woman screamed, and raised her hands in natural horror
“I never set the house on fire,” she cried—“It took from the stove-pipe
in the garret, where it had taken twice before.”
“How can you know _that_, unless you saw it?—How see it, unless
present?”
“I was _not_ there, and did not see it; but I know the garret had caught
twice before from that cook-stove-pipe. Aunt Dolly was very wrong to
neglect it as she did.”
“And the blows on the head—who struck those blows, Sarah Burton?”
“How can I tell? I wasn’t there—no one but a fool could believe _you_
have strength to do it.”
“How, then, _was_ it done? Speak—I see it in your mind?”
“I saw the ploughshare lying on the heads of the skeletons; and I saw
Moses Steen throw it off, in the confusion of first raking the embers.
Moses will be likely to remember it, if sent for, and questioned.”
Here was a most important fact elicited under the impulse of
self-justification; and a corresponding expression of surprise, passed
in a murmur, through the audience. The eye of Mary Monson kindled with
triumph; and she continued with renewed powers of command over the will
and conscience of the witness.
“This is well, Sarah Burton—it is right, and what you ought to say. You
think that the fire was accidental, and that the fractured skulls came
from the fall of the plough?”
“I do. I know that the plough stood in the garret, directly over the
bed, and the stove-pipe passed quite near it. There was an elbow in that
pipe, and the danger was at that elbow.”
“This is well; and the eye above looks on you with less displeasure,
Sarah Burton”—as this was said, the witness turned her looks timidly
upwards, as if to assure herself of the fact—“Speak holy truth, and it
will soon become benignant and forgiving. Now tell me how you came by
the stocking and its contents?”
“The stocking!” said the witness, starting, and turning white as a
sheet. “Who says I took the stocking?”
“I do. I know it by that secret intelligence which has been given me to
discover truth. Speak, then, Sarah, and tell the court and jury the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“Nobody saw me take it; and nobody can say I took it.”
“Therein you are mistaken. You _were_ seen to take it. I saw it, for
one; but there was another who saw it, with its motive, whose eye is
ever on us. Speak, then, Sarah, and keep nothing back.”
“I meant no harm, if I did take it. There was so many folks about, I was
afraid that some stranger might lay hands on it. That’s all.”
“You were seen to unlock the drawers, as you stood alone near the
bureau, in the confusion and excitement of the finding of the skeletons.
You did it stealthily, Sarah Burton.”
“I was afraid some one might snatch the stocking from me. I always meant
to give it up, as soon as the law said to whom it belongs. Davis wants
it, but I’m not sure it is his.”
“What key did you use? Keep nothing back.”
“One of my own. My keys unlocked many of aunt Dolly’s drawers. She knew
it, and never found any fault with it. Why should she? Her keys unlocked
_mine_!”
“Another word—where is that stocking, and where are its contents?”
“Both are safe in the third drawer of my own bureau, and here is the
key,” taking one from her bosom. “I put them there for security, as no
one opens that drawer but myself.”
Timms took the key from the unresisting hand of the woman, and followed
by Williams, Davis, and one or two more, he left the court-house. At
that instant, Sarah Burton fainted. In the confusion of removing her
into another room, Mary Monson resumed her seat.
“Mr. District Attorney, it can hardly be your intention to press this
indictment any further?” observed the judge, wiping his eyes, and much
delighted with the unexpected termination of the affair.
The functionary addressed was glad enough to be rid of his unwelcome
office, and at once signified his willingness to enter a _nolle
prosequi_, by an application to the bench, in the case of the arson, and
to submit to an acquittal in that now being traversed. After a brief
charge from the judge, the jury gave a verdict of acquittal, without
leaving the box; and just as this was done, Timms and his companions
returned, bringing with them the much-talked-of stocking.
It required months completely to elucidate the whole affair; but so much
is already known, and this part of our subject being virtually disposed
of, we may as well make a short summary of the facts, as they were
already in proof, or as they have since come to light.
The fire was accidental, as has been recently ascertained by
circumstances it is unnecessary to relate. Goodwin had left his wife,
the night before the accident, and she had taken the German woman to
sleep with her. As the garret-floor above this pair was consumed, the
plough fell, its share inflicting the blow which stunned them, if it did
not inflict even a greater injury. That part of the house was first
consumed, and the skeletons were found, as has been related, side by
side. In the confusion of the scene, Sarah Burton had little difficulty
in opening the drawer, and removing the stocking. She fancied herself
unseen; but Mary Monson observed the movement, though she had then no
idea what was abstracted. The unfortunate delinquent maintains that her
intention, at the time, was good; or, that her sole object was to secure
the gold; but, is obliged to confess that the possession of the treasure
gradually excited her cupidity, until she began to hope that this hoard
might eventually become her own. The guilty soonest suspect guilt. As to
“the pure, all things are pure,” so it is with the innocent, who are the
least inclined to suspect others of wicked actions. Thus was it with
Mrs. Burton. In the commission of a great wrong herself, she had little
difficulty in supposing that Mary Monson was the sort of person that
rumour made her out to be. She saw no great harm, then, in giving a
shove to the descending culprit. When looking into the stocking, she had
seen, and put in her own pocket, the notched piece, as a curiosity,
there being nothing more unusual in the guilty thus incurring
unnecessary risks, than there is in the moth’s temerity in fluttering
around the candle. When the purse of Mary Monson was examined, as
usually happens on such occasions, we had almost said as _always_
happens, in the management of cases that are subsequently to form a part
of the justice of the land, much less attention was paid to the care of
that purse than ought to have been bestowed on it. Profiting by the
neglect, Sarah Burton exchanged the notched coin for the perfect piece,
unobserved, as she again fancied; but once more the watchful eye of Mary
Monson was on her. The first time the woman was observed by the last, it
was accidentally; but suspicion once aroused, it was natural enough to
keep a look-out on the suspected party. The act was seen, and at the
moment that the accused thought happy, the circumstance was brought to
bear on the trial. Sarah Burton maintains that, at first, her sole
intention was to exchange the imperfect for the perfect coin; and that
she was induced to swear to the piece subsequently produced, as that
found on Mary Monson’s person, as a literal fact, ignorant of what might
be its consequences. Though the devil doubtless leads us on, step by
step, deeper and deeper, into crime and sin, it is probable that, in
this particular, the guilty woman applied a flattering unction to her
conscience, that the truth would have destroyed.
Great was the wonder, and numberless were the paragraphs that this
unexpected issue of the “great Biberry murders” produced. As respects
the last, anything that will fill a column is a god-send, and the
falsehood has even a value that is not to be found in the truth, as its
contradiction will help along quite as much as the original statements.
If the public could only be brought to see what a different thing
publicity becomes in the hands of those who turn it to _profit_, from
what it is thought to be, by those who fancy it is merely a mode of
circulating facts, a great step towards a much-needed reformation would
be taken, by confining the last within their natural limits.
Mary Monson’s name passed from one end of the Union to the other, and
thousands heard and read of this extraordinary woman, who never had the
smallest clue to her real character or subsequent history. How few
reflected on the defects of the system that condemned her to the gallows
on insufficient testimony; or, under another phase of prejudice, might
have acquitted her when guilty! The random decisions of the juries,
usually well-meaning, but so rarely discriminating, or as intelligent as
they ought to be, attract very little attention beyond the bar; and even
the members of that often strike a balance in error, with which they
learn to be content; gaining in one cause as much as they lose in
another.
There was a strong disposition in the people assembled at Biberry, on
the occasion of the trial, to make a public spectacle of Mary Monson.
The right to do this, with all things in heaven and earth, seems to
belong to “republican simplicity,” which is beginning to rule the land
with a rod of iron. Unfortunately for this feeling, the subject of
momentary sympathy was not a person likely to allow such a license. She
did not believe, because she had endured one set of atrocious wrongs,
that she was bound to submit to as many more as gaping vulgarity might
see fit to inflict. She sought the protection of good Mrs. Gott and her
gaol, some forms being necessary before the sentence of death could be
legally gotten rid of. In vain were the windows again crowded, with the
virtuous wish of seeing how Mary Monson _looked_, now she was acquitted,
just as they had been previously thronged in order to ascertain how she
looked when there was a chance of her being condemned to the gallows.
The most extraordinary part of the affair, was the circumstance that the
harp became popular; the very sentiment, act, or thing that, in one
condition of the common mind, is about to be ‘cut down and cast into the
fire,’ becoming in another, all that is noble, commendable, or
desirable. The crowd about the windows of the gaol, for the first few
hours after the acquittal, was dying to hear the prisoner sing and play,
and would gladly have tolerated the harp and a ‘foreign tongue’ to be
thus gratified.
But Mary Monson was safe from all intrusion, under the locks of the
delighted Mrs. Gott. This kind-hearted person kissed her prisoner, over
and over again, when she admitted her within the gallery, and then she
went outside, and assured several of the more respectable persons in the
crowd how thoroughly she had been persuaded, from the first, of the
innocence of her friend. The circumstances of this important trial
rendered Mrs. Gott a very distinguished person herself, in that crowd,
and never was a woman happier than she while delivering her sentiments
on the recent events.
“It’s altogether the most foolish trial we have ever had in Duke’s,
though they tell me foolish trials are getting to be only too common,”
said the kind-hearted wife of the sheriff, addressing half-a-dozen of
the more respectable of the crowd. “It gave me a big fright, I will own.
When Gott was elected sheriff, I did hope he would escape all executions
but debt executions. The more he has of _them_, the better. It’s bad
enough to escort thieves to Sing-Sing; but the gallows is a poor trade
for a decent man to meddle with. Then, to have the very first sentence,
one against Mary Monson, who is as much above such a punishment as
virtue is above vice. When I heard those dreadful words, I felt as if a
cord was round my own neck. But I had faith to the last; Mary has always
told me that she should be acquitted, and here it has all come true, at
last.”
“Do you know, Mrs. Gott,” said one of her friends, “it is reported that
this woman—or lady, I suppose one must _now_ call her—has been in the
habit of quitting the gaol whenever she saw fit.”
“Hu-s-h, neighbor Brookes; there is no need of alarming the county! I
believe you are right; though it was all done without my knowledge, or
it never would have been permitted. It only shows the power of money.
The locks are as good as any in the State; yet Mary certainly did find
means, unbeknown to me, to open them. It can’t be called breaking gaol,
since she always came back! I had a good fright the first time I heard
of it, but use reconciles us to all things. I never let Gott into the
secret, though he’s responsible, as he calls it, for all his prisoners.”
“Well, when a matter turns out happily, it does no good to be harping on
it always.”
Mrs. Gott assented, and in this case, as in a hundred others, the end
was made to justify the means. But Mary Monson was felt to be an
exception to all rules, and there was no longer any disposition to cavil
at any of her proceedings. Her innocence had been established so very
triumphantly, that every person regarded her vagaries and strange
conduct with indulgence.
At that very moment, when Mrs. Gott was haranguing her neighbours at the
door of the gaol, Dunscomb was closeted with Michael Millington at the
Inn; the young man having returned at hot-speed only as the court
adjourned. He had been successful, notwithstanding his original
disappointment, and had ascertained all about the hitherto mysterious
prisoner of the Biberry gaol. Mary Monson was, as Dunscomb suspected,
Mildred Millington by birth—Mad. de Larocheforte by marriage—and she was
the grand-daughter of the very woman to whom he had been betrothed in
youth. Her insanity was not distinctly recognised, perhaps could not
have been legally established, though it was strongly suspected by many
who knew her intimately, and was a source of great uneasiness with all
who felt an interest in her welfare. Her marriage was unhappy, and it
was supposed she had taken up her abode in the cottage of the Goodwins
to avoid her husband. The command of money gave her a power to do very
much as she pleased, and, though the breath of calumny had never yet
blown its withering blast on her name, she erred in many things that are
duties as grave as that of being chaste. The laws came in aid of her
whims and caprices. There is no mode by which an errant wife can be made
to perform her duties in boldly experimenting New York, though she can
claim a support and protection from her husband. The ‘cup and saucer’
law comes in aid of this power, and the men who cannot keep their wives
in the chains of Hymen in virtue of the affections, may just as well
submit, with a grace, to be the victims of an ill-judging and most
treacherous regard for the rights of what are called the weaker sex.