“Some curate has penn’d this invective,
And you have studied it.”
MASSINGER.
The day set apart for the nuptials of John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke
finally arrived. The ceremony was to take place in a little church that
had stood, time out of mind, in the immediate neighbourhood of Timbully.
This church was colonial in its origin, and, while so much around it has
undergone vital changes, there stands that little temple, reared in
honour of God, in its simplicity, unpretending yet solid and durable
architecture, resembling, in all these particulars, the faith it was
erected to sustain. Among the other ways of the hour that are worthy of
our notice, the church itself has sustained many rude shocks of
late—shocks from within as well as from without. The Father of Lies has
been roving through its flocks with renewed malice, damaging the
shepherds, perhaps, quite as much as the sheep, and doing things
hitherto unheard of in the brief annals of American Ecclesiastical
History. Although we deeply regret this state of things, we feel no
alarm. The hand which first reared this moral fabric will be certain to
protect it as far as that protection shall be for its good. It has
already effected a great reform. The trumpet is no longer blown in Zion
in our own honour; to boast of the effects of a particular discipline;
to announce the consequences of order, and of the orders; or, in short,
to proclaim a superiority that belongs only to the Head of all the
churches, let them be farther from, or nearer to, what are considered
distinctive principles. What the church is now enduring the country
itself most sadly wants,—a lesson in humility; a distrust of self, a
greater dependence on that wisdom which comes, not from the voices of
the people, not from the ballot-boxes, not from the halls of senates,
from heroes, godlikes, or stereotyped opinions, but from above, the
throne of the Most High.
In one of those little temples reared by our fathers in the days of the
monarchy, when, in truth, greater republican simplicity really reigned
among us, in a thousand things, than reigns to-day, the bridal party
from Timbully was assembled at an early hour of the morning. The company
was not large, though it necessarily included most of the nearest
relatives of the bride and groom. Dunscomb was there, as were Millington
and his wife; Dr. and Mrs. McBrain, of course, and two or three other
relations on the side of the bride’s father, besides Mildred. It was to
be a private wedding, a thing that is fast getting to be forgotten.
Extravagance and parade have taken such deep root among us that young
people scarce consider themselves legally united unless there are six
bride’s maids, one, in particular, to “pull off the glove;” as many
attendants of the other sex, and some three or four hundred friends in
the evening, to bow and curtsy before the young couple, utter a few
words of nonsense, and go their way to bow and curtsy somewhere else.
There was nothing of this at Timbully, on that wedding-day. Dunscomb and
his nephew drove over from Rattletrap, early in the morning, even while
the dew was glittering on the meadows, and Millington and his wife met
them at a cross-road, less than a mile from McBrain’s country-house. The
place of rendezvous was at the church itself, and thither the several
vehicles directed their way. Dunscomb was just in time to hand Mildred
from her very complete travelling-carriage, of which the horses were in
a foam, having been driven hard all the way from town. Last of all,
appeared Stephen Hoof, driving the very respectable looking Rockaway of
Mrs. McBrain—we were on the point of writing his “master,” but there are
no longer any ‘masters’ in New York. Stephen, himself, who had not a
spark of pride, except in his horses, and who was really much attached
to the person he served, always spoke of the doctor as his “boss.” Jack
Wilmeter, somewhat of a wag, had perplexed the honest coachman, on a
certain occasion, by telling him that “boss” was the Latin for “ox,” and
that it was beneath his dignity to be using Pill and Pole-us (Bolus) to
drag about “oxen.” But Stephen recovered from this shock in due time,
and has gone on ever since, calling his master “boss.” We suppose this
touch of “republican simplicity” will maintain its ground along with the
other sacred principles that certain persons hold on to so tightly that
they suffer others, of real importance, to slip through their fingers.
Stephen was proud of his office that day. He liked his new
mistress—there are no bossesses—and he particularly liked Miss Anna. His
horses were used a good deal more than formerly, it is true; but this he
rather liked too, having lived under the _régimes_ of the two first Mrs.
McBrain. He was doubly satisfied because his team came in fresh, without
having a hair turned, while that of _Madam_, as all the domestics now
called Mildred, were white with foam. Stephen took no account of the
difference in the distance, as he conceived that a careful coachman
would have had his “boss” up early enough to get over the ground in due
season, without all this haste. Little did he understand the bossess
that his brother-whip had to humour. She paid high, and had things her
own way.
Anna thought Stephen had never driven so fast as he did that morning.
The doctor handed her from the carriage, leading her and his wife
directly up to the altar. Here the party was met by John and his uncle,
the latter of whom facetiously styled himself the “groomsman.” It is a
ceremony much more easily done than undone—great as the facilities for
the last are getting to be. In about five minutes, John Wilmeter and
Anna Updyke were pronounced to be “one flesh.” In five minutes more,
Jack had his sweet, smiling, happy, tearful bride, in his own light
vehicle, and was trotting away towards a pretty little place in
Westchester, that he owns, and which was all ready to receive the young
couple. The ponies seemed to understand their duty, and soon carried the
bride and bridegroom out of sight.
“Them’s awful trotters, them nags of Mr. Jack Wilmington’s,” said
Stephen, as the double phaeton whirled away from the church door, “and
if Miss Anny doesn’t disapprove on ’em, afore long, I’m no judge of a
team. I’m glad, however, the young gentleman has married into our
family, for he does like a hoss, and the gentleman that likes a hoss
commonly likes his vife.”
His remark was overheard by Dunscomb, though intended only for the ears
of the counsellor’s coachman. It drew an answer, as might have been
foreseen.
“I am glad you approve of the connexion, Stephen,” said the counsellor
in his good-natured way. “It is a great satisfaction to know that my
nephew goes among friends.”
“Fri’nds, Sir! Admirers is a better tarm. I’m a downright admirer of Mr.
Jack, he’s sich tastes; always with his dog, or his gun, or his hoss, in
the country; and I dares to say, with his books in town.”
“Not just all that, Stephen; I wish it were so; but truth compels me to
own that the young rogue thinks quite as much of balls, and suppers, and
tailors, and the opera, as he does of Coke upon Lyttleton, or Blackstone
and Kent.”
“Vell, that’s wrong,” answered Stephen, “and I’ll uphold no man in vot’s
wrong, so long as I can do better. I know’d both them racers, having
heard tell on ’em at the time they vos run, and I’ve beard good judges
say, that timed the hosses, that Kent come in neck and neck, if justice
had been done. Mr. Jack will rectify, and come to see the truth afore
long—mattermony will do that much for him. It’s a great help to the
seekers arter truth, is mattermony, sir!”
“That is the reason you have so much of it at Timbully, I suppose,”
returned Dunscomb, nodding familiarly towards his friend the Doctor, who
had heard all that was said. “If matrimony rectifies in this way, you
must be three times right at home, Stephen.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the coachman, nodding his head in reply; “and when
a body does better and better, as often as he tries, there’s no great
harm in trying. Mr. Jack vill come round, in time.”
“I dare say he will, Stephen, when he has sown all his wild oats; though
the dog pretends to like the Code, and what is more, has the impudence
to say he understands it.”
“Yes, sir, all wrong, I dares to say. But Miss Anna will set him right,
as a righter young lady never sat on the back seat of a coach. I wish,
now we’re on the subject, ’Squire Dunscomb, to hear your ra’al opinion
about them vild oats; vether they be a true thing, or merely a fancy
consarning some vegetable that looks like the true feed. I’ve often
heard of sich things, but never seed any.”
“Nor will you, Stephen, until the doctor turns short round, and renews
his youth. Then, indeed, you may see some of the grain growing beneath
your feet. It is doctor’s food.
“Meshy, and good for the grinders of old hosses, I dares to say.
“Something of the sort. It’s the harvest that age reaps from the
broad-cast of youth. But we are keeping Mrs. McBrain waiting. Stephen
will take one less back with him, than he brought, my dear lady.”
“I trust not. Mr. McBrain has given me reason to hope for the pleasure
of your company. Your nephew has carried off my daughter; the least you
can do is to come and console me.”
“What is then to become of that dear, but unfortunate young lady?”
glancing towards Mildred.
“She goes with her relatives, the Millingtons. Next week, we are all to
meet at Rattletrap, you know.”
The next week the meeting took place, as appointed.
“Here I am,” cried Dunscomb, “truly and finally a bachelor, again. Now
for the reign of misrule, negligence, and bad housekeeping. Sarah has
left me; and John has left me; and Rattletrap will soon become the
chosen seat of discomfort and cynicism.”
“Never the last, I should think,” answered Madame de Larocheforte,
gaily, “as long as you are its master. But why should you dwell alone
here, in your declining years—why may I not come and be your
housekeeper.”
“The offer is tempting, coming, as it does, from one who cannot keep
house for herself. But you think of returning to Europe, I believe?”
“Never—or not so long as my own country is so indulgent to us women!”
“Why, yes—you are right enough in that, Mildred. This is woman’s
paradise, in a certain sense, truly; though much less attention is paid
to their weakness and wants, by the affluent, than in other lands. In
every Christian country but this, I believe, a wife may be compelled to
do her duty. Here she is free as the air she breathes, so long as she
has a care not to offend in one essential. No, you are right to remain
at home, in your circumstances; that is to say, if you still insist on
your mistaken independence; a condition in which nature never intended
your sex to exist.”
“And yourself, sir! Did not nature as much intend that you should marry,
as another?”
“It did,” answered Dunscomb, solemnly; “and I would have discharged the
obligation, had it been in my power. You well know why I have never been
a husband—the happy parent of a happy family.”
Mildred’s eyes swam with tears. She had heard the history of her
grandmother’s caprice, and had justly appreciated the wrongs of
Dunscomb. This it was not difficult for her to do, in the case of third
parties, even while so obtuse on the subject of her own duties. She took
the hand of her companion, by a stealthy and unexpected movement, and
raised it still more unexpectedly to her lips. Dunscomb started; turned
his quick glance on her face, where he read all her contrition and
regrets. It was by these sudden exhibitions of right feeling, and
correct judgment, that Madame de Larocheforte was able to maintain her
position. The proofs of insanity were so limited in the range of its
influence, occurred so rarely, now she was surrounded by those who
really took an interest in her, and this not for the sake of her money,
but for her own sake, that her feelings had become softened, and she no
longer regarded men and women as beings placed near her, to prey on her
means and to persecute her. By thus giving her affections scope, her
mind was gradually getting to be easier, and her physical existence
improved. McBrain was of opinion that, with care, and with due attention
to avoid excitement and distasteful subjects, her reason might again be
seated on its throne, and bring all the faculties of her mind in
subjection to it.
At length the time for the visit of the young people arrived. Anxious to
see happy faces assembled around him, Dunscomb had got Mildred, the
McBrains, and the Millingtons, at Rattletrap, to do honour to the bride
and groom. Good Mrs. Gott had not been overlooked, and by an accident,
Timms drove in at the gate, just as the whole party, including Jack and
his blooming wife, were sitting down to a late breakfast. The counsellor
welcomed his man of all work, for habit renders us less fastidious in
our associations than most of us imagine.
Timms was very complimentary to both of the young couples, and in a
slight degree witty, agreeably to his own mode of regarding the
offspring of that effort of the imagination.
“What do you think of Williams’s getting married, ’Squire Dunscomb?” the
attorney asked. “There’s a man for matrimony! He regards women and
niggers as inferior beings.”
“Pray how do _you_ regard them, Timms? The women only, I suppose?”
“Oh! dear, no, ’Squire; as far as possible from that! I reverence the
ladies, without whom our state in this life would be—”
“Single—I suppose you wish to say. Yes, that is a very sensible remark
of yours—without women we should certainly all get to be old bachelors,
in time. But, Timms, it is proper that I should be frank with you.
Mildred de Larocheforte may manage to get a divorce, by means of some of
the quirks of the law; but were she to be proclaimed single, by sound of
trumpet, she would never marry _you_.”
“You are sharp on me this morning, sir; no one but the lady, herself,
can say _that_.”
“There you are mistaken. I _know_ it, and am ready to give my reasons
for what I say.”
“I should be pleased to hear them, sir—always respect your reasoning
powers, though I think no man can say who a lady will or will not
marry.”
“In the first place, she does not like you. That is one sufficient
reason, Timms—”
“Her dislike may be overcome, sir.”
“Her tastes are very refined. She dislikes her present husband
principally because he takes snuff.”
“I should have thought she might have discovered her feelings on that
subject, before she went so far.”
“Not as they manage matters in Europe. There, the suitor is not
permitted to kiss his intended, as so often happens among ourselves, I
fancy; and she had no opportunity of ascertaining how unpleasant snuff
is. You chew and smoke, and she will endure neither.”
“I’ll forswear both, rather than not be agreeable to dear Mary Monson.”
“Ah! my poor Timms, I see you are deeper in this affair than I had
supposed. But I shall turn you over to Mrs. Gott, who has promised to
have an explanation with you, and who, I believe, will speak by
authority.”
Timms was not a little surprised to see his old master very
unceremoniously leave him, and the sheriff’s wife occupy his place.
“’Squire Timms,” the latter commenced, without a moment’s hesitation,
“we live in a very strange world, it must be admitted. Gott says as much
as this, and Gott is commonly right. He always maintained he never
should be called on to hang Mary Monson.”
“Mr. Gott is a very prudent man, but he would do well to take more care
of his keys.”
“I have not been able to find out how that was done! Mary laughs when I
ask her, and says it was witchcraft; I sometimes think it _must_ have
been something of the sort.”
“It was money, Mrs. Gott, which kept Goodwin concealed to the last
moment, and brought about half of all that happened.”
“You knew that Peter Goodwin was alive, and hid up at Mrs. Horton’s?”
“I was as much surprised, when he entered the court, as any one there.
My client managed it all for herself. She, and her gold.”
“Well, you have the credit of it, Timms, let me tell you, and many in
the county think it was very well done. I am your friend, and ever have
been. You stood by Gott like a man, at his election, and I honour you
for it. So I am about to give you a great proof of my friendship. Give
up all thoughts of Mary Monson; she’ll never have you.”
“What reasons have you for saying this?”
“In the first place, she is married already.”
“She may get a divorce. Besides, her present husband is not a citizen.
If I go to the senate, I intend to introduce a bill to prevent any but
citizens getting married. If foreigners want wives, let them be
naturalized!”
“You talk like a simpleton! Another reason why you should not think of
Mary Monson is that you are unsuited to be her husband?”
“In what particular, I beg leave to ask?”
“Oh! in several. You are both too sharp, and would quarrel about your
wit, in the very first month,” returned Mrs. Gott, laughing. “Take my
advice, Timms, and cast your eyes on some Duke’s county young woman, who
has a natur’ more like your own.”
Timms growled out a dissent to this very rational proposition, but the
discussion was carried on for some time longer. The woman made an
impression at last, and when the attorney left the house, it was with
greatly lessened hopes for the future, and with greatly lessened zeal on
the subject of the divorce.
It was singular, perhaps, that Mrs. Gott had not detected the great
secret of Mary Monson’s insanity. So many persons are going up and down
the country, who are mad on particular subjects, and sane on most
others, that it is not surprising the intelligence and blandishments of
a woman like Mildred should throw dust into the eyes of one as
simple-minded as Mrs. Gott. With the world at large, indeed, the
_equivoque_ was kept up, and while many thought the lady very queer,
only a few suspected the truth. It may be fortunate for most of us that
writs of lunacy are not taken out against us: few men, or women, being
under the control of a good, healthful reason at all times, and on all
subjects.
In one particular, Mad. de Larochefort was singularly situated. She was
surrounded, in her ordinary associations, with newly married persons,
who were each and all strenuously resolved to regard the relation in the
most favourable point of view! Perhaps there is nothing on earth that so
nearly resembles the pure happiness of the blessed, as the felicity that
succeeds the entire union of two hearts that are wrapped up in each
other. Such persons live principally for themselves, regarding the world
at large as little more than their abiding place. The affinity of
feeling, the community of thought, the steadily increasing confidence
which, in the end, almost incorporates the moral existence of two into
one, are so many new and precious ties, that it is not wonderful the
novices believe they are transplanted to a new and ethereal state of
being. Such was, in a measure, the condition of those with whom Mildred
was now called on to associate most intimately. It is true, that the
state of the doctor and his wife might be characterized as only happy,
while those of the young people amounted to absolute felicity. Mildred
had experienced none of the last, and very little of the first, on the
occasion of her own marriage, which had been entered into more as a
contract of reason, than a union of love. She saw how much she had
missed, and profound was the grief it occasioned her.
“You seem very happy,” she remarked one day to Anna, as they were again
threading the pretty little wood at Rattletrap—“more than that—delighted
would be a better word.”
“Jack is very kind to me, and the only complaint I have to make of him
is, that he is more fond of me than I deserve. I tell him I tremble lest
our happiness may not last!”
“Enjoy it while you may. It is so rare to find married persons who are
so completely devoted to each other, that it is a pleasant sight to look
upon. I never knew any of this, Anna.”
“I regret to hear it, dear mamma—it must be that you began wrong. There
should be a strong attachment before the nuptial benediction is
pronounced; then, with good hearts, and good principles, I should think
almost any woman might be content with her fate.”
“It may be so,” returned Mildred, with a profound sigh; “I suppose it
_must_ be so. We are created by God, to fulfil these kind offices to
each other, and to love our husbands; and there must be something very
wrong when different results follow. For myself, I ought never to have
married at all. My spirit is too independent for matrimony.”
Anna was silent; for, possibly, she might have read “headstrong” for
“independent.” The most truly independent thinkers are those who are
willing to regard all sides of a subject, and are not particularly
wedded to one. Mildred was acute enough to see that the beautiful young
bride did not exactly like the allusion she had made to her new
character.
“You do not agree with me?” she demanded quickly, bending forward to
look into her companion’s eyes.
“How can I, mamma Mildred! As I think no one, man or woman, should have
a spirit that disqualifies her for the duties imposed by nature, which
is merely the law of our great Creator, how can I agree to your notion
of so much independence. We are not intended for all this independence,
but have been placed here to do honour to God, and to try to render each
other happy. I wish—but I am too bold, for one so young and
inexperienced.”
“Speak freely, dear. I listen with pleasure—not to say with curiosity.”
“I am afraid, dear mamma, that the great guide of human conduct is not
as much studied in France, as it should be. That teaches us the great
lesson of humility. Without humility we are nothing—cannot be
Christians—cannot love our neighbours as ourselves—cannot even love God,
as it is our duty, as we ought to do.”
“This is very strange, Anna, coming from one of your age! Is it common
for American girls to reason and feel in this way?”
“Perhaps not, though I hope more so than is commonly supposed. You will
remember what a mother it is my good fortune to possess. But, since you
really wish me to be frank with you, let me finish what I have to say. I
suppose you know, Mildred, how much more you have to contend with than
most of your sex?”
“Mons. de Larocheforte, you mean?”
“Not at all,” returned Mrs. John Wilmeter, slightly smiling. “I put all
thought of contention with a husband out of the question. You know I
have not been married long enough for that, and I could almost hope that
the first day of such a scene might be the last of my life! John would
cease to love me, if I quarrelled with him.”
“You will be an extraordinary pair, my dear, if scenes, as you call
them, do not occasionally occur between you.”
“I do not expect faultlessness in Jack; and, as for myself, I know that
I have very many motes to get rid of, and which I trust may, in a
measure, be done. But let us return to the case of a woman, young,
well-educated, handsome, rich to superfluity, and intellectual.”
“All of which are very good things, my child,” observed Mad. de
Larocheforte, with a smile so covert as to be scarcely seen, though it
betrayed to her companion the consciousness of her making the
application intended—“what next?”
“Wilful, a lover of power, and what she called independent.”
“Good and bad together. The two first, very bad, I acknowledge; the
last, very good.”
“What do you understand by independence? If it mean a certain
disposition to examine and decide for ourselves, under all the
obligations of duty, then it is a good thing, a _very_ good thing, as
you say; but if it merely mean a disposition to do as one pleases, to
say what one likes, and to behave as one may at the moment fancy, then
it strikes me as a very bad thing. This independence, half the time, is
only pride and obstinacy, dear mamma!”
“Well, what if it is? Men are proud and obstinate, too; and they must be
fought with their own weapons.”
“It is easy to make smart speeches, but, by the difficulties I meet with
in endeavouring to conquer my own heart, I know it is very hard to do
right. I know I am a very young monitress—”
“Never mind that. Your youth gives piquancy to your instructions. I like
to hear you.”
“Well, I will finish what I had to say. I have ever found that the best
assistant, or it might be more reverent to say, the best mode of
subduing error, was to comport ourselves with humility. Ah! my dear
mamma, if you could understand how very strong the humble get to be in
time, you would throw aside your cherished independence, and rely on
other means to secure your happiness!”
Perhaps Mildred was as much struck with the circumstances under which
this rebuke or admonition was given as with the advice itself. It had an
effect, however, and Dunscomb coming in aid of his niece, this singular
woman was gradually drawn from the exaggerated notions she had ever
entertained of herself and her rights to the contemplation of her
duties, as they are exercised in humility.
If there were no other evidence of the divine origin of the rules of
conduct taught by the Redeemer than the profound knowledge of the human
heart, that is so closely connected with the great lessons in humility
everywhere given in his teachings, we conceive it would be sufficient in
itself to establish their claim to our reverence. If men could be made
to feel how strong they become in admitting their weaknesses; how
clearly they perceive truth, when conscious of gazing at its form amidst
the fogs of error; and how wise we may become by the consciousness of
ignorance, more than half of the great battle in morals would be gained.
Humility was, indeed, a hard lesson for Mildred Millington to study. Her
whole life had been in direct opposition to its precepts, and the great
failing of her mind had a strong leaning to a love of power.
Nevertheless, there is a still, searching process of correcting, so
interwoven with the law of the New Testament, as to be irresistible when
brought to aid us, in the manner prescribed by its own theory. No one
knew this better than Dunscomb; and he so directed the reading, thoughts
and feelings of his interesting charge, as to produce an early and a
very sensible change on her character. The tendency to insanity is still
there, and probably will ever remain; for it is not so much the
consequence of any physical derangement as of organization; but it
already promises to be so far controlled, as to leave its unhappy
subject, generally rational, and, for most of her time, reasonably
satisfied.
Dunscomb had several interviews with the vicomte—no-vicomte—whom he
found a much more agreeable person than he had been prepared to meet,
though certainly addicted to snuff. He was made acquainted with the
mental hallucinations of his wife as well as with the fact of their
being hereditary, when a great change came over the spirit of his dream!
He had married to perpetuate the family de Larocheforte, but he had no
fancy for a race of madmen. Dunscomb found him very reasonable, in
consequence, and an arrangement was soon made, under the advice of this
able counsellor, by means of which Mildred virtually became her own
mistress. M. de Larocheforte accepted an ample provision from the
estate, and willingly returned to Europe, a part of the world that is
much more agreeable, usually, to men of his class than our own “happy
country.” His absence has proved a great assistance to those who have
assumed the care of Mildred’s mental state. As all the schemes for a
divorce have been discontinued,—schemes that could have led to no
strictly legal consequence,—and her husband has left the country the
mind of Mildred has become calmer, and the means have been found to
bring her almost completely within the control of her reason.
We have very little to say of the other characters. Timms is still
himself. He boasts of the fees he got in the great Mary Monson
case. His prospects for the state senate are far from bad, and
should he succeed, we shall expect to see him whining about
“republican simplicity,” abusing “aristocracy,” which in his
secret heart, means a clean shirt, clean nails, anti-tobacco
chewing and anti-blowing-the-nose-with-the-fingers, and aiding
anti-rentism. He is scamp enough for anything.
Williams is actually married, and, in reply to Timms’s accounts of the
fees, he intimates that Peter Goodwin’s ghost would not have appeared,
had _he_ not “been choked off.” It ought to be strange that these two
men like to boast of their rascality; but it is in obedience to a law of
our nature. Their tongues merely echo their thoughts.
The McBrains seem very happy. If the wife be an “old man’s darling,” it
is not as a young woman. Dunscomb still calls her “widow,” on occasions,
but nothing can interrupt the harmony of the friends. It is founded on
mutual esteem and respect.
Michael and Sarah promise well. In that family, there is already a boy,
to its great-uncle’s delight. The parents exult in this gift, and both
are grateful.
We care little for Jack Wilmeter, though a very good fellow, in the
main. Anna loves him, however, and that gives him an interest in our
eyes, he might not otherwise enjoy. His charming wife is losing her
superfluous enthusiasm in the realities of life, but she seems to gain
in womanly tenderness and warmth of healthful feeling, precisely in the
degree in which she loses the useless tenant of her imagination.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
There is a paragraph on p. 373 which paraphrases testimony. The first
segment has no opening double quote, but seems to end with one. An
opening quote has been added at 373.15. An emphasized quote is embedded
in that passage, but also uses double quotes.
Beginning on p. 442, there is an extended passage which summarized the
closing argument and ends at 444.13 with a closing double quote. That
has been removed here, since there is no clear point where it would have
been opened.
The text includes three instances of ‘villany’ at 127.14, 393.11 and
‘villanous’ at 322.27. Thsese have been retained but are noted. No
instances of ‘villainy’ are found. The words ‘vister’ and ‘visitor’ each
appear four times. Both are retained.
At 172.16, a line ends ‘use,’. The following line begins ‘less’. It
seems obvious that the comma was intended as a hyphen, hence: ‘useless’.
There were numerous instances of missing periods, frequently (but not
alwasy) at the end of a line. These have been summarized here: Mr.
(i.1); confidently. (15.20); propose it. (22.29); attention. 34.27);
wear it. (36.29); opinions. (40.7); room. (45.30); not. (52.32);
investigation. (55.29); heat. (55.33); Mr. Dunscomb (69.7); Mr.
Dunscomb’s (100.1); sir. (117.29); grate. 126.1); side. (132.30);
occasion. (176.4); sir. 185.3); itself. (190.4); said. (204.1); comfort.
(204.25); enough. (207.3); place. (214.27); beginner. (218.1); liberty.
224.23); him. (226.1); hour. (245.8); Mrs. Gott. (249.5); State.
(251.8); Mrs. Horton (234.33); oment. (254.1); occasion. (254.33);
Europe. (255.32); temperament. (258.33); dwelling. 261.32); threshold.
(267.4); interview. 274.33); reigned. 298.7); Mrs[.[ Horton (304.5);
light. (307.29); terrible. (338.29); gained. (342.24); nothing.
(344.33); aristocracy. (354.17); aristocracy. (354.19); conversation.
(357.27); dream. (363.20); ignorance. 379.33); doing. (382.1); might.
(383.23); Mrs. Horton’s (390.6); cause. (404.5); _conjecture._ (447.20);
attempted. (447.28); ignorance. (457.3); force. (461.6); _Peter
Goodwin_. (462.27); astounded. (463.6); sins. (465.4); asked. (468.4);
own. (477.29); murdered. (467.1); executions. (477.30); Biberry.
(480.13); teachings. (486.29); Mildred. (491.6);
Most other errors involved missing or incorrect quotation marks or
characters. Frequently, the text has space for the missing characters.
These have been deemed as most likely to be printing errors, and have
been corrected and are noted below. Spelling anomalies have been
corrected if there is evidence of standard spelling elsewhere. The
references are to the page and line in the original.
27.10 but to your own.[’/”] Replaced.
45.27 by the time you are ready.[”] Added.
51.32 tried under an [‘]alias!’ Added.
55.27 respectin[g] his profession, Added.
57.16 this display of [l]earning. Restored.
71.3 It was almost superfl[u]ous to ask Inserted.
72.24 showing a half-eagle.[”] Removed.
83.14 All the access[a/o]ries of this plan Replaced.
92.31 and [b/h]ad never lost a cent Replaced.
103.29 [“]If one of these skeletons Added.
106.5 [‘/“]Millington, you have a way of talking Replaced.
187.22 as would stand examination.[”] Added.
219.26 who are friendly to me——[”] Added.
227.22 [“]Which is better Restored.
232.33 as any about here.[’/”] Restored.
240.28 he drew[ a] chair Restored.
248.14 on that harp of her[’]s Removed.
270.17 a case like her[’]s Removed.
271.2 sweep out a crowded calend[e/a]r Replaced.
273.15 as access[a/o]ries before the act. Replaced.
282.1 As for the jurors[,] Restored.
303.3 [“]yes, in the spirit Added.
310.22 and flesh of their flesh.[’]” Added.
320.21 safe sort of person.[”] Added.
323.28 ’Squire Timms.[’/”] Replaced.
335.13 when I met David Johnson—[”] Added.
336.5 is getting scarce——[’]” Added.
351.17 as you must know[,/.] Replaced.
375.31 [‘/“]What I know Replaced.
383.33 he saw a strange f[ro/or]m Transposed.
384.29 [“]Whom do you mean by she?” Added.
443.30 of the sleeping couple below[,] Added.
455.4 dreaded power above.[”] Added.
486.28 “yes, tha[t] Restored.
490.17 ‘cup-and-saucer law,[”/’] Replaced.
491.28 and he[r] character has been formed Restored.
510.33 would be [g]ained Restored.
512.17 “old man[ /’]s darling” Added.