University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Southey.

The following day, after an early breakfast, Dunscomb and his
friend the doctor were on their way back to town. The former
had clients and courts, and the latter patients, who were not to
be neglected, to say nothing of the claims of Sarah and Mrs.
Updyke. John and Michael remained at Biberry; the first being
detained there by divers commissions connected with the comforts
and treatment of Mary Monson, but still more by his own inclinations;
and the last remaining, somewhat against his wishes, as
a companion to the brother of her who so strongly drew him
back to New York.

As the commitment was for offences so serious, crimes as grave
as any known to the law, bail would not have been accepted,
could any have been found. We ought not to speak with too
much confidence, however, on this last point; for Dr. McBrain, a
man of very handsome estate, the result of a liberal profession
steadily and intelligently pursued, was more than half disposed
to offer himself for one of the sureties, and to go and find a
second among his friends. Nothing, indeed, prevented his doing

so, but Dunscomb's repeated assurances that no bondsmen would
be received. Even charming young women, when they stand
charged with murder and arson, must submit to be icarcerated,
until their innocence is established in due form of law; or, what
is the same thing in effect, until the caprice, impulses, ignorance,
or corruption of a jury acquits them.

The friends did not entirely agree in their manner of viewing
this affair. The doctor was firmly impressed with the conviction
of Mary Monson's innocence; while Dunscomb, more experienced
in the ways of crime and the infirmities of the human heart, had
his misgivings. So many grounds of suspicion had occurred, or
been laid open to his observation, during the hour of private
communication, that it was not easy for one who had seen so
much of the worst side of human nature, to cast them off under
the mere influence of a graceful form, winning manner, and
bright countenance. Then, the secondary facts, well established,
and, in one important particular, admitted by the party accused,
were not of a character to be overlooked. It often happens, and
Dunscomb well knew it, that innocence appears under a repulsive
exterior, while guilt conceals itself in forms and aspects so fair,
as to deceive all but the wary and experienced.

“I hope that the comfort of Miss Monson has been properly
attended to, since she must be confined for a few days,” said
McBrain, while he took a last look at the little gaol, as the carriage
passed the brow of a hill. “Justice can ask no more
than security.”

“It is a blot on the character of the times, and on this country
in particular,” answered Dunscomb, coldly, “that so little attention
is paid to the gaols. We are crammed with false philanthropy
in connection with convicted rogues, who ought to be
made to feel the penalties of their offences; while we are not even
just in regard to those who are only accused, many of whom
are really innocent. But for my interference, this delicate and

friendless girl would, in all probability, have been immured in a
common dungeon.”

“What! before her guilt is established?”

“Relatively, her treatment after conviction, would be far
more humane than previously to that event. Comfortable, well-furnished,
but secure apartments, ought to be provided for the
accused in every county in the state, as acts of simple justice,
before another word of mawkish humanity is uttered on the subject
of the treatment of recognised criminals. It is wonderful
what a disposition there is among men to run into octaves, in
everything they do, forgetting that your true melody is to be
found only in the simpler and more natural notes. There is as
much of the falsetto, now-a-days, in philanthropy, as in music.”

“And this poor girl is thrust into a dungeon?”

“No; it is not quite as bad as that. The gaol has one decent
apartment, that was fitted up for the comfort of a prize-fighter,
who was confined in it not long since; and as the room is sufficiently
secure, I have persuaded the gaoler's wife to put Mary
Monson in it. Apart from loss of air and exercise, and the happiness
of knowing herself respected and beloved, the girl will not
be very badly off there. I dare say, the room is quite as good as
that she occupied under the roof of those unfortunate Goodwins.”

“How strange, that a female of her appearance should have
been the inmate of such a place! She does not seem to want
money, either. You saw the gold she had in her purse?”

“Ay; it were better had that gold not been there, or not seen.
I sincerely wish it had been nothing but silver.”

“You surely do not agree with that silly woman, the Widow
Pope, as they call her, in believing that she has got the money
of those persons who have been murdered?”

“On that subject, I choose to suspend my opinion — I may,
or I may not; as matters shall turn up. She has money;
and in sufficient quantity to buy herself out of jeopardy. At

least, she offered me a fee of a hundred dollars, in good city
paper.”

“Which you did not take, Tom?”

“Why not? It is my trade, and I live by it. Why not take
her fee, if you please, sir? Does the Widow Updyke teach you
such doctrines? Will you drive about town for nothing? Why
not take her fee, Master Ned?”

“Why not, sure enough! That girl has bewitched me, I
believe; and that is the solution.”

“I'll tell you what, Ned, unless there is a stop put to this
folly, I'll make Mrs. Updyke acquainted with the whole matter,
and put an end to nuptials No. 3. Jack is head and ears in love,
already; and here you are flying off at a tangent from all your
engagements and professions, to fall at the feet of an unknown
girl of twenty, who appears before you, on a first interview, in
the amiable light of one accused of the highest crimes.”

“And of which I no more believe her guilty, than I believe
you to be guilty of them.”

“Umph! `Time will show;' which is the English, I suppose,
of the `nous verrons,' that is flying about in the newspapers.
Yes, she has money to buy three or four journals, to get up a
`sympathy' in her behalf; when her acquittal would be almost
certain, if her trial were not a legal impossibility. I am not sure
it is not her safest course, in the actual state of the facts.”

“Would you think, Dunscomb, of advising any one who looked
up to you for counsel, to take such a course?”

“Certainly not — and you know it, well enough, McBrain;
but that does not lessen, or increase, the chances of the expedient.
The journals have greatly weakened their own power, by the
manner in which they have abused it; but enough still remains
to hoodwink, not to say to overshadow, justice. The law is very
explicit and far-sighted as to the consequences of allowing any one
to influence the public mind in matters of its own administration;

but in a country like this, in which the virtue and intelligence of
the people are said to be the primum mobile in everything, there
is no one to enforce the ordinances that the wisdom of our ancestors
has bequeathed to us. Any editor of a newspaper who publishes
a sentence reflecting on the character or rights of a party
to a pending suit, is guilty, at common law, of what the books
call a `libel on the courts of justice,' and can be punished for it,
as for any other misdemeanor; yet, you can see for yourself, how
little such a provision, healthful and most wise — nay, essential
as it is to justice—is looked down by the mania which exists, of
putting everything into print. When one remembers that very
little of what he reads is true, it is fearful to reflect that a system,
of which the whole merit depends on its power to extract facts,
and to do justice on their warranty, should be completely overshadowed
by another contrivance which, when stripped of its
pretension, and regarded in its real colours, is nothing more than
one of the ten thousand schemes to make money that surround
us, with a little higher pretension than common to virtue.”

“ `Completely overshadowed' are strong words, Dunscomb!”

“Perhaps they are, and they may need a little qualifying.
Overshadowed often—much too often, however, is not a particle
stronger than I am justified in using. Every one, who thinks at
all, sees and feels the truth of this; but here is the weak side
of a popular government. The laws are enforced by means of
public virtue, and public virtue, like private virtue, is very frail.
We all are willing enough to admit the last, as regards our
neighbours at least, while there seems to exist, in most minds, a
species of idolatrous veneration for the common sentiment, as
sheer a quality of straw, as any image of a lover drawn by the
most heated imagination of sixteen.”

“You surely do not disregard public opinion, Tom, or set it
down as unworthy of all respect!”

“By no means; if you mean that opinion which is the result

of deliberate judgment, and has a direct connection with our religion,
morals, and manners. That is a public opinion to which
we all ought to defer, when it is fairly made up, and has been
distinctly and independently pronounced; most especially when
it comes from high quarters, and not from low. But the country
is full of simulated public opinion, in the first place, and it is not
always easy to tell the false from the true. Yes, the country is
full of what I shall call an artificial public opinion, that has been
got up to effect a purpose, and to that no wise man will defer, if
he can help it. Now, look at our scheme of administering justice.
Twelve men taken out of the bosom of the community,
by a species of lottery, are set apart to pronounce on your fortune,
or mine — nay, to utter the fearful words of `guilty,' or
`not guilty.' All the accessaries of this plan, as they exist here,
make against its success. In the first place, the jurors are paid,
and that just enough to induce the humblest on the list to serve,
and not enough to induce the educated and intelligent. It is a
day-labourer's wages, and the day-labourer will be most likely to
profit by it. Men who are content to toil for seventy-five cents
a day are very willing to serve on juries for a dollar; while those
whose qualifications enable them to obtain enough to pay their
fines, disregard the penalty, and stay away.”

“Why is not an evil as flagrant as this remedied? I should
think the whole bar would protest against it.”

“With what result? Who cares for the bar? Legislators
alone can change this system, and men very different from those
who are now sent must go to the legislature, before one is found,
honest enough, or bold enough, to get up and tell the people
they are not all fit to be trusted. No, no; this is not the way
of the hour. We have a cycle in opinion to make, and it may
be that when the round is fairly made, men may come back to
their senses, and perceive the necessity of fencing in justice by
some of the useful provisions that we are now so liberally throwing

away. To tell you the truth, Ned, the state is submitting to
the influence of two of the silliest motives that can govern men—
ultra conservatism, and ultra progress; the one holding back,
often, to preserve that which is not worth keeping; and the other
`going ahead,' as it is termed, merely for the sake of boasting
of their onward tendencies. Neither course is in the least suited
to the actual wants of society, and each is pernicious in its way.”

“It is thought, however, that when opinion thus struggles
with opinion, a healthful compromise is made, in which society
finds its advantage.”

“The cant of mediocrity, depend on it, Ned. In the first place,
there is no compromise about it; one side or the other gains the
victory; and as success is sustained by numbers, the conquerors
push their advantages to the utmost. They think of their own
grosser interests, their passions and prejudices, rather than of any
`healthful compromise,' as you term it. What compromise is there
in this infernal code?”—Dunscomb was an ultra himself, in opposition
to a system that has a good deal of that which is useful,
diluted by more that is not quite so good — “or what in this
matter of the election of judges by the people? As respects the
last, for instance, had the tenure of office been made `good behaviour,'
there would have been something like a compromise;
but, no — the conquerors took all; and what is worse, the conquerors
were actually a minority of the voters, so easy is it
to cow even numbers by political chicanery. In this respect,
democracy is no more infallible, than any other form of government.”

“I confess, I do not see how this is shown, since the polls were
free to every citizen.”

“The result fairly proves it. Less than half of the known
number of the electors voted for the change. Now, it is absurd
to suppose that men who really and affirmatively wished a new
constitution would stay away from the polls.”

“More so, than to suppose that they who did not wish it,
would stay away, too?”

“More so; and for this reason. Thousands fancied it useless
to stem the current of what they fancied a popular movement,
and were passive in the matter. Any man, of an extensive
acquaintance, may easily count a hundred such idlers. Then a
good many stood on their legal rights, and refused to vote, because
the manner of producing the change was a palpable violation
of a previous contract; the old constitution pointing out the
manner in which the instrument could be altered, which was not
the mode adopted. Then tens of thousands voted for the new
constitution, who did not know anything about it. They loved
change, and voted for change's sake; and, possibly, with some
vague notion that they were to be benefited by making the institutions
as popular as possible.”

“And is not this the truth? Will not the mass be all the
better off, by exercising as much power as they can?”

“No; and for the simple reason that masses cannot, in the
nature of things, exercise more than a very limited power. You,
yourself, for instance, one of the mass, cannot exercise this very
power of choosing a judge, as it ought to be exercised, and of
course are liable to do more harm than good.”

“The deuce I cannot! Why is not my vote as good as your
own? or that of any other man?”

“For the simple reason, that you are ignorant of the whole
matter. Ask yourself the question, and answer it like an honest
man: would you — could you, with the knowledge you possess,
lay your finger on any man in this community, and say, `I make
you a judge?' ”

“Yes; my finger would be laid on you, in a minute.”

“Ah, Ned, that will do, as a friend; but how would it do as
a judicious selection of a judge you do not know? You are
ignorant of the law, and must necessarily be ignorant of the

qualifications of any particular person to be an interpreter of it.
What is true of you, is equally true of a vast majority of those
who are now the electors of our judges.”

“I am not a little surprised, Tom, to hear you talk in this
way; for you profess to be a democrat!”

“To the extent of giving the people all power, in the last
resort — all power that they can intelligently and usefully use;
but not to the extent of permitting them to make the laws, to
execute the laws, and to interpret the laws. All that the people
want, is sufficient power to secure their liberties, which is simply
such a state of things as shall secure what is right between man
and man. Now, it is the want of this all-important security, in
a practical point of view, of which I complain. Rely on it, Ned,
the people gain nothing by exercising an authority that they do
not know how to turn to good account. It were far better for
them, and for the state, to confine themselves to the choice of
general agents, of whose characters they may know something,
and then confide all other powers to servants appointed by those
named by these agents, holding all alike to a rigid responsibility.
As for the judges, they will soon take decided party characters;
and men will as blindly accuse, and as blindly defend them,
as they now do their other leading partisans. What between
the bench and the jury-box, we shall shortly enjoy a legal pandemonium.”

“Yet there are those who think the trial by jury is the palladium
of our liberties.”

Dunscomb laughed outright, for he recollected his conversation
with the young men, which we have already related. Then
suppressing his risible propensity, he continued gravely—

“Yes, one or two papers, well fee'd by this young woman's
spare cash, might do her more good than any service I can render
her. I dare say the accounts now published, or soon to be
published, will leave a strong bias against her.”

“Why not fee a reporter as well as a lawyer, eh, Tom? There
is no great difference, as I can see.”

“Yes you can, and will, too, as soon as you look into the
matter. A lawyer is paid for a known and authorized assistance,
and the public recognises in him one engaged in the interests of
his client, and accepts his statements and efforts accordingly.
But the conductor of a public journal sets up a claim to strict
impartiality, in his very profession, and should tell nothing but
what he believes to be true, neither inventing nor suppressing. In
his facts, he is merely the publisher of a record; in his reasoning,
a judge; not an advocate.”

The doctor now laughed, in his turn, and well he might; few
men being so ignorant as not to understand how far removed
from all this are most of those who control the public journals.

“After all, it is a tremendous power to confide to irresponsible
men!” he exclaimed.

“That it is, and there is nothing among us that so completely
demonstrates how far, very far, the public mind is in the rear of
the facts of the country, than the blind, reckless manner in
which the press is permitted to tyrannize over the community, in
the midst of all our hosannas to the Goddess of Liberty. Because,
forsooth, what is termed a free press is useful, and has
been useful in curbing an irresponsible, hereditary power, in
other lands, we are just stupid enough to think it is of equal
importance here, where no such power exists, and where all that
remains to be done, is to strictly maintain the equal rights of all
classes of citizens. Did we understand ourselves, and our own
real wants, not a paper should be printed in the state, that did
not make a deposit to meet the legal penalties it might incur by
the abuse of its trust. This is or was done in France, the country
of all others that best respects equality of rights in theory, if not
in practice!”

“You surely would not place restrictions on the press!”

“I would though, and very severe restrictions, as salutary
checks on the immense power it wields. I would, for instance,
forbid the publication of any statement whatever, touching parties
in the courts, whether in civil or criminal cases, pending the
actions, that the public mind might not be tainted, by design.
Give the right to publish, and it will be, and is abused, and that
most flagrantly, to meet the wishes of corruption. I tell you,
Ned, as soon as you make a trade of news, you create a stock
market that will have its rise and fall, under the impulses of fear,
falsehood, and favour, just like your money transactions. It is
a perversion of the nature of things, to make of news more than
a simple statement of what has actually occurred.'

“It is surely natural to lie!”

“That is it, and this is the very reason we should not throw
extraordinary protection around a thousand tongues which speak
by means of types, that we do not give to the natural member.
The lie that is told by the press is ten thousand times a lie, in
comparison with that which issues from the mouth of man.”

“By George, Tom, if I had your views, I would see that some
of this strange young woman's money should be used in sustaining
her, by means of the agents you mention!”

“That would never do. This is one of the cases in which
`want of principle' has an ascendancy over `principle.' The
upright man cannot consent to use improper instruments, while
the dishonest fellows seize on them with avidity. So much the
greater, therefore, is the necessity for the law's watching the
interests of the first with the utmost jealousy. But, unfortunately,
we run away with the sound, and overlook the sense of
things.”

We have related this conversation at a length which a certain
class of our readers will probably find tedious, but it is necessary
to a right comprehension of various features in the picture we
are about to draw. At the Stag's Head the friends stopped to

let the horses blow, and, while the animals were cooling themselves
under the care of Stephen Hoof, McBrain's coachman, the
gentlemen took a short walk in the hamlet. At several points,
as they moved along, they overheard the subject of the murders
alluded to, and saw divers newspapers, in the hands of sundry
individuals, who were eagerly perusing accounts of the same
events; sometimes by themselves, but oftener to groups of attentive
listeners. The travellers were now so near town as to be
completely within its moral, not to say physical, atmosphere —
being little more than a suburb of New York. On their return
to the inn, the doctor stopped under the shed to look at his
horses, before Stephen checked them up again, previously to a
fresh start. Stephen was neither an Irishman nor a black; but
a regular, old-fashioned, Manhattannese coachman; a class apart,
and of whom, in the confusion of tongues that pervades that
modern Babel, a few still remain, like monuments of the past,
scattered along the Appian Way.

“How do your horses stand the heat, Stephen?” the doctor
kindly equired, always speaking of the beasts as if they were
the property of the coachman, and not of himself. “Pill looks
as if he had been well warmed this morning.”

“Yes, sir, he takes it somewhat hotter than Poleus, in the
spring of the year, as a gineral thing. Pill vill vork famously,
if a body vill only give him his feed in vhat I calls a genteel
vay; but them 'ere country taverns has nothing nice about 'em,
not even a clean manger; and a town horse that is accustomed
to a sweet stable and proper company, won't stand up to the rack
as he should do, in one of their holes. Now, Poleus I calls a
gineral feeder; it makes no matter vith him vhether he is at
home, or out on a farm — he finishes his oats; but it is n't so
vith Pill, sir — his stomach is delicate, and the horse that do n't
get his proper food vill sweat, summer or vinter.”

“I sometimes think, Stephen, it might be better to take them

both off their oats for a few days, and let blood, perhaps; they say
that the fleam is as good for a horse as the lancet is for a man.”

“Do n't think on't, sir, I beg of you! I'm sure they has
doctor-stuff in their names, not to crowd 'em down vith any
more, jist as varm veather is a settin' in. Oats is physic enough
for a horse, and vhen the creaturs vants anything more, sir, jist
leave 'em to me. I knows as peculiar a drench as ever vas
poured down a vheeler's throat, vithout troublin' that academy
in Barclay street, vhere so many gentlemen goes two or three
times a veek, and vhere they do say, so many goes in as never
comes out whole.”

“Well, Stephen, I'll not interfere with your treatment, for I
confess to very little knowledge of the diseases of horses. What
have you got in the paper there, that I see you have been
reading?”

“Vhy, sir,” answered Stephen, scratching his head, “it's all
about our affair, up yonder.”

“Our affair! Oh! you mean the inquest, and the murder.
Well, what does the paper say about it, Hoof?”

“It says it's a most `thrilling a'count,' sir, and an `awful
tragedy'; and it vonders vhat young vomen is a coming to, next.
I am pretty much of the same vay of thinking, sir, myself.”

“You are in the habit of thinking very much as the newspapers
do, are you not, Stephen?” asked Dunscomb.

“Vell, 'Squire Dunscomb, you've hit it! There is an onaccountable
resemblance, like, in our thoughts. I hardly ever set
down to read a paper, that, afore I've got half vay through it, I
find it thinking just as I do! It puzzles me to know how them
that writes for these papers finds out a body's thoughts so vell!”

“They have a way of doing it; but it is too long a story to go
over now. So this paper has something to say about our young
woman, has it, Stephen? and it mentions the Biberry business?”

“A good deal, 'Squire; and vhat I calls good sense, too.

Vhy, gentlemen, vhat shall we all come to, if young gals of
fifteen can knock us in the head, matched, like, or in pairs, killing
a whole team at one blow, and then set fire to the stables, and
burn us up to our anatomies?”

“Fifteen! Does your account say that Miss Monson is only
fifteen, Hoof?”

“ `She appears to be of the tender age of fifteen, and is of
extr'ornary personal attractions.' Them's the werry vords, sir;
but perhaps you'd like to read it yourselves, gentlemen?”

As Stephen made this remark, he very civilly offered the
journal to Dunscomb, who took it; but was not disposed to drop
the conversation just then to read it, though his eye did glance
at the article, as he continued the subject. This was a habit
with him; his clerks often saying, he could carry the chains of
arguments of two subjects in his mind at the same moment. His
present object, was to ascertain from this man what might be the
popular feeling in regard to his client, at the place they had just
left, and the scene of the events themselves.

“What is thought and said, at Biberry, among those with
whom you talked, Stephen, concerning this matter?”

“That it's a most awful ewent, 'Squire! One of the werry
vorst that has happened in these werry vicked times, sir. I heard
one gentleman go over all the murders that has taken place about
York during these last ten years, and a perdigious sight on 'em
there vas; so many, that I began to vonder I vas n't one of the
wictims myself; but he counted 'em off on his fingers, and made
this out to be one of the werry vorst of 'em all, sir. He did,
indeed, sir.”

“Was he a reporter, Stephen? one of the persons who are
sent out by the papers to collect news?”

“I believe he vas, sir. Quite a gentleman; and vith something
to say to all he met. He often came out to the stables,
and had a long conwersation vith as poor a feller as I be.”

“Pray, what could he have to say to you, Stephen?” demanded
the doctor, a little gravely.

“Oh! lots of things, sir. He began by praising the horses,
and asking their names. I give him my names, sir, not yourn;
for I thought he might get it into print, somehow, that Dr.
McBrain calls his coach-horses after his physic, Pill and Poleus”
—“Bolus,” was the real appellation that the owner had been
pleased to give this beast; but as Stephen fancied the word had
some connection with “pole-horse,” he chose to pronounce it as
written—“Yes, I did n't vish your names to get into the papers,
sir; and so I told him `Pill' vas called `Marygoold,' and
`Poleus,' `Dandelion.' He promised an article about 'em, sir;
and I give him the ages, blood, sires, and dams, of both the
beauties. He told me he thought the names delightful; and
I'm in hopes, sir, you 'll give up yourn, arter all, and take to
mine, altogether.”

“We shall see. And he promised an article, did he?”

“Yes, sir, quite woluntary. I know'd that the horses could n't
be outdone, and told him as much as that; for I thought, as the
subject vas up, it might be as vell to do 'em all the credit I
could. Perhaps, vhen they gets to be too old for vork, you
might vish to part vith 'em, sir, and then a good newspaper
character could do 'em no great harm.”

Stephen was a particularly honest fellow, as to things in general;
but he had the infirmity which seems to be so general among
men, that of a propensity to cheat in a transfer of horse-flesh.
Dunscomb was amused at this exhibition of character, of which
he had seen so much in his day, and felt disposed to follow it up.

“I believe you had some difficulty in choosing one of the
horses, Stephen” — McBrain commissioned his coachman to do
all the bargaining of this sort, and had never lost a cent by his
confidence — “Pill, I think it was, that did n't bring as good a
character as he might have done?”

“Beg your pardon, 'Squire, 'twas n't he, but Marygoold.
Vhy, the thing vas this: a gentleman of the church had bought
Marygoold to go in a buggy; but soon vanted to part vith him,
'cause of his shyin' in single harness, vhich frightened his vife,
as he said. Now, all the difficulty vas in this one thing: not
that I cared at all about the creatur's shyin', vhich vas no great
matter in double harness, you know, sir, and a body could soon
coax him out of the notion on it, by judgematical drivin'; but
the difficulty vas here — if the owner of a horse owned so much
ag'in his character, there must be a great deal behind, that a
feller must find out as vell as he could. I 've know'd a foundered
animal put off under a character for shyin'.”

“And the owner a clergyman, Stephen?”

“Perhaps not, sir. But it makes no great matter in tradin'
horses; church and the vorld is much of a muchness.”

“Did that reporting gentleman ask any questions concerning
the owner, as well as concerning the horses?”

“Vhy, yes, sir; vhen he vas done vith the animals, he did
make a few obserwations about the doctor. He vanted to know
if he vas married yet, and vhen it vas to happen; and how much
I thought he might be vorth, and how much Mrs. Updyke vas
counted for; and if there vas children; and vhich house the
family vas to live in; and vhere he should keep the slate, arter
the veddin' had come off; and how much the doctor's practice
vas vorth; and vhether he vas vhig or locy; and, most of all, he
vanted to know vhy he and you, sir, should go to Biberry about
this murder.”

“What did you tell him, Stephen, in reference to the last?”

“Vhat could I, sir? I don't know, myself. I 've druv' the
doctor often and often to see them that has died soon arter our
wisit; but I never druv' him, afore, to wisit the dead. That
gentleman seemed to think he vas much mistaken about the
skeletons; but it's all in the paper, sir.”

On hearing this, Dunscomb quickly turned to the columns of
the journal again, and was soon reading their contents aloud to
his friend; in the meantime, Stephen set Marygoold and Dandelion
in motion once more.

The account was much as Dunscomb expected to find it; so
written as to do no possible good, while it might do a great deal
of harm. The intention was to feed a morbid feeling in the vulgar
for exaggerated accounts of the shocking — the motive being
gain. Anything that would sell, was grist for this mill; and the
more marvellous and terrible the history of the event could be
made, the greater was the success likely to be. The allusions to
Mary Monson were managed with a good deal of address; for,
while there was a seeming respect for her rights, the reader was
left to infer that her guilt was not only beyond a question, but
of the darkest dye. It was while reading and commenting on
these articles, that the carriage entered Broadway, and soon set
Dunscomb down at his own door. There the doctor left it;
choosing to walk as far as Mrs. Updyke's, rather than give
Stephen more materials for the reporter.