University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Cato.

Within the half hour mentioned by Dunscomb the court-house
bell rang, and there was a rush towards that building, in order to
secure seats for the approaching trial. All that has been related
in the preceding chapter occurred between the hours of six and
nine that morning, it being one of the “ways of the hour” in the
march of improvement, to drive the administration of justice with
as near an approach to railroad speed as is practicable. Many
of the modern judges go to work as early as eight in the morning
— perhaps most do in the country circuits — and continue to call
causes until nine and ten at night, illustrating the justice of the
land by means of agents who are half asleep, and stupid from
fatigue.

We have said that everything like dignity, except as it is to
be found in the high character of its duties, and the manner in
which they are performed, has been banished from the courts of
New York. Even on this solemn occasion, when a human being
was to be put on trial for her life, and she a woman, there was
no departure from the naked simplicity that has been set up on
the pedestal of reason, in open opposition to the ancient accessories
by which the Law asserted its power. It remains to be seen
whether human nature has not been as much over-estimated

under the new arrangement as it was underrated by the old.
There is a medium, in truth, that it is ever safe to respect; and
there is reason to apprehend that in throwing away the useless
vestments of idle parade, those necessary to decency were cast
aside with them.

Quite a fourth of the audience assembled in Duke's county
court-house, on this occasion, were females. The curiosity, which
is said to be so natural to the sex, was, on this occasion, quickened
by the peculiar circumstances of the case, a woman having
been murdered, and a woman accused of having committed the
offence. It was said, however, that many were summoned as
witnesses, it being generally understood that the state had subpœnaed
the country far and near.

At length, a general and expecting silence succeeded the bustle
of the crowds entering and obtaining seats, and the eyes of the
spectators were very generally turned towards the door, in the
wish to get a glimpse of the principal personage in the approaching
scene. We know not why it is that the spectacle of others'
woes has so great a charm for most persons. Nature has given
us sympathy, and compassion, and a desire to alleviate misery;
yet most of us like to look upon it, as a mere spectacle, when we
have neither the wish nor the power to be more than useless
spectators. Thousands will assemble to see a man hanged, when
all know that the law has a grasp too tight to be unloosed, and
that the circle of the gallows is no place for feelings of commiseration.
But, so it is; and many a female, that day, who would
have gladly alleviated any distress that it was in her power to
lessen, sat there, a curious and interested observer of all that
passed; to note the workings of the countenance, the writhings
of the inner soul, if any such there should be, or the gleams of
hope, that might, at intervals, lighten the gloom of despair.

The court was occupied for half an hour with hearing motions,
and in granting orders, nothing seeming to impede its utilitarian

progress. Then the movement within the bar ceased, and an
expectation that was even solemn, fell on the whole mass of human
beings that were collected in that narrow space.

“This is the day for which the trial of Mary Monson was, by
arrangement, set down,” observed the judge. “Mr. District
Attorney, are you ready?”

“We are, sir—entirely so, I believe. If the court please, Mr.
Williams and Mr. Wright will be associated with me in this
case. It is one of importance, and I do not like the responsibility
of trying it alone.”

“The court has so understood it — who is for the accused?”

“I am retained to defend Mary Monson,” answered Dunscomb,
rising with dignity, and speaking with the self-possession
of one long accustomed to the courts. “Mr. Timms will assist
me.”

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

“I believe we are, your honour; though the prisoner has not
yet been arraigned.'

“Mr. District Attorney, we will proceed.”

As the sheriff now left the room, in person, rather an unusual
thing in bringing a prisoner into court, expectation was at its height.
In the midst of a breathing silence, the door swung round —
court-room doors are now made to swing like turnpikes, in order
to prevent noise — and Mr. Gott entered, followed by Mary
Monson, Anna, Sarah, Marie Moulin, and the two young men.
The kind-hearted wife of the sheriff was already in the room,
and, by means of a constable, had managed to keep seats reserved
for those who might attend the prisoner. To these seats the
party now retired, with the exception of Marie Moulin, who attended
her mistress within the bar.

Every observer was struck with the unexpected air, manner,
and attire of the prisoner. Dunscomb saw, at a glance, that her
appearance had made a most favourable impression. This was

something, and he hoped it might counteract much of the manœuvring
of Davis and Williams. The judge, in particular, a
kind-hearted and very well meaning man, was taken altogether
by surprise. There is nothing in which there is more freemasonry
than in the secret symptoms of social castes. Each individual
is more or less of a judge of these matters, up to the level
of his own associations, while all beyond is mystery. It happened
that the judge, now about to try Mary Monson, belonged
to an old, historical, New York family, a thing of rather rare
occurrence in the great movements of the times, and he possessed
an hereditary tact in discerning persons of his own habits of life.
Almost at a glance, he perceived that the prisoner had the air,
manners, countenance and finesse, of one accustomed, from infancy,
to good company. The reader may smile at this, but he
must pardon us if we say the smile will betray ignorance, rather
than denote the philosophy that he may fancy controls his opinions.
Dunscomb was much gratified when the judge rather
earnestly interposed against the act of the sheriff, who was about
to place the prisoner at the bar in the little barricaded space al-lotted
to the use of ordinary criminals, directing him to —

“Give the prisoner a chair within the bar, Mr. Sheriff. Gentlemen,
be so good as to make room, that the accused may sit
near her counsel. Mr. Attorney, let the prisoner be arraigned,
as soon as she has rested from the fatigue and agitation of appearing
here.”

This ceremony, now little more than a blank form, was soon
ended, and the plea of “not guilty” was entered. The next
step was to empannel the jury, a task of infinite difficulty, and
one that has got to be so much an out-work, in the proceedings
in criminal cases, as almost to baffle the powers of the law. It
is no unusual thing for the time of the court to be occupied a
week or two, in this preliminary proceeding, until the evil has
got to be so crying as to induce the executive to recommend that

the legislature may devise some mode of relief. One of the
most besetting vices of all American legislation, in those cases in
which abuses are not the offspring of party, is a false philanthropy,
in which the wicked and evil doer has been protected at
the expense of the upright and obedient. The abuse just mentioned
is one of those in which the bottom has been reached somewhat
sooner than common; but, it is hazarding little to predict,
that more than half which has been done within the last few
years, under the guise of liberty and philanthropy, will have to
be undone, ere the citizen will be left to the quiet enjoyment of
his rights, or can receive the just protection of the laws.

One of the common-sense and real improvements of the day,
is to swear the jurors, in all the causes that are to be tried, by
one process. This is a saving of time; and though the ceremony
might be, and ought to be made, much more solemn and
impressive than it is, as by causing all other business to cease,
and to make every one present rise, and stand in reverential silence,
while the name of the God of heaven and earth is invoked,
still it is a great improvement on the ancient mode, and has reason
to sustain it. It gives us pleasure to note such circumstances
in the “ways of the hour,” whenever a sense of right
can induce one who loathes the flattery of the people quite as
much as he loathes that of princes, and flattery of all sorts, to say
aught in favour of what has been done, or is yet doing around him.

The clerk called the name of Jonas Wattles, the first juror
drawn. This man was a respectable mechanic, of no great force
in the way of mind, but meaning well, and reputed honest.
Timms gave the senior counsel a look, which the other understood
to mean, “he may do.” No objection being made on account
of the state, Jonas Wattles took his seat in the jury-box,
which was thought great good luck for a capital case.

“Ira Trueman,” cried the clerk.

A meaning pause succeeded the announcement of this name.

Trueman was a person of considerable local influence, and would
probably carry great weight in a body composed principally of
men even less instructed than he was himself. What was more,
both Timms and Williams knew that their respective agents had
been hard at work to gain his ear, though neither knew exactly
with what degree of success. It was consequently equally hazardous
to accept or to oppose, and the two legal gladiators stood
at bay, each waiting for the other to betray his opinion of the
man. The judge soon became wearied, and inquired if the juror
was accepted. It was a somewhat amusing sight, now, to observe
the manner in which Timms proceeded with Williams, and Williams
met Timms.

“I should like to hear the gentleman's objections to this juror,”
observed Timms, “as I do not see that his challenge is peremptory.”

“I have not challenged the juror at all,” answered Williams,
“but have understood the challenge comes from the defence.”

“This is extr'or'nary! The gentleman looks defiance at the
jurors, and now declares he does not challenge!”

“Looks! If looks made a challenge, the state might at once
suffer these foul murders to go unpunished, for I am sure the
gentleman's countenance is a perfect thunder-cloud —”

“I trust that counsel will recollect the gravity of this cause,
and suffer it to be conducted with the decorum that ought never
to be wanting in a court of justice,” interposed the judge.
“Unless there is a direct challenge, from one side or the other,
the juror must take his seat, of course.”

“I should like to ask the juror a question or two,” Timms
replied, speaking very cautiously, and like one who was afraid of
hurting the feelings of the party under examination; and in
truth wary, lest on investigation he might discover that Trueman
was likely to be the sort of person he wanted. “You have been
at Biberry, juror, since the opening of the court?”

Trueman nodded his head.

“Of course, you have been round among your friends and
neighbours, that you have met with here?”

Another nod from Trueman, with a sort of affirmative grunt.

“You have probably heard more or less said concerning Mary
Monson — I mean in a legal and proper way?”

A third nod of assent.

“Can you speak anything, in particular, that has been said in
your presence?”

Trueman seemed to tax his memory; then he raised his head,
and answered deliberately and with great clearness,

“I was going from the tavern to the court-house, when I met
David Johnson—

“Never mind those particulars, Mr. Trueman,” interrupted
Timms, who saw that the juror had been talking with one of his
own most confidential agents — “what the court wishes to know
is, if any one has been reporting circumstances unfavourable to
Mary Monson in your presence?”

“Or in her favour,” put in Williams, with a sneer.

“Juror,” interposed the judge—“tell us if any one has spoken
to you on the merits of this case — for or against?”

“Merits” — repeated Trueman, seeming to reflect again —
“No, your honour; I can't say that there has.”

Now, this was as bold a falsehood as was ever uttered; but
Trueman reconciled the answer to his conscience by choosing to
consider that the conversation he had heard had been on the
demerits of the accused.

“I do not see, gentlemen, that you can challenge for cause,”
observed his Honour — “unless you have further facts.”

“Perhaps we have, sir,” answered Williams. “You were
saying, Mr. Trueman, that you met David Johnson as you were
going from the inn to the court-house — Did I understand you
correctly?'

“Just so, 'Squire. I had been having a long talk with Peter
Titus”—one of Williams's most active and confidential agents—
“when Johnson came up. Johnson says, says he, `a pleasant
day, gentlemen—I'm glad to see you both out; for the faces of
old friends is getting scarce—”

“I see no objection to the juror's being received,” Williams
carelessly remarked; satisfied that Titus had not neglected his
duty in that long talk.

“Yes, he is as good a juror as Duke's can furnish,” observed
Timms, perfectly sure Johnson had turned to account the advantage
of having the last word. Trueman was accordingly admitted
to the box, as the second man of the twelve. The two managers
of this cause were both right. Titus had crammed his old acquaintance
Trueman with all that was circulating to the prejudice
of the prisoner; expressing surprise when he had said all he had
to say, at hearing that his friend was on the pannel. “Well,”
said Titus, as Johnson approached, “if questioned, you'll remember
I said I didn't dream of your being a juryman — but,
just as like as not, you'll not be drawn for the case at all.” On
the other hand, Johnson was quite eloquent and pathetic in
giving his old acquaintance the history of Mary Monson's case,
whom he pronounced “a most injured and parsecuted woman.”
Trueman, a shrewd, managing fellow in general, fancied himself
just as impartial and fit to try the cause, after he had heard the
stories of the two men, as he had ever been; but in this he was
mistaken. It requires an unusually clear head, exceedingly high
principles, and a great knowledge of men, to maintain perfect
impartiality in these cases; and certainly Trueman was not the
man to boast of all these rare qualities. In general, the last word
tells; but it sometimes happens that first impressions become
difficult to eradicate. Such was the fact in the present instance;
Trueman taking his seat in the jury-box with an exceedingly
strong bias against the accused.

We are aware that these are not the colours in which it is the
fashion to delineate the venerable and much vaunted institution
of the jury; certainly a most efficient agent in curtailing the
power of a prince; but just as certainly a most irresponsible,
vague, and quite often an unprincipled means of administering
the law, when men are not urged to the desire of doing right by
political pressure from without, and are left to the perverse and
free workings of a very evil nature. We represent things as we
believe them to exist, knowing that scarce a case of magnitude
occurs in which the ministers of corruption are not at work
among the jurors, or a verdict rendered in which the fingers of
the Father of Lies might not be traced, were the veil removed,
and the facts exposed to the light of day. It is true, that in
trials for life, the persecution of the prisoner rarely takes so direct
a form as has been represented in the case of Mary Monson; but
the press and the tongue do an incalculable amount of evil, even
in such cases; all the ancient safeguards of the law having been
either directly removed by ill-considered legislation, or rendered
dead-letters by the “ways of the hour.”

It was regarded as exceedingly good progress to get two jurors
into the box, in a capital case, in the first half-hour. His Honour
had evidently resigned himself to a twenty-four hours' job; and
great was his satisfaction when he saw Wattles and Trueman safely
seated on their hard and uncomfortable seats; for it would almost
seem that discomfort has been brought into the court-houses as a
sort of auxiliary to the old practice of starving a jury into a
verdict.

Whether it was owing to a suspicion, on the part of Timms,
of the truth in regard to his being over-reached in the case of
Trueman, or to some other cause, he raised no objections to either
of the six jurors next called. His moderation was imitated by
Williams. Then followed two peremptory challenges; one in
behalf of the prisoner, and one in behalf of the people, as it is

termed. This was getting on so much better than everybody
expected, that all were in good humour; and it is not exceeding
the truth if we add, in a slight degree more disposed to view the
prisoner and her case with favour. On such trifles do human
decisions very often depend.

All this time, fully an hour, did Mary Monson sit in resigned
submission to her fate, composed, attentive, and singularly ladylike.
The spectators were greatly divided in their private speculations
on her guilt or innocence. Some saw in her quiet manner,
curious interest in the proceedings, and unchanging colour, proofs
not only of a hardened conscience, but of an experience in scenes
similar to that in which she was now engaged; overlooking all
the probabilities, to indulge in conjectures so severe against one
so young.

“Well, gentlemen,” cried the judge, “time is precious. Let
us proceed.”

The ninth juror was drawn, and it proved to be a country
trader of the name of Hatfield. This person was known to be a
man of considerable influence among persons of his own class,
and to have a reputation for judgment, if not for principles.
“They might as well send the other eleven home, and let Hatfield
pronounce the verdict,” whispered one lawyer to another;
“there is no material in that box to withstand his logic.”

“Then he will hold this young woman's life in his hand,”
was the reply.

“It will be pretty much so. The glorious institution of the
jury is admirably devised to bring about such results.”

“You forget the judge. He has the last word, you will remember.”

“Thank God it is so; else would our condition be terrible!
Lynch law is preferable to laws administered by jurors who fancy
themselves so many legislators.”

“It cannot be concealed that the spirit of the times has invaded

the jury-box; and the court has not one-half its ancient
influence. I should not like to have this Hatfield against me.”

It would seem that Williams was of the same way of thinking;
for he muttered to himself, desired the juror not to enter the
box, and seemed to be pondering on the course he ought to pursue.
The truth was that he himself had recently sued Hatfield
for debt, and the proceedings had been a little vindictive. One
of the dangers that your really skilful lawyer has to guard against
is the personal animosity that is engendered by his own professional
practice. Many men have minds so constituted that their
opinions are affected by prejudices thus created; and they do not
scruple to transfer their hostility from the counsel to the cause
he is employed to defend. It is consequently incumbent on the
prudent lawyer to make his estimate of character with judgment,
and be as sure as the nature of the case will allow, that his client
is not to suffer for his own acts. As hostility to the counsel is
not a legal objection to a juror, Williams was under the necessity
of presenting such as would command the attention of the court.

“I wish the juror may be sworn true answers to make” —
said Williams.

Timms now pricked up his ears; for, if it were of importance
for Williams to oppose the reception of this particular individual,
it was probably of importance to Mary Monson to have him received.
On this principle, therefore, he was ready to resist the
attack on the juror, who was at once sworn.

“You reside in the adjoining town of Blackstone, I believe,
Mr. Hatfield?” asked Williams.

A simple assent was the reply.

“In practice there, in one of the learned professions?”

Hatfield was certain his interrogator knew better, for Williams
had been in his store fifty times; but he answered with the same
innocent manner as that with which the question was put.

“I'm in trade.”

“In trade! — Keep a store, I dare say, Mr. Hatfield?”

“I do — and one in which I have sold you hundreds myself.”

A general smile succeeded this sally; and Timms looked round
at the audience, with his nose pointing upwards, as if he scented
his game.

“I dare say — I pay as I go,” returned Williams; “and my
memory is not loaded with such transactions—”

“Mr. Williams,” interrupted the judge, a little impatiently,
“the time of the court is very precious.”

“So is the dignity of the outraged laws to the State, your
Honour. We shall soon be through, sir — Many people in the
habit of frequenting your store, Mr. Hatfield?”

“As much so as is usual in the country.”

“Ten or fifteen at a time, on some occasions?”

“I dare say there may be.”

“Has the murder of Peter Goodwin ever been discussed by
your customers in your presence?”

“I don't know but it has — such a thing is very likely; but
one hears so much, I can't say.”

“Did you never join in such a discussion yourself?”

“I may, or I may not.”

“I ask you, now, distinctly, if you had no such discussion on
the 26th of May last, between the hours of eleven and twelve
in the forenoon?”

The sharpness of the manner in which this question was put,
the minuteness of the details, and the particularity of the interrogatories,
quite confounded the juror, who answered accordingly.

“Such a thing might have taken place, and it might not. I
do not remember.”

“Is Jonas White (a regular country loafer) in the habit of
being in your store?”

“He is — it is a considerable lounge for labouring men.”

“And Stephen Hook?”

“Yes; he is there a good deal of his time.”

“Now, I beg you to remember — did not such a conversation
take place, in which you bore a part, between the hours of
eleven and twelve in the forenoon; White and Hook being
present?”

Hatfield seemed perplexed. He very conscientiously desired
to tell the truth, having nothing to gain by an opposite course;
but he really had no recollection of any such discussion, as well
might be the case; no such conversation ever having taken place.
Williams knew the habits of the loafers in question, had selected
the time a little at random, and adopted the particularity merely
as a means of confounding the juror, of whom he was seriously
afraid.

“Such a thing may have happened,” answered Hatfield, after
a pause — “I don't remember.”

“It may have happened — Now, sir, allow me to ask you if,
in that conversation, you did not express an opinion that you did
not, and could not believe that a lady educated and delicate, like
the prisoner at the bar, did, or would, under any circumstances,
commit the offence with which Mary Monson is charged?”

Hatfield grew more and more confounded; for Williams's
manner was more and more confident and cool. In this state of
feeling he suffered the reply to escape him—

“I may have said as much — it seems quite natural.”

“I presume, after this,” observed Williams, carelessly, “your
Honour will order the juror not to enter the box?”

“Not so fast — not so fast, brother Williams,” put in Timms,
who felt it was now his turn to say a word, and who was thumbing
a small pocket-almanac very diligently the while.

“This discussion, I understand the learned gentleman, took
place in the juror's store?”

“It did, sir,” was the answer — “a place where such discussions

are very apt to occur. Hook and White loaf half their
time away in that store.”

“All quite likely — very likely to happen — Mr. Hatfield, do
you open your store on the Sabbath?”

“Certainly not—I am very particular to do nothing of the sort.”

“A church-member, I suppose, sir?”

“An undeserving one, sir.”

“Never, on any account, in the practice of opening your store
of a Sabbath, I understand you to say?”

“Never, except in cases of sickness. We must all respect the
wants of the sick.”

“Are Hook and White in the habit of loafing about on your
premises of a Sunday?”

“Never — I wouldn't tolerate it. The store is a public place
of a week-day, and they can come in if they please; but I
wouldn't tolerate such visits on the Sabbath.”

“Yet, if the court please, the 26th of last May happened to
fall on the Sabbath day! My brother Williams forgot to look
into the almanac before he made up his brief.”

Here Timms sat down, cocking his nose still higher, quite
certain of having made a capital hit towards his views on the
Senate, though he actually gained nothing for the cause. There
was a general simper in the audience; and Williams felt that he
had lost quite as much as his opponent had gained.

“Well, gentlemen, time is precious — let us get on,” interposed
the judge—“Is the juror to enter the box or not?”

“I trust a trifling mistake as to the day of the month is not
about to defeat the ends of justice,” answered Williams, raising
himself higher on his stilts, as he found himself sinking lower
in his facts. “I put it on the 26th by a miscalculation, I can
now see. It was probably on the 25th—Saturday is the loafer's
holiday;—yes, it must have been on Saturday the 25th that the
conversation took place.”

“Do you remember this fact, juror?”

“I remember, now so much has been said on the subject,”
answered Hatfield, firmly, “that I was not at home at all between
the 20th and the 27th of May last. I could have held
no such conversation on the 25th or 26th of May; nor do I
know that I think Mary Monson either innocent or guilty.”

As all this was true, and was uttered with the confidence of
truth, it made an impression on the audience. Williams doubted;
for so fine was his skill in managing men, that he often succeeded
in gaining jurors by letting them understand he suspected them
of being prejudiced against his case. With the weak and vain,
this mode of proceeding has frequently more success than a contrary
course; the party suspected being doubly anxious to illustrate
his impartiality in his verdict. This was what Williams,
and indeed the bar, very generally calls “standing so erect as to
lean backward.”

“Mr. Williams,” said the judge, “you must challenge peremptorily,
or the juror will be received.”

“No, your Honour, the State will accept the juror; I now
see that my information has been wrong.”

“We challenge for the defence,” said Timms, deciding on the
instant, on the ground that if Williams was so ready to change
his course of proceeding, there must be a good reason for it.
“Stand aside, juror.”

“Peter Bailey,” called the clerk.

No objection being made, Peter Bailey took his seat. The
two next jurors were also received unquestioned; and it only
remained to draw the twelfth man. This was so much better
luck than commonly happens in capital cases, that everybody
seemed more and more pleased, as if all were anxious to come to
the testimony. The judge evidently felicitated himself, rubbing
his hands with very great satisfaction. The bar, generally, entered
into his feelings; for it helped along its business.

“On the whole,” observed one of the lawyers who was in
extensive practice, speaking to another at his side, “I would as
soon try one of these murder-cases as to go through with a good
water-cause.”

“Oh! they are excruciating! Get into a good water-cause,
with about thirty witnesses on a side, and you are in for a week.
I was three days at one, only last circuit.”

“Are there many witnesses in this case?”

“About forty, I hear,” glancing towards the benches where
most of the females sat. “They tell me there will be a very
formidable array as to character. Ladies from York by the
dozen!”

“They will be wanted, if all they say is true.

“If all you hear is true, we have reached a new epoch in the
history of mankind. I have never seen the day when half of
that I hear is more than half true. I set the rest down as `leather
and prunella.”'

“Robert Robinson,” cried the clerk.

A respectable-looking man of fifty presented himself, and was
about to enter the box without stopping to ascertain whether or
not he would be welcome there. This person had much more
the air of the world than either of the other jurors; and with
those who are not very particular, or very discriminating in such
matters, might readily enough pass for a gentleman. He was
neatly dressed, wore gloves, and had certain chains, an eye-glass,
and other appliances of the sort, that it is not usual to see at a
country circuit. Neither Williams nor Timms seemed to know
the juror; but each looked surprised, and undecided how he
ought to act. The peremptory challenges were not exhausted;
and there was a common impulse in the two lawyers, first to accept
one so respectable in mien, and attire, and general air; and
then, by a sudden revolution of feeling, to reject one of whom
they knew nothing.

“I suppose the summons is all right,” Williams carelessly
remarked. “The juror resides in Duke's?”

“I do,” was the answer.

“Is a freeholder, and entitled to serve?”

A somewhat supercilious smile came over the countenance of
the juror; and he looked round at the person who could presume
to make such a remark, with something very like an air of contempt.

“I am Doctor Robinson,” he then observed, laying emphasis
on his learned appellation.

Williams seemed at a loss; for, to say the truth, he had never
heard of any such physician in the county. Timms was quite
as much mystified; when a member of the bar leaned across a
table, and whispered to Dunscomb that the juror was a celebrated
quack, who made pills that would cure all diseases; and who,
having made a fortune, had bought a place in the county, and
was to all legal purposes entitled to serve.

“The juror can stand aside,” said Dunscomb, rising in his
slow dignified manner. “If it please the court, we challenge
peremptorily.”

Timms looked still more surprised; and when told the reason
for the course taken by his associate, he was even sorry.

“The man is a quack,” said Dunscomb, “and there is quackery
enough in this system of a jury, without calling in assistance from
the more open practitioners.”

“I'm afraid, 'Squire, he is just the sort of man we want. I
can work on such spirits, when I fail altogether with more everyday-kind
of men. A little quackery does no harm to some
causes.”

“Ira Kingsland,” called out the clerk.

Ira Kingsland appeared, a staid, solid, respectable husband-man—one
of those it is a mistaken usage of the country to term

yeomen; and of a class that contains more useful information,
practical good sense and judgment, than might be imagined,
under all the circumstances.

As no objection was raised, this juror was received, and the
pannel was complete. After cautioning the jurors about listening
and talking, in the usual way, the judge adjourned the court
for dinner.