University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

Addison.

“Call the names of the jurors, Mr. Clerk,” said the judge.

“Mr. Sheriff, I do not see the prisoner in her place.”

This produced a stir. The jurors were called, and answered
to their names; and shortly after, Mary Monson appeared. The
last was accompanied by the ladies, who might now be said to
belong to her party, though no one but herself and Marie Moulin
came within the bar.

There was profound stillness in the hall, for it was felt that
now the issue of life or death was actually approaching. Mary
Monson gazed, not with disquietude but interest, at the twelve
men who were to decide on her innocence or guilt — men of
habits and opinions so different from her own — men so obnoxious
to prejudices against those whom the accidents of life had made
objects of envy or hatred — men too much occupied with the
cares of existence to penetrate the arcana of thought, and who
consequently held their opinions at the mercy of others — men
unskilled, because without practice, in the very solemn and important
office now imposed on them by the law — men who might
indeed be trusted, so long as they would defer to the court and
reason, but who were terrible and dangerous, when they listened,
as is too apt to be the case, to the suggestions of their own impulses,

ignorance and prejudice. Yet these men were Mary
Monson's peers, in the eyes of the law — would have been so
viewed and accepted in a case involving the feelings and practices
of social castes, about which they knew absolutely nothing, or,
what is worse than nothing, a very little through the medium of
misrepresentation and mistaken conclusions.

It is the fashion to extol the institution of the jury. Our own
experience, by no means trifling, as foreman, as suitor, and as a
disinterested spectator, does not lead us to coincide in this opinion.
A narrative of the corrupt, misguided, partial, prejudiced,
or ignorant conduct that we have ourselves witnessed in these
bodies, would make a legend of its own. The power that most
misleads such men, is one unseen by themselves, half the time,
and is consequently so much the more dangerous. The feelings
of neighbourhood, political hostility, or party animosities, are
among the commonest evils that justice has to encounter, when
brought in contact with tribunals thus composed. Then come
the feelings engendered by social castes, an inexhaustible source
of evil passions. Mary Monson had been told of the risks she
ran from that source; though she had also been told, and with
great truth, that so much of the spirit of God still remains in the
hearts and minds of men, as to render a majority of those who
were to be the arbiters of her fate conscientious and careful in a
capital case. Perhaps, as a rule, the singularity of his situation,
with a man who finds himself, for the first time, sitting as a juror
in a trial for a human life, is one of the most available correctives
of his native tendencies to do evil.

“Mr. District Attorney, are you ready to proceed?” inquired
the judge.

This functionary rose, bowed to the court and jury, and commenced
his opening. His manner was unpretending, natural,
and solemn. Although high talent and original thought are very
rare in this country, as they are everywhere else, there is a vast

fund of intellect of a secondary order, ever at the command of
the public. The District Attorney of Duke's was a living witness
of this truth. He saw all within his reach clearly, and, possessing
great experience, he did his duty, on this occasion, in a very
creditable manner. No attempt was made to awaken prejudice
of any sort against the accused. She was presented by the grand
inquest, and it was his and their painful duty, including his
honour on the bench, to investigate this matter, and make a
solemn decision, on their oaths. Mary Monson was entitled to
a fair hearing, to all the advantages that the lenity of the criminal
law of a very humane state of society could afford, and “for
God's sake let her be acquitted should the State fail to establish
her guilt!”

Mr. District Attorney then proceeded to give a narrative of
the events as he supposed them to have occurred. He spoke of
the Goodwins as “poor, but honest” people, a sort of illustration
that is in much favour, and deservedly so, when true. “It
seems, gentlemen,” the District Attorney continued, “that the
wife had a propensity, or a fancy, to collect gold pieces, no doubt
as a store against the wants of age. This money was kept in a
stocking, according to the practice of country ladies, and was
often exhibited to the neighbours. We may have occasion, gentlemen,
to show you that some fifteen or twenty persons, at different
times, have seen and handled this gold. You need not
be told what natural curiosity is, but must all know how closely
persons little accustomed to see money of this sort, would be apt
to examine the more rare pieces, in particular. There happened
to be several of these pieces among the gold of Mrs. Goodwin;
and one of them was an Italian or a Dutch coin, of the value of
four dollars, which commonly goes by the name of the king whose
likeness is on the piece. This Dutch or Italian coin, no matter
which, or William, was seen, and handled, and examined by
several persons, as we shall show you.

“Now, gentlemen, the stocking that contained the gold coins,
was kept in a bureau, which bureau was saved from the fire, with
all its contents: but the stocking and the gold were missing!
These facts will be shown to you by proof that puts them beyond
a peradventure. We shall next show to you, gentlemen, that on
a public examination of the prisoner at the bar, the contents of
her purse were laid open, and the Dutch or Italian coin I have
mentioned was found, along with more than a hundred dollars
of other pieces, which being in American coin, cannot so readily
be identified.

“The prosecution relies, in a great degree, on the proof that
will be offered in connection with this piece of money, to establish
the guilt of the prisoner. We are aware that, when this
piece of money was found on her person, she affirmed it was
hers; that she had been possessed of two such pieces, and that
the one seen in Mrs. Goodwin's stocking had been a present from
herself to that unfortunate woman.

“Gentlemen, if persons accused of crimes could vindicate
themselves by their own naked statements, there would be very
few convictions. Reason tells us that proof must be met by
proof. Assertions will not be received, as against the accused,
nor will they be taken in her favour. Your own good sense will
tell you, gentlemen, that if it be shown that Dorothy Goodwin
possessed this particular piece of gold, valued it highly, and was
in the practice of hoarding all the gold she could lay her hands
on lawfully; that the said Dorothy Goodwin's residence was
burned, she herself murdered by a savage and cruel blow or blows
on the occiput, or head; that Mary Monson, the prisoner at the
bar, knew of the existence of this little stock of gold coins, had
seen it, handled it, and doubtless coveted it; residing in the same
house, with easy access to the bedside of the unhappy couple,
with easy access to the bureau, to the keys which opened that
bureau, for its drawers were found locked, just as Mrs. Goodwin

was in the habit of leaving them; — but, gentlemen, if all this
be shown to you, and we then trace the aforesaid piece or coin to
the pocket of Mary Monson, we make out a prima facie case of
guilt, as I conceive; a case that will throw on her the onus of
showing that she came in possession of the said piece of coin
lawfully, and by no improper means. Failing of this, your duty
will be plain.

“It is incumbent on the prosecution to make out its case,
either by direct proof, on the oaths of credible witnesses, or by
such circumstances as shall leave no doubt in your minds of the
guilt of the accused. It is also incumbent that we show that the
crimes, of which the prisoner is accused, have been committed,
and committed by her.

“Gentlemen, we shall offer you this proof. We shall show
you that the skeletons of which I have spoken, and which lie
under that pall, sad remains of a most ruthless scene, are beyond
all question the skeletons of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin. This
will be shown to you by proof; though all who knew the parties,
can almost see the likeness in these sad relics of mortality. Peter
Goodwin, as will be shown to you, was a very short, but
sturdy man, while Dorothy, his wife, was a woman of large size.
The skeletons meet this description exactly. They were found
on the charred wood of the bedstead the unhappy couple habitually
used, and on the very spot where they had passed so many
previous nights in security and peace. Everything goes to corroborate
the identity of the persons whose remains have been
found, and I regret it should be my duty to add, that everything
goes to fasten the guilt of these murders on the prisoner at the
bar.

“Gentlemen, although we rely mainly on the possession of
the Dutch or Italian coin, no matter which, to establish the case
for the state, we shall offer you a great deal of sustaining and
secondary proof. In the first place, the fact that a female, young,

handsome, well, nay, expensively educated, coming from nobody
knows whence, to go nobody knows whither, should suddenly
appear in a place as retired as the house of Peter Goodwin, why
no one can say, are in themselves very suspicious. Gentlemen,
`all is not gold that glitters.' Many a man, and many a woman,
in places large as New York, are not what they seem to be.
They dress, and laugh, and sing, and appear to be among the
gayest of the gay, when they do not know where to lay their
heads at night. Large towns are moral blotches, they say, on
the face of the community, and they conceal many things that
will not bear the light. From one of these large towns, it is to
be presumed from her dress, manners, education, amusements,
and all belonging to her, came Mary Monson, to ask an asylum
in the dwelling of the Goodwins. Gentlemen, why did she
come? Had she heard of the hoard of Mrs. Goodwin, and did
she crave the possession of the gold? These questions it will be
your duty to answer in your verdict. Should the reply be in the
affirmative, you obtain, at once, a direct clue to the motives for
the murder.

“Among the collateral proof that will be offered are the following
circumstances, to which I now ask your particular attention,
in order that you may give to the testimony its proper value.
It will be shown that Mary Monson had a large sum in gold in
her possession, after the arson and murders, and consequently
after the robbery, but no one know of her having any before.
It will be shown that she has money in abundance, scattering it
right and left, as we suppose to procure her acquittal, and this
money we believe she took from the bureau of Mrs. Goodwin —
how much, is not known. It is thought that the sum was very
large; the gold alone amounted to near a thousand dollars, and
two witnesses will testify to a still larger amount in bank notes.
The Goodwins talked of purchasing a farm, valued at five thousand
dollars; and as they were known never to run in debt, the

fair inference is, that they must have had at least that sum by
them. A legacy was left Dorothy Goodwin within the last six
months, which we hear was very considerable, and we hope to
be able to put a witness on the stand who will tell you all
about it.

“But, gentlemen, a circumstance worthy of all attention in an
investigation like this, is connected with an answer to this question
— Who is Mary Monson? What are her parentage, birthplace,
occupation, and place of residence? Why did she come
to Biberry at all? In a word, what is her past history? Let
this be satisfactorily explained, and a great step is taken towards
her vindication from these most grave charges. Shall we have
witnesses to character? No one will be happier to listen to them
than myself. My duty is far from pleasant. I sincerely hope
the prisoner will find lawful means to convince you of her innocence.
There is not one within the walls of this building who
will hear such a verdict, if sustained by law and evidence, with
greater pleasure than it will be heard by me.”

After pursuing this vein some time longer, the worthy functionary
of the state showed a little of that cloven foot which
seems to grow on all, even to the cleanest heels, who look to the
popular voice for preferment. No matter who the man is, rich
or poor, young or old, foolish or wise, he bows down before the
idol of Numbers, and there worships. Votes being the one thing
wanted, must be bought by sacrifices on the altar of conscience.
Now it is by wild, and, half the time, impracticable schemes of
philanthropy, that while they seem to work good to the majority,
are quite likely to disregard the rights of the minority; now they
are flourishes against negro slavery, or a revolution in favour of
the oppressed inhabitants of Crim-Tartary, of the real state of
which country we are all as ignorant as its inhabitants are ignorant
of us; now, it's an exemption law, to enable a man to escape
from the payment of his just debts, directly in the teeth of

the sound policy, not to say morality, that if a man owe he
should be made to pay as long as he has anything to do it with;
now, it is a hymn in praise of a liberty that the poet neither
comprehends nor cares to look into farther than may suit his own
selfish patriotism; and now, it is some other of the thousand
modes adopted by the designing to delude the masses and advance
themselves

On this occasion the District Attorney was very cautious, but
he showed the cloven foot. He paid a passing tribute to the
god of Numbers, worshipped before the hierarchy of votes.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, “like myself, you are plain, unpretending
citizens. Neither you, nor your wives and daughters,
speak in foreign tongues, or play on foreign instruments of music.
We have been brought up in republican simplicity, [God bless
it! say we, could we ever meet with it,] and lay no claims to superiority
of any sort. Our place is in the body of the nation,
and there we are content to remain. We shall pay no respect
to dress, accomplishments, foreign languages, or foreign music;
but, the evidence sustaining us, will show the world that the law
frowns as well on the great as on the little; on the pretending,
as well as on the unpretending.”

As these grandiose sentiments were uttered, several of the jurors
half rose from their seats, in the eagerness to hear, and looks
of approbation passed from eye to eye. This was accepted as
good republican doctrine; no one there seeing, or feeling, as taste
and truth would have shown, that the real pretension was on the
side of an exaggerated self-esteem, that prompted to resistance
ere resistance was necessary, under the influence of, perhaps, the
lowest passion of human nature — we allude to envy. With a
little more in the same vein, the District Attorney concluded his
opening.

The great coolness, not to say indifference, with which Mary
Monson listened to this speech, was the subject of general comment

among the members of the bar. At times she had been
attentive, occasionally betraying surprise; then indignation would
just gleam in her remarkable eye; but, on the whole, an uncommon
calmness reigned in her demeanour. She had prepared
tablets for notes; and twice she wrote in them as the District
Attorney proceeded. This was when he adverted to her past
life, and when he commented on the Dutch coin. While he was
speaking of castes, flattering one set under the veil of pretending
humility, and undermining their opposites, a look of quiet contempt
was apparent in every feature of her very expressive face.

“If it please the court,” said Dunscomb, rising in his deliberate
way, “before the prosecution proceeds with its witnesses,
I could wish to appeal to the courtesy of the gentlemen on the
other side for a list of their names.”

“I believe we are not bound to furnish any such list,” answered
Williams, quickly.

“Perhaps not bound exactly in law; but, it strikes me, bound
in justice. This is a trial for a life; the proceedings are instituted
by the State. The object is justice, not vengeance — the
protection of society, through the agency of an impartial, though
stern justice. The State cannot wish to effect anything by surprise.
We are accused of murder and arson, with no other notice
of what is to be shown, or how anything is to be shown, than
what is contained in the bill or complaint. Any one can see
how important it may be to us, to be apprised of the names of
the witnesses a little in advance, that we may inquire into character
and note probabilities. I do not insist on any right; but I
ask a favour that humanity sanctions.”

“If it please the court,” said Williams, “we have an important
trust. I will here say that I impute nothing improper to either
of the prisoner's counsel; but it is my duty to suggest the necessity
of our being cautious. A great deal of money has been
expended already in this case; and there is always danger of

witnesses being bought off. On behalf of my client, I protest
against the demand's being complied with.”

“The court has no objection to the course asked by the prisoner's
counsel,” observed the judge, “but cannot direct it. The
State can never wish its officers to be harsh or exacting; but it
is their duty to be prudent. Mr. District Attorney, are you ready
with your evidence? Time is precious, sir.”

The testimony for the prosecution was now offered. We shall
merely advert to most of it, reserving our details for those witnesses
on whom the cause might be said to turn. Two very
decent-looking and well-behaved men, farmers who resided in the
vicinity of Biberry, were put on the stand to establish the leading
heads of the case. They had known Peter and Dorothy Goodwin;
had often stopped at the house; and were familiarly acquainted
with the old couple, as neighbours. Remembered the
fire—was present at it, towards its close. Saw the prisoner there;
saw her descend, by a ladder; and assisted in saving her effects.
Several trunks, carpet-bags, bandboxes, writing-desks, musical
instruments, &c. &c. All were saved. “It seemed to them that
they had been placed near the windows, in a way to be handy.”
After the fire, had never seen or heard anything of the old man
and his wife, unless two skeletons that had been found were their
skeletons. Supposed them to be the skeletons of Peter Goodwin
and his wife” — Here the remains were for the first time on that
trial exposed to view. “Those are the same skeletons, should
say — had no doubt of it; they are about the size of the old
couple. The husband was short; the wife tall. Little or no
difference in their height. Had never seen the stocking or the
gold; but had heard a good deal of talk of them, having lived
near neighbours to the Goodwins five-and-twenty years.”

Dunscomb conducted the cross-examination. He was close,
discriminating, and judicious. Separating the hearsay and gossip
from the facts known, he at once threw the former to the winds,

as matter not to be received by the jury. We shall give a few
of his questions and their answers that have a bearing on the
more material points of the trial.

“I understand you to say, witness, that you knew both Peter
Goodwin and his wife?”

“I did — I knew them well — saw them almost every day of
my life.”

“For how long a time?”

“This many a day. For five-and-twenty years, or a little
more.”

“Will you say that you have been in the habit of seeing Peter
Goodwin and his wife daily, or almost daily, for five-and-twenty
years?”

“If not right down daily, quite often; as often as once or
twice a week, certainly.”

“Is this material, Mr. Dunscomb?” inquired the judge. “The
time of the court is very precious.”

“It is material, your honour, as showing the looseness with
which witnesses testify; and as serving to caution the jury how
they receive their evidence. The opening of the prosecution
shows us that if the charge is to be made out at all against the
prisoner, it is to be made out on purely circumstantial evidence.
It is not pretended that any one saw Mary Monson kill the
Goodwins; but the crime is to be inferred from a series of collateral
facts, that will be laid before the court and jury. I think
your honour will see how important it is, under the circumstances.
to analyze the testimony, even on points that may not seem to
bear directly on the imputed crimes. If a witness testify loosely,
the jury ought to be made to see it. I have a life to defend, your
honour will remember.”

“Proceed, sir; the court will grant you the widest latitude.”

“You now say, as often as once or twice a week, witness; on
reflection, will you swear to even that?”

“Well, if not twice, I am sure I can say once.”

Dunscomb was satisfied with this answer, which went to show
that the witness could reply a little at random, and was not
always certain of his facts, when pressed.

“Are you certain that Dorothy Goodwin is dead?”

“I suppose I am as certain as any of the neighbours.”

“That is not an answer to my question. Will you, and do
you swear on your oath, that Peter Goodwin, the person named
in the indictment, is actually dead?”

“I'll swear that I think so.”

“That is not what I want. You see those skeletons — will
you say, on your oath, that you know them to be the skeletons
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?”

“I'll swear that I believe it.”

“That does not meet the question. Do you know it?”

“How can I know it? I'm not a doctor, or a surgeon. No,
I do not absolutely know it. Still, I believe that one is the
skeleton of Peter Goodwin, and the other the skeleton of his
wife.”

“Which do you suppose to be the skeleton of Peter Goodwin?”

This question puzzled the witness not a little. To the ordinary
eye, there was scarcely any difference in the appearance of these
sad remains; though one skeleton had been ascertained by actual
measurement to be about an inch and a half longer than the
other. This fact was known to all in Biberry; but it was not
easy to say which was which, at a glance. The witness took the
safe course, therefore, of putting his opinion altogether on a different
ground.

“I do not pretend to tell one from the other,” was the answer.
“What I know of my own knowledge is this, and this only. I
knew Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; knew the house they lived
in; know that the house has been burnt down, and that the old

folks are not about their old ha'nts. The skeletons I never saw
until they were moved from the place where they tell me they
were found; for I was busy helping to get the articles saved
under cover.”

“Then you do not pretend to know which skeleton is that of
a man, or which that of a woman?”

This question was ingeniously put, and had the effect to make
all the succeeding witnesses shy on this point; for it created a
belief that there was a difference that might be recognized by
those who are skilled in such matters. The witness assented to
the view of Dunscomb; and having been so far sifted as to show
he knew no more than all the rest of the neighbours, he was
suffered to quit the stand. The result was that very little was
actually established by means of this testimony. It was evident
that the jury was now on the alert, and not disposed to receive
all that was said as gospel.

The next point was to make out all the known facts of the
fire, and of the finding of the skeletons. The two witnesses just
examined had seen the close of the fire, had heard of the skeletons,
but had said very little more to the purpose. Dunscomb
thought it might be well to throw in a hint to this effect in the
present state of the case, as he now did by remarking—

“I trust that the District Attorney will see precisely where he
stands. All that has yet been shown by legal proof are the facts
that there were such persons as Peter and Dorothy Goodwin;
facts we are not at all disposed to deny—”

“And that they have not appeared in the flesh since the night
of the fire?” put in Williams.

“Not to the witnesses; but, to how many others, does not
appear.”

“Does the learned counsel mean to set up the defence that
Goodwin and his wife are not dead?”

“It is for the prosecution to show the contrary affirmatively.

If it be so, it is fair to presume they can do it. All I now contend
for, is the fact that we have no proof as yet that either is
dead. We have proof that the house was burnt; but we are
now traversing an indictment for murder, and not that for arson.
As yet, it strikes me, therefore, nothing material has been shown.”

“It is certainly material, Mr. Dunscomb, that there should
have been such persons as the Goodwins, and that they have disappeared
since the night of the fire; and this much is proved,
unless you impeach the witnesses,” observed the judge.

“Well, sir, that much we are not disposed to deny. There
were such persons as the Goodwins, and they have disappeared
from the neighbourhood. We believe that much ourselves.”

“Crier, call Peter Bacon.”

Bacon came forward, dressed in an entire new suit of clothes, and
appearing much more respectable than was his wont. This man's
testimony was almost word for word as it has already been given
in the coroner's inquest. He established the facts of the fire,
about which there could be no prudent contention indeed, and of
the finding of the skeletons; for he had been one of those who
aided in first searching the ruins for the remains. This man told
his story in an extremely vulgar dialect, as we have had already
occasion to show; but in a very clear, distinct manner. He
meant to tell the truth, and succeeded reasonably well; for it
does not occur to all who have the same upright intentions to
effect their purposes as well as he did himself. Dunscomb's
cross-examination was very brief; for he perceived it was useless
to attempt to deny what had been thus proved.

“Jane Pope” — called out the District Attorney — “Is Mrs.
Jane Pope in court?”

The widow Pope was on the spot, and ready and willing to
answer. She removed her bonnet, took the oath, and was shown
to the seat with which it is usual to accommodate persons of
her sex.

“Your name,” said Dunscomb, holding his pen over the paper.

“Pope — Jane Pope since my marriage; but Jane Anderson
from my parents.”

Dunscomb listened politely, but recorded no more than the
appellation of the widow. Mrs. Pope now proceeded to tell her
story, which she did reasonably well, though not without a good
deal of unnecessary amplitude, and some slight contradictions.
It was her intention, also, to tell nothing but the truth; but
persons whose tongues move as nimbly as that of this woman's,
do not always know exactly what they do say. Dunscomb detected
the contradictions; but he had the tact to see their cause,
saw that they were not material, and wisely abstained from confounding
whatever of justice there was in the defenee with points
that the jury had probably sufficient sagacity to see were of no
great moment. He made no note, therefore, of these little oversights,
and allowed the woman to tell her whole story uninterrupted.
When it came to his turn to cross-examine, however,
the duty of so doing was not neglected.

“You say, Mrs. Pope, that you had often seen the stocking in
which Mrs. Goodwin kept her gold. Of what material was that
stocking?”

“Wool—yes, of blue woollen yarn. A stocking knit by hand,
and very darny.”

“Should you know the stocking, Mrs. Pope, were you to see
it again?”

“I think I might. Dolly Goodwin and I looked over the
gold together more than once; and the stocking got to be a sort
of acquaintance.”

“Was this it?” continued Dunscomb, taking a stocking of the
sort described from Timms, who sat ready to produce the article
at the proper moment.

“If it please the court,” cried Williams, rising in haste, and
preparing eagerly to interrupt the examination.

“Your pardon, sir,” put in Dunscomb, with great self-command,
but very firmly — “words must not be put into the witness's
mouth, nor ideas into her head. She has sworn, may it
please your honour, to a certain stocking; which stocking she
described in her examination in chief; and we now ask her if
this is that stocking. All this is regular, I believe; and I trust
we are not to be interrupted.”

“Go on, sir,” said the judge; “the prosecution will not interrupt
the defence. But time is very precious.”

“Is this the stocking?” repeated Dunscomb.

The woman examined the stocking, looking inside and out,
turning it over and over, and casting many a curious glance at
the places that had been mended.

“It's dreadful darney, isn't it?” she said, looking inquiringly
at the counsellor.

“It is as you see, Ma'am. I have made no alteration in it.”

“I declare I believe this is the very stocking.”

“At the proper time, your honour, we shall show that this is
not the stocking, if indeed there ever was such a stocking at all,”
said Timms, rolling up the article in question, and handing it to
the clerk to keep.

“You saw a certain piece of gold, you say,” resumed Dunscomb,
“which piece of gold I understand you to say was afterwards
found in the pocket of Mary Monson. Will you have the
goodness to say whether the piece of gold which you saw in Mrs.
Goodwin's possession is among these?”—showing a dozen coins;
“or whether one resembling it is here?”

The woman was greatly puzzled. She meant to be honest;
had told no more than was true, with the exception of the little
embellishments that her propensity to imagine and talk rendered
almost unavoidable; but, for the life of her, she could not distinguish
the piece of money, or its counterpart. After examining
the coins for several minutes she frankly admitted her ignorance.

“It is scarcely necessary to continue this cross-examination,”
said Dunscomb, looking at his watch. “I shall ask the court to
adjourn, and to adjourn over until morning. We have reached
the hour for lighting candles; but we have agents out in quest
of most important witnesses; and we ask the loss of this evening
as a favour. It can make no great difference as to the length of
the trial; and the jurors will be all the fresher for a good night's
rest.”

The court acquiesced, and allowed of the adjournment, giving
the jury the usual charge about conversing or making up their
opinions until they had heard the whole testimony; a charge
that both Williams and Timms took very good care to render of
no use in several instances, or as regarded particular individuals.

A decided impression was made in favour of the prisoner by
Mrs. Pope's failure to distinguish the piece of money. In her
examination in chief she saw no difficulty in recognizing the
single piece then shown to her, and which was the Dutch coin
actually found in Mary Monson's purse; but, when it was put
among a dozen others resembling it, more or less, she lost all
confidence in herself, and, to a certain point, completely broke
down as a witness. But Dunscomb saw that the battle had not
yet in truth begun. What had passed was merely the skirmishing
of light troops, feeling the way for the advance of the heavy
columns and the artillery that were to decide the fortunes of the
day.