University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVII.

Addison.

Bench, bar, jury, witnesses and audience, were all astounded.
The trial had been carried on in the most perfect good faith;
and not a human being but the few who had felt the force of
McBrain's testimony, doubted of the death of the individual who
now appeared alive, if not well, in open court. The reader can
better imagine than we can describe, the effects of a resurrection
so entirely unexpected.

When the confusion naturally produced by such a scene had
a little subsided; when all had actually seen, and many had
actually felt, the supposed murdered man, as if to assure themselves
of his being really in the flesh, order was restored; and
the court and bar began to reflect on the course next to be pursued.

“I suppose, Mr. District Attorney,” observed his honour,
“there is no mistake in the person of this individual; but it
were better if we had an affidavit or two. Will you walk this
way, sir?”

A long, private conference, now took place between the public
prosecutor and the judge. Each expressed his astonishment at
the result, as well as some indignation at the deception which
had been practised on the court. This indignation was a little
mollified by the impression, now common to both, that Mary

Monson was a person not exactly in her right mind. There was
so much deception practised among persons accused of crimes,
however, and in connection with this natural infirmity, that public
functionaries like themselves were necessarily very cautious in
admitting the plea. The most offensive part of the whole affair
was the discredit brought on the justice of Duke's! It was not
in nature for these individuals to be insensible to the sort of disgrace
the reappearance of Peter Goodwin entailed on the county
and circuit; and there was a very natural desire to wipe off the
stain. The conference lasted until the affidavits to establish the
facts connected with Goodwin's case were ready.

“Had these affidavits been presented earlier,” said his honour,
as soon as the papers were read, “sentence would not have been
pronounced. The case is novel, and I shall want a little time to
reflect on the course I am to take. The sentence must be gotten
rid of by some means or other; and it shall be my care to see it
done. I hope, brother Dunscomb, the counsel for the accused
have not been parties to this deception?”

“I am as much taken by surprise as your honour can possibly
be,” returned the party addressed, with earnestness, “not having
had the most remote suspicion of the existence of the man said
to have been murdered; else would all the late proceedings have
been spared. As to the course to be taken next, I would respectfully
suggest that the Code be examined. It is an omnium
gatherum; and must contain something to tell us how to undo
all we have done.”

“It were better for all parties had they so been. There are still
two indictments pending over Mary Monson; one for the arson,
and the other for the murder of Dorothy Goodwin. Mr. District
Attorney feels the necessity of trying these cases, or one of them
at least, in vindication of the justice of the State and county;
and I am inclined to think that, under all the circumstances, this
course should be taken. I trust we shall have no more surprises,

and that Dorothy Goodwin will be brought forward at once, if
still living — time is precious.”

“Dorothy Goodwin is dead,” said Mary Monson, solemnly.
“Poor woman! she was called away suddenly, and in her sins.
Little fear of her ever coming here to flout your justice.”

“It may be well to caution your client, Mr. Dunscomb, against
hasty and indiscreet admissions. Let the accused be arraigned,
and a jury be empannelled. Which case do you choose to move
on, Mr. District Attorney?”

Dunscomb saw that his honour was offended, and much in
earnest. He was offended himself, and half disposed to throw
up his brief; but he felt for the situation of a lovely and defenceless
woman. Then his doubts touching his client's sanity began
to take the character of certainty; and he saw how odious it
would be to abandon one so afflicted in her emergency. He
hinted his suspicion to the court; but was told that the fact, under
all the circumstances of the case, was one properly for the jury.
After reflection, the advocate determined not to desert his trust.

We pass over the preliminary proceedings. A jury was empannelled
with very little difficulty; not a challenge having been
made. It was composed, in part, of those who had been in the
box on the late occasion; and, in part, of new men. There was
an air of earnestness and business about them all, that Timms did
not like; but it was too late to raise objections. To own the
truth, the senior counsel cared much less than before for the
result; feeling satisfied that his contemplated application at
Albany would meet with consideration. It is true, Mary Monson
was no anti-renter. She could not come forward with her demand
for mercy with hands dyed in the blood of an officer of that public
which lives under the deception of fancying it rules the land;
murderers who added to their crimes the hateful and pestilent
fraud of attempting to cloak robbery in the garb of righteous
liberty; nor could she come sustained by numbers around the

ballot-box, and bully the executive into acts which the reason
and conscience of every honest man condemn; but Dunscomb
believed that she might come with the plea of a being visited by
the power of her Creator, in constituting her as she was, a woman
not morally accountable for her acts.

All the leading facts, as shown on the former trial, were shown
on this. When the country practitioners were called on to give
their opinions concerning the effect of the blow, they necessarily
became subject to the cross-examination of the counsel for the
prisoner, who did not spare them.

“Were you examined, sir, in the late trial of Mary Monson,
for the murder of Peter Goodwin?” demanded Dunscomb of the
first of these modern Galens who was put on the stand.

“I was, sir.”

“What did you say on that occasion” — looking at his notes
of the other trial, “touching the sex of the persons to whom
those skeletons were thought to have belonged?”

“I said I believed — not knew, but believed, they were the
remains of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin.”

“Did you not use stronger language than that?”

“Not that I remember — I may have done so; but I do not
remember it.”

“Did you not say you had `no doubt' that those were the remains
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?”

“I may have said as much as that. Now you mention the
words, I believe I did.”

“Do you think so now?”

“Certainly not. I cannot think so, after what I have seen.”

“Do you know Peter Goodwin, personally?”

“Very well. I have practised many years in this neighbourhood.”

“Whom, then, do you say that this unfortunate man here,
whom we see alive, though a driveller, really is?”

“Peter Goodwin — he who was thought to have been murdered.
We are all liable to mistakes.”

“You have testified in chief that, in your judgment, the two
persons, of whom we have the remains here in court, were stunned
at least, if not absolutely killed, by the blow that you think fractured
each of their skulls. Now, I would ask if you think the
prisoner at the bar possesses the physical force necessary to enable
her to strike such a blow?”

“That would depend on the instrument she used. A human
skull may be fractured easily enough, by a moderate blow struck
by a heavy instrument.”

“What sort of instrument, for instance?”

“A sword — a bar of iron — or anything that has weight and
force.”

“Do you believe those fractures were given by the same
blow?”

“I do. By one and the same blow.”

“Do you think Mary Monson possesses the strength necessary
to cause those two fractures at a single blow?”

Witness had no opinion on the subject.

“Are the fractures material?”

“Certainly — and must have required a heavy blow to produce
them.”

This was all that could be got from either of the witnesses on
that material point. As respected McBrain, he was subsequently
examined in reference to the same facts. Dunscomb made good
use of this witness, who now commanded the respect of all present.
In the first place, he was adroitly offered to the jury, as
the professional man who had, from the first, given it as his
opinion that both the skeletons were those of females; and this
in the face of all the collected wisdom of Duke's county; an
opinion that was now rendered so probable as almost to amount
to certainty. He (Dunscomb) believed most firmly that the remains

were those of Dorothy Goodwin and the German woman
who was missing.

“Have you examined those skeletons, Dr. McBrain?” Dunscomb
asked.

“I have, sir; and carefully, since the late trial.”

“How do you think the persons to whom they belonged came
to their deaths?”

“I find fractures in the skulls of both. If they lie now as
they did when the remains were found, (a fact that had been
proved by several witnesses,) I am of opinion that a single blow
inflicted the injuries on both; it may be, that blow was not sufficient
to produce death; but it must have produced a stupor, or
insensibility, which would prevent the parties from seeking refuge
against the effects of the flames—”

“Is the learned witness brought here to sum up the cause?”
demanded Williams, with one of those demoniacal sneers of his,
by means of which he sometimes carried off a verdict. “I wish
to know, that I may take notes of the course of his argument.”

McBrain drew back, shocked and offended. He was naturally
diffident, as his friend used to admit, in everything but wives;
and as regarded them “he had the impudence of the devil.
Ned would never give up the trade until he had married a dozen,
if the law would see him out in it. He ought to have been a
follower of the great Mahomet, who made it a point to take a
new wife at almost every new moon!” The judge did not like
this sneer of Williams; and this so much the less, because, in
common with all around him, he had imbibed a profound respect
for the knowledge of the witness. It is true, he was very much
afraid of the man, and dreaded his influence at the polls; but he
really had too much conscience to submit to everything. A judge
may yet have a conscience—if the Code will let him.

“This is very irregular, Mr. Williams, not to say improper,”
his honour mildly remarked. “The witness has said no more

than he has a right to say; and the court must see him protected.
Proceed with your testimony, sir.”

“I have little more to say, if it please the court,” resumed
McBrain, too much dashed to regain his self-possession in a moment.
As this was all Williams wanted, he permitted him to
proceed in his own way; and all the doctor had to say was soon
told to the jury. The counsel for the prosecution manifested
great tact in not cross-examining the witness at all. In a subsequent
stage of the trial, Williams had the impudence to insinuate
to the jury that they did not attach sufficient importance to his
testimony, to subject him to this very customary ordeal.

But the turning point of this trial, as it had been that of the
case which preceded it, was the evidence connected with the piece
of money. As the existence of the notch was now generally
known, it was easy enough to recognise the coin that had been
found in Mary Monson's purse; thus depriving the accused of
one of her simplest and best means of demonstrating the ignorance
of the witnesses. The notch, however, was Mrs. Burton's
great mark, under favour of which her very material testimony
was now given as it had been before.

Dunscomb was on the point of commencing the cross-examination,
when the clear melodious voice of Mary Monson herself
was heard for the first time since the commencement of the trial.

“Is it permitted to me to question this witness?” demanded
the prisoner.

“Certainly,” answered the judge. “It is the right of every
one who is arraigned by the country. Ask any question that
you please.”

This was a somewhat liberal decision as to the right of cross-examining;
and the accused put on it a construction almost as
broad as the privilege. As for the witness, it was very apparent
she had little taste for the scrutiny that she probably foresaw she
was about to undergo; and her countenance, attitude, and answers,

each and all betrayed how much distaste she had for the
whole procedure. As permission was obtained, however, the
prisoner did not hesitate to proceed.

“Mrs. Burton,” said Mary Monson, adopting, as well as she
knew how, the manner of the gentlemen of the bar, “I wish you
to tell the court and jury when you first saw the notched piece
of money?”

“When I first saw it? I saw it first, when aunt Dolly first
showed it to me,” answered the witness.

Most persons would have been dissatisfied with this answer,
and would probably have caused the question to be repeated in
some other form; but Mary Monson seemed content, and went
on putting her questions, just as if she had obtained answers to
meet her views.

“Did you examine it well?”

“As well as I desired to. There was nothing to prevent it.”

“Did you know it immediately, on seeing it in my purse?”

“Certainly — as soon as I saw the notch.”

“Did Mrs. Goodwin point out the notch to you, or did you
point out the notch to her?”

“She pointed it out to me; she feared that the notch might
lessen the value of the coin.”

“All this I have heard before; but I now ask you, Mrs. Burton,
in the name of that Being whose eye is everywhere, did you
not yourself put that piece of money in my purse, when it was
passing from hand to hand, and take out of it the piece without
a notch? Answer me, as you have a regard for your soul?”

Such a question was altogether out of the rules regulating the
queries that may be put to witnesses, an answer in the affirmative
going directly to criminate the respondent; but the carnest manner,
solemn tones, and, we may add, illuminated countenance of
Mary Monson, so far imposed on the woman, that she quite lost
sight of her rights, if she ever knew them. What is much more

remarkable, neither of the counsel for the prosecution interposed
an objection. The District Attorney was willing that justice
should have its way; and Williams began to think it might be
prudent to manifest less anxiety for a conviction than he had done
in the case in which the party murdered had been resuscitated.
The judge was entranced by the prisoner's manner.

“I believe I have as much regard for my soul as any of the
neighbours have for theirs,” answered Mrs. Burton, sullenly.

“Let us learn that in your reply — Did you, or did you not,
change those pieces of gold?”

“Perhaps I might — It's hard to say, when so much was said
and done.”

“How came you with the other piece, with which to make the
exchange? Answer, Sarah Burton, as you fear God?”

The witness trembled like an aspen-leaf. So remarkable was
the scene, that no one thought of interfering; but the judge, the
bar, and the jury, seemed equally willing to leave the two females
to themselves, as the most efficient means of extorting the truth.
Mary Monson's colour heightened; her mien and countenance
grew, as it were, with the occasion; while Sarah Burton's became
paler and paler, as each question was put, and the reply pressed.

“I can have money, I hope, as well as other folks,” answered
the witness.

“That is no reply. How came you with the piece of gold
that is notched, that you could exchange it for the piece which
was not notched, and which was the one really found in my purse?
Answer me that, Sarah Burton; here, where we both stand in
the presence of our great Creator?”

“There's no need of your pressing a body so awfully — I
don't believe it's law.”

“I repeat the question — or I will answer it for you. When
you fired the house—”

The woman screamed, and raised her hands in natural horror.

“I never set the house on fire,” she cried — “It took from the
stove-pipe in the garret, where it had taken twice before.”

“How can you know that, unless you saw it? — How see it,
unless present?”

“I was not there, and did not see it; but I know the garret
had caught twice before from that cook-stove-pipe. Aunt Dolly
was very wrong to neglect it as she did.”

“And the blows on the head — who struck those blows, Sarah
Burton?”

“How can I tell? I wasn't there — no one but a fool could
believe you have strength to do it.”

“How, then, was it done? Speak — I see it in your mind?”

“I saw the ploughshare lying on the heads of the skeletons;
and I saw Moses Steen throw it off, in the confusion of first raking
the embers. Moses will be likely to remember it, if sent for, and
questioned.”

Here was a most important fact elicited under the impulse of
self-justification; and a corresponding expression of surprise,
passed in a murmur, through the audience. The eye of Mary
Monson kindled with triumph; and she continued with renewed
powers of command over the will and conscience of the witness.

“This is well, Sarah Burton—it is right, and what you ought
to say. You think that the fire was accidental, and that the fractured
skulls came from the fall of the plough?”

“I do. I know that the plough stood in the garret, directly
over the bed, and the stove-pipe passed quite near it. There was
an elbow in that pipe, and the danger was at that elbow.”

“This is well; and the eye above looks on you with less displeasure,
Sarah Burton” — as this was said, the witness turned
her looks timidly upwards, as if to assure herself of the fact —
“Speak holy truth, and it will soon become benignant and forgiving.
Now tell me how you came by the stocking and its
contents?”

“The stocking!” said the witness, starting, and turning white
as a sheet. “Who says I took the stocking?”

“I do. I know it by that secret intelligence which has been
given me to discover truth. Speak, then, Sarah, and tell the court
and jury the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Nobody saw me take it; and nobody can say I took it.”

“Therein you are mistaken. You were seen to take it. I
saw it, for one; but there was another who saw it, with its motive,
whose eye is ever on us. Speak, then, Sarah, and keep
nothing back.”

“I meant no harm, if I did take it. There was so many folks
about, I was afraid that some stranger might lay hands on it.
That's all.”

“You were seen to unlock the drawers, as you stood alone
near the bureau, in the confusion and excitement of the finding
of the skeletons. You did it stealthily, Sarah Burton.”

“I was afraid some one might snatch the stocking from me.
I always meant to give it up, as soon as the law said to whom it
belongs. Davis wants it, but I'm not sure it is his.”

“What key did you use? Keep nothing back.”

“One of my own. My keys unlocked many of aunt Dolly's
drawers. She knew it, and never found any fault with it. Why
should she? Her keys unlocked mine!”

“Another word — where is that stocking, and where are its
contents?”

“Both are safe in the third drawer of my own bureau, and
here is the key,” taking one from her bosom. “I put them
there for security, as no one opens that drawer but myself.”

Timms took the key from the unresisting hand of the woman,
and followed by Williams, Davis, and one or two more, he left
the court-house. At that instant, Sarah Burton fainted. In the
confusion of removing her into another room, Mary Monson resumed
her seat.

“Mr. District Attorney, it can hardly be your intention to
press this indictment any further?” observed the judge, wiping
his eyes, and much delighted with the unexpected termination
of the affair.

The functionary addressed was glad enough to be rid of his
unwelcome office, and at once signified his willingness to enter a
nolle prosequi, by an application to the bench, in the case of the
arson, and to submit to an acquittal in that now being traversed.
After a brief charge from the judge, the jury gave a verdict of
acquittal, without leaving the box; and just as this was done,
Timms and his companions returned, bringing with them the
much-talked-of stocking.

It required months completely to elucidate the whole affair;
but so much is already known, and this part of our subject being
virtually disposed of, we may as well make a short summary of
the facts, as they were already in proof, or as they have since
come to light.

The fire was accidental, as has been recently ascertained by
circumstances it is unnecessary to relate. Goodwin had left his
wife, the night before the accident, and she had taken the German
woman to sleep with her. As the garret-floor above this
pair was consumed, the plough fell, its share inflicting the blow
which stunned them, if it did not inflict even a greater injury.
That part of the house was first consumed, and the skeletons
were found, as has been related, side by side. In the confusion
of the scene, Sarah Burton had little difficulty in opening the
drawer, and removing the stocking. She fancied herself unseen;
but Mary Monson observed the movement, though she had then
no idea what was abstracted. The unfortunate delinquent maintains
that her intention, at the time, was good; or, that her sole
object was to secure the gold; but, is obliged to confess that the
possession of the treasure gradually excited her cupidity, until
she began to hope that this hoard might eventually become her

own. The guilty soonest suspect guilt. As to “the pure, all
things are pure,” so it is with the innocent, who are the least
inclined to suspect others of wicked actions. Thus was it with
Mrs. Burton. In the commission of a great wrong herself, she
had little difficulty in supposing that Mary Monson was the sort
of person that rumour made her out to be. She saw no great
harm, then, in giving a shove to the descending culprit. When
looking into the stocking, she had seen, and put in her own
pocket, the notched piece, as a curiosity, there being nothing
more unusual in the guilty thus incurring unnecessary risks,
than there is in the moth's temerity in fluttering around the
candle. When the purse of Mary Monson was examined, as
usually happens on such occasions, we had almost said as always happens, in the management of cases that are subsequently to
form a part of the justice of the land, much less attention was
paid to the care of that purse than ought to have been bestowed
on it. Profiting by the neglect, Sarah Burton exchanged the
notched coin for the perfect piece, unobserved, as she again fancied;
but once more the watchful eye of Mary Monson was on
her. The first time the woman was observed by the last, it was
accidentally; but suspicion once aroused, it was natural enough
to keep a look-out on the suspected party. The act was seen,
and at the moment that the accused thought happy, the circumstance
was brought to bear on the trial. Sarah Burton maintains
that, at first, her sole intention was to exchange the imperfect
for the perfect coin; and that she was induced to swear to
the piece subsequently produced, as that found on Mary Monson's
person, as a literal fact, ignorant of what might be its consequences.
Though the devil doubtless leads us on, step by step,
deeper and deeper, into crime and sin, it is probable that, in this
particular, the guilty woman applied a flattering unction to her
conscience, that the truth would have destroyed.

Great was the wonder, and numberless were the paragraphs

that this unexpected issue of the “great Biberry murders” produced.
As respects the last, anything that will fill a column is
a god-send, and the falsehood has even a value that is not to be
found in the truth, as its contradiction will help along quite as
much as the original statements. If the public could only be
brought to see what a different thing publicity becomes in the
hands of those who turn it to profit, from what it is thought to
be, by those who fancy it is merely a mode of circulating facts, a
great step towards a much-needed reformation would be taken,
by confining the last within their natural limits.

Mary Monson's name passed from one end of the Union to
the other, and thousands heard and read of this extraordinary
woman, who never had the smallest clue to her real character or
subsequent history. How few reflected on the defects of the
system that condemned her to the gallows on insufficient testimony;
or, under another phase of prejudice, might have acquitted
her when guilty! The random decisions of the juries, usually
well-meaning, but so rarely discriminating, or as intelligent as
they ought to be, attract very little attention beyond the bar;
and even the members of that often strike a balance in error,
with which they learn to be content; gaining in one cause as
much as they lose in another.

There was a strong disposition in the people assembled at Biberry,
on the occasion of the trial, to make a public spectacle of
Mary Monson. The right to do this, with all things in heaven
and earth, seems to belong to “republican simplicity,” which is
beginning to rule the land with a rod of iron. Unfortunately
for this feeling, the subject of momentary sympathy was not a
person likely to allow such a license. She did not believe, because
she had endured one set of atrocious wrongs, that she was
bound to submit to as many more as gaping vulgarity might see
fit to inflict. She sought the protection of good Mrs. Gott and
her gaol, some forms being necessary before the sentence of death

could be legally gotten rid of. In vain were the windows again
crowded, with the virtuous wish of seeing how Mary Monson
looked, now she was acquitted, just as they had been previously
thronged in order to ascertain how she looked when there was a
chance of her being condemned to the gallows. The most extraordinary
part of the affair, was the circumstance that the harp
became popular; the very sentiment, act, or thing that, in one
condition of the common mind, is about to be `cut down and
cast into the fire,' becoming in another, all that is noble, commendable,
or desirable. The crowd about the windows of the
gaol, for the first few hours after the acquittal, was dying to
hear the prisoner sing and play, and would gladly have tolerated
the harp and a `foreign tongue' to be thus gratified.

But Mary Monson was safe from all intrusion, under the locks
of the delighted Mrs. Gott. This kind-hearted person kissed
her prisoner, over and over again, when she admitted her within
the gallery, and then she went outside, and assured several of the
more respectable persons in the crowd how thoroughly she had
been persuaded, from the first, of the innocence of her friend.
The circumstances of this important trial rendered Mrs. Gott a
very distinguished person herself, in that crowd, and never was a
woman happier than she while delivering her sentiments on the
recent events.

“It's altogether the most foolish trial we have ever had in
Duke's, though they tell me foolish trials are getting to be only
too common,” said the kind-hearted wife of the sheriff, addressing
half-a-dozen of the more respectable of the crowd. “It gave
me a big fright, I will own. When Gott was elected sheriff, I
did hope he would escape all executions but debt executions.
The more he has of them, the better. It's bad enough to escort
thieves to Sing-Sing; but the gallows is a poor trade for a decent
man to meddle with. Then, to have the very first sentence, one
against Mary Monson, who is as much above such a punishment

as virtue is above vice. When I heard those dreadful words, I
felt as if a cord was round my own neck. But I had faith to
the last; Mary has always told me that she should be acquitted,
and here it has all come true, at last.”

“Do you know, Mrs. Gott,” said one of her friends, “it is
reported that this woman—or lady, I suppose one must now call
her—has been in the habit of quitting the gaol whenever she
saw fit.”

“Hu-s-h, neighbor Brookes; there is no need of alarming
the county! I believe you are right; though it was all done
without my knowledge, or it never would have been permitted.
It only shows the power of money. The locks are as good as
any in the State; yet Mary certainly did find means, unbeknown
to me, to open them. It can't be called breaking gaol, since she
always came back! I had a good fright the first time I heard
of it, but use reconciles us to all things. I never let Gott into
the secret, though he's responsible, as he calls it, for all his
prisoners.”

“Well, when a matter turns out happily, it does no good to
be harping on it always.”

Mrs. Gott assented, and in this case, as in a hundred others,
the end was made to justify the means. But Mary Monson was
felt to be an exception to all rules, and there was no longer any
disposition to cavil at any of her proceedings. Her innocence
had been established so very triumphantly, that every person
regarded her vagaries and strange conduct with indulgence.

At that very moment, when Mrs. Gott was haranguing her
neighbours at the door of the gaol, Dunscomb was closeted with
Michael Millington at the Inn; the young man having returned
at hot-speed only as the court adjourned. He had been successful,
notwithstanding his original disappointment, and had ascertained
all about the hitherto mysterious prisoner of the Biberry
gaol. Mary Monson was, as Dunscomb suspected, Mildred Millington

by birth—Mad. de Larocheforte by marriage—and she
was the grand-daughter of the very woman to whom he had been
betrothed in youth. Her insanity was not distinctly recognised,
perhaps could not have been legally established, though it was
strongly suspected by many who knew her intimately, and was a
source of great uneasiness with all who felt an interest in her
welfare. Her marriage was unhappy, and it was supposed she
had taken up her abode in the cottage of the Goodwins to avoid
her husband. The command of money gave her a power to do
very much as she pleased, and, though the breath of calumny
had never yet blown its withering blast on her name, she erred
in many things that are duties as grave as that of being chaste.
The laws came in aid of her whims and caprices. There is no
mode by which an errant wife can be made to perform her duties
in boldly experimenting New York, though she can claim a
support and protection from her husband. The `cup and saucer'
law comes in aid of this power, and the men who cannot keep
their wives in the chains of Hymen in virtue of the affections,
may just as well submit, with a grace, to be the victims of an
ill-judging and most treacherous regard for the rights of what
are called the weaker sex.