University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Scrags had so far eluded justice. When he
left the court-house he forged a check upon one of
the banks for ten thousand dollars, obtained the
money, and left the city in a steamboat before his
absence from the court was observed. It was
thought he had gone to one of the new states in
the far West. As Mr. Shaffer had not yet returned,
the court appointed Bradshaw to attend
to his duties; in their fulfilment, the case of Johnson,
the watchman, was presented to the grand
jury. They found an indictment against him for
murder in the first degree.

Johnson sent his wife and daughter to Bradshaw,
to implore his tenderness. Of course, he resisted;
but not without being deeply moved by their tearful
solicitations. A by-stander, to have heard them,
would have supposed that Johnson was one of the
best husbands and fathers in the world. In such
cases, lawyers are often placed in situations that
probe their feelings to the core; but as Erskine
said, on a memorable occasion, they should “do
their duty, and leave the consequence to God.”

What lawyer has not observed this difference

between the sexes, namely: If a woman is indicted
for an offence, who attends her in the awful presence
of justice, to console and cheer her, braving
the stare of the gaping crowd, the humiliation of
such companionship and such a connexion?—a
mother or a sister. How seldom a father, a brother,
or a husband! If a man is placed in the bar,
who is most solicitous for him?—always his aged
mother, his broken-hearted wife, or his sorrowing
daughter. Shame, sorrow, degradation, contempt,
are all forgotten in the strength of a woman's love.
How seldom in a man's! If he attends—and when
does he?—his look towards the prisoner at the bar,
though his nearest relative, is often dark and scowling—a
sense of the shame that attaches to himself
weighing on him at the very crisis of the prisoner's
fate. A woman's look is that of compassion and
sympathy. She thinks not of her own situation, or
of the opinion of the crowd around her, as regards
herself: if she glances at them, it is only when some
part of the testimony makes for or against him, or
the judge or the lawyer speaks upon some strong
point, that she may discern their opinions of his
fate. She watches his every movement: if she is
near him, she anticipates his every want—she hands
him the glass of water to quench the fever that
anxiety has produced—she walks by his side from
the court to the prison, and from the prison to the
court—she sits as near to him in the court as possible—she
would sit in the bar with him, would
they allow her—she waits, for hours, to exchange
one word with him through the grated door—she
rakes and scrapes all she can to make him decent
at his trial, that his appearance may produce a favourable
impression. If the awful verdict is against
him, she forsakes him not, though all the world have
forsaken him. In the last extremity, she is by his
side with a love that, like a noble arch, pressure
strengthens. She attends him to the very foot of
the gallows—his ignominy, his ill-treatment of her
are not thought of. Whose wail was that, which,
when the fatal drop fell, pierced every ear and every
heart with the conviction that there was one whose
pang was keener even than the dying convict's?—
'twas hers. And she will beg his body, and compose
decently the distorted limbs, and bury him
with care. The spot where he is laid, though
known as the murderer's grave,—which the world
points to with horror, and where superstition says
no grass will ever grow,—is, nevertheless, a hallowed
spot to her, where she will even plant the
flower and nurture the grass, to induce the belief
that, if superstition is correct, the sleeper is innocent.
What the poet makes her say is true—

Johnson made a desperate struggle for his life.
He employed, as his counsel, the celebrated Mr.
W—t.

In this city, where our narrative is laid,—which,
as we have before told our readers, for good and sufficient
reasons, we may not name, there being, may
be, more truth in our story, than is necessary to
make a novel,—in this city it was customary for
the ladies, (the very fashionable ones,) to attend

important trials, when it was understood that there
would be nothing said that a delicate ear might
not hear. The ladies were very anxious to attend
this trial. First of all, perhaps, they wished to see
Jane Durham, of whom they had heard a great
deal; and, secondly, they were desirous of hearing
the speech of Mr. W—t, who was esteemed, by
many of the best judges, the best advocate of our
country, and that of Bradshaw, whose rising reputation,
and marked character, were becoming, daily,
a subject of more interest; and, lastly, if we were
scandalous, or even disposed to attribute to the sex
some of those characteristics, which certain cynics
have attributed to them so often, that the common
ear has been abused, we should say, some personal
considerations of the array they would make mingled
with their curiosity. Certain it is, that, at
the house of Mrs. Grey, the day before the trial,
several of the fair fashionables, among whom she
was the leader, after debating the matter among
themselves, whether there would be any impropriety
in attending the trial, resolved, unanimously,
that there was none. And Willoughby, Cavendish,
and several other gentlemen, were advised that
their services, as beaux, were expected on the occasion.

“They should have called us into the council,”
said Cavendish to Willoughby, “before they determined
to poke themselves into the court-house, and
push us out of our seats, to witness a trial for murder!
This is worse than yours and Bradshaw's
mania for thief-catching. They'd better commence
the practice of the law, at once. They've got to

wearing the breeches,—at least, so their ankles indicate,—and,
by and by, they'll throw off their
own apparel, and stand revealed in ours. But,
Kentuck, we must take the girls, Miss Carlton and
Miss Bradshaw: they want to hear W—t and
Bradshaw—a proper curiosity in them. I'll wait
on Miss Bradshaw.”

“You'll miss the figure, there,” said Kentuck. “I
have engaged to attend her and Miss Carlton, myself.
I'll resign Miss C. to you, if you say so.”

“Ah! jumps the cat that way? I thought you
told me once, you `looked to the west when you
went to your rest'—quoting Burns.”

“So I do; and I may tell you that the Purchase
lies directly west from the city—but I'm Bradshaw's
friend, as well as yourself. And as I am a
broad-shouldered Kentuckian, I can push my way
through the crowd better than you; and I want
Miss Bradshaw to have a good seat, that she may
hear her brother.”

“Very friendly,” exclaimed Cavendish. “Well,
from the same friendly motive, I'll escort Miss
Carlton, and follow in the wake of your broad
shoulders—she takes an interest in Bradshaw, too,
I take it.”

The night before the trial, Bradshaw, an hour
after dark, closed the book which he was reading
in his office, and, rising, said to himself—

“To-morrow comes on the trial of Johnson.—
W—t will make a great speech. He ought to;
he is gray in greatness, with the experience of fifty
winters on his head—with an intellect ripened,
matured, in its fullest vigour. Like certain rare

trees, it bears fruits and flowers—the imagination
of the poet and the subtlety of the logician at the
same time. Well, I've been studying hard all day;
I can't know the case better if I study it till it comes
on. I'll slip on my best bib and tucker; wear a careless
mien—a smooth brow—and go to the party:—
but—

When Bradshaw entered the court-room the
next morning, he found Nancy seated at her usual
place, within the door of the large area, from which
passages lead to the clerk's office, the civil court,
the criminal court, &c., eyeing sharply over her
specks the motley crowd—anticipating, no doubt,
a rich harvest, for she had a more than usual supply
upon her table, temptingly arranged.

“Beck, you hussy, stand close to me. Two for
a fip, honey—them apples are two for a fip. The
frost killed 'em all last spring—and, remember,
this is spring again. Ah! Bradshaw, is that ye—
no news of Scrags yet.”

“No, Nancy, not a word.”

“Ye may depend he's gone for good, Bradshaw;
he was the meanest white man going—he was jist
like one of them apples I've pitched away there—
rotten to the core; he'll be overtaken yet in his iniquity,
ye may depend. Ther's a judgment agin
him.”

Bradshaw passed on.

“Beck,” exclaimed Nancy, to her girl, “pick up
yer spelling-book; don't ye see it's drapped in the
dust. Though I'm none of yer abolitions, as ye call

'em,” continued Nancy, addressing an acquaintance
who was buying some apples; “for I believe niggers
were meant for slaves—yet they ought to have
learning enough to read God's word. Beck can
spell now. In her book ther's some reading besides
spelling; and I like to look over it myself sometimes—it's
as good as a sarmont.”

“Ah, dears,” continued Nancy, as she turned
and beheld Miss Bradshaw and her companions;
“ye've come to hear the trial, hey? Well, it
ain't often such sweet girls as ye come to court—
and I wish all that come could have such happy
faces—but that can't be. Miss Emily, your brother
has brought this murder to light, bravely;—
he kept dark till the nick o' time.”

The ladies stopped and spoke with Nancy.
She pressed nuts and apples on them. Kentuck
put his hand in his pocket to pay for them.

“Kentuck!” exclaimed Nancy, (she gave him
the appellation his friends generally gave him,)
“wait till I ask ye, will ye? Dears, get good
seats. Jist on them chairs, behind the jury-box,
is a good place. Josey Mulvany!—I was jist
calling to Josey to get ye chairs—but the poor
man's got the rheumatiz.”

The ladies entered the court room, and were
so fortunate as to obtain the seats recommended
by Nancy.

“Who is that beautiful creature that Mr. Bradshaw
is talking with?” asked Mary Carlton, of
Willoughby, a few minutes after they were
seated.

“Where?—Ah! to the left of the box opposite;—that's
the fair lady for whom he played
knight errant.”

“What a sweet face that girl has beside her!”

“She's the jailer's daughter. Bradshaw calls
her his jaileress of hearts.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Grey. “Why, Mr.
Bradshaw is as republican as democratic in his
gallantry, as he is in his politics.”

“We must give him credit for sincerity, at
least,” said Miss Carlton; “for, unlike many politicians,
he practises what he preaches.”

Bradshaw here discovered them, and made his
way through the crowd to the side of Mrs. Grey.
The lady laughed, and repeated to him what she
had said.

“Lucy, lady,” said he, in reply, “is what Halleck,
our American poet, calls one of `Nature's
Aristocracy.' The flower that blooms in a jail yard,
is as beautiful, to me, as that which grows upon
the castle walls,—more so, if in itself it is beautiful;
because it must have rare virtues to win the
respect of the inmates of such a place—and Lucy
has won it. Flowers, lady, cannot choose their
birth-place, any more than the fair beings of
whom poesy makes them the type.”

Here the O! yes—O! yes—of the crier rang
through the court-house. Bradshaw took his seat
at the trial-table. Johnson was brought in, and
placed at the bar. The prisoner made an effort
to look frank and unembarrassed. When the indictment
was read to him, he said, not guilty, in a
husky voice. His weeping wife and daughter followed

him, and took their seats touching the railing
which encircled him. They looked around
anxiously—at the judges—at the lawyers—at the
crowd—where, seemingly finding nothing in the
expression of their countenances favourable to
their relative, they turned, with imploring eye,
to the glittering throng of their own sex, who, in
the pride of beauty and wealth, occupied nearly
half the place allotted to the lawyers, and all the
space behind the jury-box,—there, indeed, they
met sympathetic looks.

“What detains us, Mr. Bradshaw?” asked the
judge.

“May it please your honour, we wait the
coming of Mr. W—t. The clerk had better
call the witnesses; in the mean time Mr. W—t
will, no doubt, arrive.”

While the names of the witnesses were being
called, Mr. W—t entered. Mr. W—t was
a tall, thick-set man, dressed well, may be, with
a little dash of dandyism; for, knowing the interest
the cause had excited, he was not unmindful
either of the physical or mental man. He had a
full face, rather cadaverous complexion, which
proceeded partly from intense study, and partly
from excesses, that had impaired his constitution
in early life, though now he was a model of all
“that might become a man.” From complete
obscurity, and doubtful parentage, he had forced
his own way; and not only reformed the indiscretions—to
use no harsher term—into which an
acute sensibility, contemplating his friendless condition,
in his start in life, had plunged him, but

he had won a reputation, which, for forensic eloquence
and legal acumen, was not surpassed by
any of his countrymen. He had devoted himself
exclusively to his profession, what so few American
lawyers of commanding talents do. His eye
was blue—nose hooked—forehead compact, and
broad. His manners were those of a finished gentleman.

“Mr. Bradshaw,” said Mr. W—t, “I see I
shall have to gird on my best armour. I am rather
rusty in criminal law—it is some time since
I have practised it—though we often gather our
greenest laurel in this field.”

Bradshaw bowed, and, smiling, said, he came
not to gather laurels, but to accustom himself to
the field in which they were won.

W—t smiled, shrewdly, and shook his head.

The testimony given on Jane Durham's trial
against Johnson was now presented to the jury in
extenso. We need not recapitulate it. Job Presley,
the Rev. Mr. Norris, and the person who had overheard
the conversation by his cell door, between
Johnson and old Moll, were, of course, examined,
and cross-examined by Mr. W—t, but all his
skill could not detect them in a contradiction, nor
lead them into one. The next witness called to
the stand was Fritz. He corroborated all that
Jane Durham had stated of the events at the ball.
It was he who told the crowd around her, in the
ball room, to let her alone. He stated, that the
quarrel arose between the stranger, Carpenter,
who was killed, and some of the frequenters of

Dean's, about a girl who lived with old Moll, called
Sal, and because of his intrusion among them, he
not being, as they said, of their set. The girl had
brought him to the ball, and quarrelled with him
after he got there; and when some of the company
took it up, she gave one of them a dirk, and told
him to stab Carpenter. Carpenter was stabbed,
but not seriously, when, in the midst of the riot,
Johnson, the watchman came in. The company
gave way to him, and did his bidding, all but Carpenter,
who, not knowing he was a watchman,
used ill language to him, at which Johnson struck
him repeatedly with his pantoon, and led him by
the collar out of the house. Johnson treated him
so roughly, that some of them called out not to kill
him. Fritz and another followed Johnson out; the
watchman led Carpenter by the collar some way
from the house, when the crowd returned to it.—
Carpenter asked Johnson where he was going to
take him, just as they got by the lamp, and Johnson
knocked him down: he fell with his head against
the curb-stone. While he was down, Johnson
kicked and beat him, telling him to get up. Finding
he could not rise, the watchman stooped down, and
tried to lift him, muttered something to himself,
and walked up to old Moll, who was standing in
the shade, against the house, not far off. They
spoke in a low tone; Fritz and his friend not wishing
Johnson to know that they observed his conduct,
returned to the ball. Fritz was followed by Big
Bob, the person who was with him, and saw Johnson
assault Carpenter—his testimony was the same.

Jane Durham, also, was examined. When she
told of Johnson's manner by the dead body, Mr.
W—t inquired how she came there. In answer,
she narrated how Bradshaw had rescued her,
in a way that interested the whole court—while
every one was impressed with her beauty, her
friendless condition, and her modesty. All eyes
were alternately fixed upon Bradshaw and her.
“Bradshaw is really blushing,” whispered Talbot,
(the gentleman, our readers remember, who reproached
Jekyl for being a blacksmith, at the debating
society, for which Bradshaw commented severely
on him)—to Mrs. Grey: “this is the first time
I ever saw the soft suffusion in his cheek.”

“When for such a cause shall we see the soft suffusion
in your cheek?” asked Miss Carlton, who
overheard him.

“Never, I fear, Miss Carlton, if I have to frequent
such places as this young woman has described,
to show my chivalry.”

“I hope you may never frequent them for any
other purpose,” said Mrs. Gray, who liked not
Talbot's implication, and who was one of your
ladies who cared not what she said. Mary Carlton
turned, and affected to attend to the trial—but
her thoughts wandered, and were troubled.

The physicians who examined the dead body were
sworn: they testified, unanimously, that there were
two wounds on the head, either of which was sufficient,
to have caused his death, as the skull was fractured
terribly in both places. One wound was on the
top of the head—it had completely mashed in the
skull—the other was over the eye; and it was

thought was produced by Carpenter's falling against
the curb-stone, when he was knocked down. His
body was found a considerable distance from the
lamps; and, from marks upon the clothes, it evidently
had been dragged there. A witness stated, that
he knew Johnson well; and when he left the hall,
he overtook him dragging a man along. He asked
Johnson what was the matter, and he replied, he
was taking a drunken man home: witness asked if
he should help him, and Johnson replied, that he
could manage him—witness thought it strange, but
passed on.

The prisoner had a Mrs. Beazeley called in on
his behalf—a young widow of rather doubtful character,
who kept as her sign, (probably for fear of
mistake,) emphatically said, “A genteel Boardinghouse.”
She was dressed very gaudily. Prinky
sharp features, and a shrewish eye, which she tried
hard to subdue into an expression of amiability,
and which was almost hid in the abundance of
her curls, appeared under her bonnet, as she timidly
removed her veil.

The judge was at times a very stern man, and
having seen a good deal of the worst of human nature,
his tones were, when he thought he had a
bad specimen before him in the shape of a witness,
keenly peremptory.

After trying in vain, with the assistance of his
half closed hand applied to his ear, to hear the
lady, he exclaimed—

“The court can't hear one word you say, madam;
you must take off your bonnet.”

The widow thought the judge had as full authority

in all matters in the court house as she had in
her household, and, therefore, dreamed not of disobeying.
She started, drew a long breath, and,
with trembling hands, took off her bonnet—when,
lo! all her curls, being fastened to the side of it,
were removed, of course, and the widow stood before
the audience with her hair gathered up on the
top of her head as tight as it could be drawn—so
tight that the bit of red list that bound it, actually
drew up her eyebrows, and, as her hair was very
short, it stood out from the top of her head, like
the scalp lock of a Mohawk. An irresistible burst
of laughter broke from every one in the court room;
in which the judge could not refrain from joining,
while, above the uproar, Nancy, who liked not the
widow, was heard to exclaim,

“The Lord love us! the vanity of that woman
—saw ever a body the like of that? she looks for
all the world like the sign of the Ingin, at old Broadbelt's.”

The widow glanced round the court, with an eye
from which all amiability had fled—it literally
flashed fire. When she heard the exclamation of
Nancy, her concentrated rage found an object.
Shaking her fist at Nancy, while her top-knot
shook in unison, she called out, in a voice almost
choked with rage,

“Yes, you hussy—you hag—I've got as good a
head of hair as 'ary lady in this here room. Don't
they wear false curls—you—you—you've got no
more hair under your old hypocritical, methodist
cap, than there is on the back of my hand, and you
may thank your sins for it.”

Nancy, who was standing on an elevation, within
the railing, that extended on each side of the
prisoner's box, had tossed up her spectacles to the
top of her head—or, as the eloquent biographer of
Patrick Henry says, speaking of that orator, when
about to say his severest things, she had given
them the “war cant,” and placed her arms a-kimbo,
in the attitude of making an annihilating reply,
when the authoritative voice of the judge instantly
restored order, though the eyes of the respective
parties still flashed the defiance and retort they
dared not utter.

The widow replaced her bonnet, and, with a
voice tremulous, not with modesty, but with passion,
and loud enough, in all conscience, gave in her
testimony; which was of an immaterial character.

Mr. W—t took two positions, in the defence
of the prisoner. First. That, in entering the ball-room,
and in arresting any one who was disturbing
the peace, the watchman was in the fulfilment of
a duty which he was bound to perform; that Carpenter,
the deceased, was guilty of a breach of the
peace, and that the watchman was bound to take
him to the watch-house; that Carpenter resisted
his authority, and the watchman had a right to use
force; and, if death was the consequence, the act
could not be felonious homicide, but was excusable,
if not justifiable. Secondly. That, if Johnson had
committed any offence, it was not murder, but manslaughter.

Mr. W—t dwelt upon these positions with unusual
eloquence. Knowing the deep excitement
prevailing against the prisoner, he addressed the

jury like one under no feeling, one way or the
other; but merely as a calm reviewer of the circumstances.
It was done with consummate skill.
He ridiculed, with great tact, the eves-dropping, as
he called it, of Job—and he quoted Scripture
against the chaplain. Now and then, a stroke of
pathos was thrown in, that touched every heart.

While Mr. W—t spoke, Bradshaw's eye was
on the jury, with an occasional glance at the audience,
then on the jury. Without seeming particularly
to observe, he marked every wrinkle on their
brows—each compression of the lip. When a juryman
altered his position, moved an arm, rubbed
his hand through his hair, he noticed whether it
was emotion, or the want of it.

Notwithstanding Bradshaw's frequent speaking,
his practice in public, his schooling in private, his
power of self-control, and his perfect knowledge
of the case, he felt a tremor in every fibre of his
body, when he rose to reply. He saw and understood
the impression produced by Mr. W—t, and
he was painfully anxious for himself. The idea
that he might fail, for a moment swallowed up all
his other ideas, like Aaron's serpent. At this instant,
he caught the eye of Talbot: an expression
lurked in it which he liked not. In a moment, he
was the most self-possessed man in the court-house.
How much our foes help us on in this world! What
they say against us, makes us achieve more than
all our friends can say for us. In another moment,
Bradshaw forgot every thing but the case. Without
any attempt at rhetoric or display—with a bosom
almost bursting with the burning thoughts he

wished to utter, he calmly and clearly recapitulated
the arguments, and examined the positions
taken by Mr. W—t.

It is not often that the possessor even of great
oratorical talents can produce a great effect. He
must have a great subject, or have his feelings so
interested as to make it great to him. Bradshaw
had many motives to exertion, and they all pressed
on him with their united weight; but, a few moments
after, he forgot them all in the cause—and then his
great powers began to develop themselves. Now
and then, when he observed the agitation of the
prisoner—the gratitude that beamed in the lustrous
darkness of Jane Durham's eye—his sister's
deep and proudly affectionate regard—Willoughby's
and Cavendish's friendliness—Talbot's envy—
Mary Carlton's look of delight, her almost tearful
joy—and last, though not least, when he marked
the fixed, and somewhat agitated, attention of
W—t, he thought of himself, of Clinton Bradshaw,
and his brow wore the proud consciousness,
that Cæsar's might have worn, “the black-eyed
Roman, with the eagle's beak,” when, in the forum,
he first successfully opposed the veterans who had

Or that Chatham's wore, when, notwithstanding
“the atrocious crime of being a young man,” he
vanquished the veteran debaters. But these feelings
were momentary; and, towards the close of
his speech, they were merged, lost, overwhelmed,
in the cause. Then, every look, tone, gesture,
every winged word, breathed, burned with eloquence—every
eye was on him—every heart was
unconscious of any thing but the emotions which
he called up. He described Johnson refusing to
get the light—shrinking away from the dead body
—in such a manner, that every one was startled
with the fear of guilt in his own heart. He denounced
his attempt to fix the crime upon Jane
Durham, because “she had no friends,” in a voice
that swelled, and rolled, and echoed through the
court-room, mingling itself with the feelings of the
audience, like a trumpet-call to vengeance, in a
righteous cause. It sounded like the denouncing
spirit's pouring forth the vials of wrath. A wild,
unnatural excitement ran through the court—the
prisoner started and glared horribly around, as if
he thought they meant to seize him. At this moment,
Bradshaw exclaimed, in his boldest tone—
“What say you—guilty or not guilty?” “Guilty!
guilty!” involuntarily burst from the lips of many
of the audience, and several of the jury.

Bradshaw took his seat.

After the lapse of some moments of profound
silence, Mr. W—t arose and made a speech on
a prayer of instructions, which he offered to the
court; not with any hope of having the prayer
granted, but for the purpose of giving the jury
time to cool from the effects of Bradshaw's eloquence.
The judge, in charging the jury, advised
them not to make up their minds now, but to retire
to their room, and deliberate upon the subject. He
defined to them the different degrees of murder,
according to the statutory provisions of the state;
(the second degree being unknown to the common

law,) and he appeared to incline to the opinion
that the prisoner's guilt was of the second degree.

The jury here retired, and the court adjourned.

After the crowd had left the court-room, as Judge
Price was passing out, he said to Nancy, with a
quiet humour lurking in his mind, but with a face
as grave as though he were on the judgment-seat,

“Nancy, you literally astonished me to-day. I
thought, considering you have been so long about
the court-house—acquainted with all the lawyers;
going in and out, even of the bar, whenever you
chose—a privilege which no other woman is admitted;
supplying us all with fruit, and having
known us so long, I really thought you felt as high
a concernment in the dignity and becoming gravity
of the court as though you sat upon the bench—I
need not say how much I was mortified to-day!”

This was touching Nancy on a tender point:—
she had been so long a kind of appendage to the
court, that she actually deemed herself necessary
to the administration of justice—and though she
held herself authorized to say of court and bar
what she chose, yet no one could speak disrespectfully
of them in her presence, except of Scrags,
without being reprimanded—for the judge she had
the highest respect, and she therefore replied in
the greatest confusion,

“The Lord love ye, Judge Price, I never thought
at all about it till I said it. I was like the weak old
woman that spoke in church—and as soon as she
heard herself speak, she called out—`O! I've spoke
in church—there, I've spoke agin in church.—
And next to speaking in church, is speaking, for a

body like me, in the court. Every part and particle
that concerns this here court, I feel as if it was my
own character; but, the Lord love ye, judge, and
be merciful to all of us—this Mistress Beazely, with
her Dunstable bonnet and curls—bless me—why she
lived with me once; and a pretty trollop she was—
ye may swear to it—not worth half as much as my
blackey, Beck, if proper conductions is the thing.
The trouble I had with her, when she was a girl, was
a sin—she flirted about with the fellows—the trollop,
jist as bare-faced as she stood in the court to-day,
when her bonnet was off; and what modesty she
put on was all sham, like her curls, that o'rights belong
to some poor dead body. She's an ungrateful
cretur, judge. My Beck told me, this very morn,
that she heard her tell old Kate—the hussy—that
pertends to sell good clean fruit, when she's as
dirty as she can be—that she ought to move her
table up here to the court, and have a stand by
the other door. That's her gratitude, to hurt me
in this style. Think of it!—my Beck told me of
it this morn, as true as ye're standing there, judge,
jist after Mistress Beazely went into court; and
she smirked and smiled at me, and talked her
prittiest—the varmint—'afore she went in. Who
would have thought of her conception? This is a
wicked conceptious world! But let old Kate bring
her apple-table here! if there ain't a sally, as my
first husband used to say, when he talked about
the wars, my name's not Nancy.”

“Nancy, you've the true spirit of the war in
you,” said the judge, laughing; but remember, you
and your husband fought on the wrong side.”

“'Till we come over to the right, judge! When
he left the British, I left them, and we jined the
Continentals. They maintained their rights, and so
will I, for lawyer Bradshaw; and ye know, yerself,
Judge Price, (for I've hearn ye say it,) that
no man at this bar has a better head than Bradshaw.
He tells me that I'm intitled to sell here,
by myself, by a prior right—the right, I think he
called it, of description—(prescription.”)

“The Judge passed on, saying—“Yes, Nancy, he
can give you as good advice as any one. He has
managed this case admirably, to-day; but you know
I must not say a word about it, as I may have to
decide the question of description.”