University of Virginia Library

THE UNSUMMONED WITNESS.

1. PART FIRST.

Some years since, when I was in the practice of the
law, one morning, just after I had entered my office—
I was then an invalid on two crutches and not a very
early riser, so what clients I had, were often there before
me—some few moments after I had ensconced myself
in my chair with my crutches before me, like monitors
of mortality, I heard a timid rap at my door. Notwithstanding
I called out in a loud voice, “come in,”
the visitor, though the rap was not repeated after I spoke,
still hung back. With feelings of impatience and pain,
I arose, adjusted my crutches under my arms, and
muttering, not inaudibly, my discontent, I hobbled to
the door and jerked it open.

The moment the visitor was presented to my vision,
I felt angry with myself for what I had done, and the
feeling was not relieved, when a meek and grief-subdued
voice said,

“I am very sorry to disturb you, sir.”

“No,” said I politely, for it was a young and beautiful
woman, or rather girl, of certainly not more than
sixteen, who stood before me, “I am sorry that you
should have waited so long. Come in, I am lame as
you see, Miss, and could not sooner get to the door.”

Adjusting her shawl, which was pinned closely up to
her neck, as she passed the threshold, she entered, and

at my request, but not until I had myself resumed my
seat, took a chair. I observed it was a fine morning,
to which she made no reply, for she was evidently abstracted,
or rather embarrassed, not knowing how to
open the purpose of her visit.

The few moments we sat in silence, I occupied in
observing her. She had, I thought, arrayed herself in
her best clothes, anxious by so doing to make a respectable
appearance before her lawyer, and thereby convince
him that if she could not at present compass his
fee, he could have no doubt of it eventually; though it
was also apparent to me that in the flurry of mind attendant
upon her visit and its consequence, she had not
thought at all of adding to her personal attractions by
so doing. That consideration not often absent from a
woman's mind, had by some absorbing event been banished
from hers. She wore a black silk gown, the better
days of which had gone, perhaps, with the wearer's.
Her timid step, had not prevented my seeing a remarkably
delicate foot, encased in a morocco shoe much
worn and patched, evidently by an unskilful hand—I
thought her own. And though when she took a seat,
she folded her arms closely up under her shawl, which
was a small one, of red merino, and, as I have said,
pinned closely to her neck, it did not prevent my observing
that her hand, though small, was gloveless, and
that a ring—I thought an ominous looking ring—we
catch fancies we know not why or wherfore—begirt one
of her fingers. In fact when she first placed her hands
under the shawl, she turned the ring upon her finger,
may be unconsciously

On her head she wore a calash bonnet, and as
I again interrupted the silence by asking, “Is it the
law you seek so early, Miss?” She drew her hand from

beneath her shawl, and removing her bonnet partly
from her face so as to answer me, she revealed as fair
and as facinating features as I ever remember to have
seen. Her hair was parted carelessly back over a
snowy forehead, beneath which, lustrous eyes black as
death and almost as melancholy, looked forth from the
shadow of a weeping-willow-like lash. A faint attempt
to smile at my question discovered beautiful teeth, and
I thought, as she said the simple “yes, sir,” that there
must be expression in every movement of her lip.

Observe, I was an invalid, full, at this very moment,
of the selfishness of my own pains and aches which,
though not of the heart,—and it would be difficult to convince
a sick man that those of the body are not greater,—
notwithstanding which my attention was at once arrested.

“This is Mr. Trimble,” asked she, glancing at my
crutches as if by those appendages she had heard me
described.

“That is my name,” I replied.

“You have heard of Brown, who is now in—in jail,
sir,” she continued.

“Brown, the counterfeiter, who has been arrested for a
theft,” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I have repeatedly heard of him though I have never
seen him.”

“He told me to say, sir, wouldn't you go to the jail
and see him about his case?”

Brown's case, from what I had heard of it was a desperate
one. Not knowing in what relation the poor girl
might stand to him, I shrunk from saying so, though I
feared it would be useless for me to appear for him, I
therefore asked her,

“Are you his sister?”

“No, sir.”

“His wife?”

“No, sir, we are cousins like, and I live with his
mother.”

“Ay, is your name Brown?”

“No, sir, my name is Mason—Sarah Mason.”

“Where's Mrs. Brown, Miss Sarah?” I asked.

“She is very sick, sir, I hurried away just as she got
to sleep after morning—I have walked by here very often,
and I thought, sir, you might have business out,
and not be here to-day—do go and see him sir.”

“Why, Sarah, to speak plainly to you, I am satisfied
I can be of no service to him—he is a notorious character,
and there have been so many outrageous offences
lately committed, that if the case is a strong one,
there will be little hope for the prisoner, and Brown's
case, I understand, is very strong, I am told, that after
they had caught him in the woods, as they were
bringing him to the city, he confessed it,”

“My, my, did he, sir,' exclaimed Sarah, starting
from her seat and resuming it as quickly.

“Yes, I think I overheard one of the constables say
so. There are no grounds whatever in the case, for
me to defend him upon. I can do nothing for him, and
should get nothing for it if I did.”

I said this without meaning any hint to Sarah, but
she took it as such and replied:

“I have some little money, sir—only a few dollars
now,” and she turned herself aside so as with delicacy
to take it from her bosom, but I shall have some more
soon. I had some owing to me for some fancy work,
but, when I went for it yesterday, to come and see you,

they told me the store keeper had failed and I've lost
it.”

As she spoke, she held the money in her hand which
she rested in her lap, in a manner that implied she
wished to offer it to me, but feared the sum would be
too small, and a blush—it was that of shame at her bitter
poverty—reddened her forehead. I could not but
be struck with her manner, and as I looked at her without
speaking or attempting to take the money, she said,
after a moment's pause:

“It's all I have now, sir, but indeed, I shall have more
soon.”

“No, no, keep it, I do not want it,” said I, smiling.

Instantly the thought seemed to occur to her that I
would not accept the money from a doubt of its genuineness,
as Brown might have given it to her and she
said:

“Indeed, sir, it is good money, Mr. Judah, who keeps
the clothing store gave it to me last night—you may
ask him, sir, if you don't believe it.”

“Don't believe you! Surely I believe you—Brown
must be a greater scoundrel than even the public take
him for, if he could involve you in the consequences of
his guilt.”

“Sir, sir—indeed he never gave me any bad money
to pass—I was accused of it, but indeed, I never passed
a single cent that I thought was bad.”

“Well, Sarah, keep the money—do not for your own
sake on any consideration pass any bad money—go
first and ask some one who knows whether any money
you have is good and keep that.”

“But sir, will you see him,” asked she imploringly.

“Yes, I will, and because you wish it; I cannot go this
morning, I shall be engaged. This afternoon I have

some business at the court house, and I will, on leaving
there step over to the jail.”

“Please, sir, to tell him,” she said, hesitatingly, “that
they won't let me come in to see him often. I was there
yesterday but they wouldn't let me in—on Sunday, they
said they would, not 'till Sunday—please, sir tell
him that I will come then.”

“I will, Sarah,” I replied; “and if you will be at the
jail at two o'clock this afternoon, I will contrive to have
you see Brown.”

She thanked me, repeated the words “at two o'clock,”
and again pressed the money on me, which I refused,
when she withdrew closing the door noiselessly after
her.

She had not been gone more than half an hour, when
a gentleman entered who was about purchasing some
property, and who wished me, previously to his closing
the bargain, to examine the title. He wanted it done
immediately, and in compliance with his request I forthwith
repaired to the recorder's office which stood beside
the court house.

I was then in the practic of the law in Cincinnati.
My office was two doors from the corner of Main street,
in Front, opposite the River, where I combined, the
double duties of editor of a daily paper, and lawyer.—
From my office to the court house, was as the common
people say a “measured mile,” and nothing but the certainty
of the immediate payment of my fee, in the then
condition of my arms and health, versus pocket, (the
pocket carried the day, and it is only in such cases that
empty pockets succeed,) nothing but the consideration in
the premises induced me to take up my crutches, and
walk to the court house. After I had examined the title,
I determined as it would save me a walk in the afternoon,

to step over to the jail which was only a square
or so off and see Brown. I did so, and at the gate of
the jail found, seated on a stone by the way, side,
Sarah Mason, who had instantly repaired thither from
my office resolved to wait my coming, not knowing, as
she told me, but what I might be there before two.

I entered the jailor's room, in which he received constables,
visitors, knaves previous to locking them up,
lawyers, &c., and handing a chair to Sarah, desired
him to bring Brown out in the jail yard, that I might
speak with him. While he was unlocking the greated
door of the room in which Brown with many other crimnals
was confined, several of them—who were also clients
of mine, called me by name and made towards
the door, with the wish each of speaking to me
about his own case, perhaps for the fifteenth time. As
soon as Brown heard my name he called out:—

“Stop! it's to see me, Mr. Trimble has come—here
Jaw-bone Dick, fix that bit of a blanket round them
damned leg irons and let me shuffle out. Mr. Trimble
came to see me”—controlled by his manner for he was
a master spirit among them, as I afterwards learned,
they shrunk back while Jaw-bone Dick, a huge negro,
fixed the leg irons, and Brown came forth.

He had a muscular iron form of fine proportions,
though of short stature. His face was intellectual with
a high but retreating forehead, and a quick bold eye.—
His mouth was very large, displaying simply when he
laughed his jaw teeth, but it was not ill shaped, and
had the expression of great firmness when in repose,
with that of archness and insinuation, generally when
speaking. He gazed on me steadily for an instant after
he had passed the threshold of the door into the
passage, as if he would understand my character before

he spoke. He then saluted me respectfully, and
led the way into the back yard of the jail, which is surrounded
by a large wall to prevent the escape of the
prisoners who at stated periods are suffered to be out
there for the sake of their health, and while their rooms
are undergoing the operations of brooms and water.—
Kicking as well as his fetters would allow him, a keg
that stood by the outer door into the middle of the yard,
Brown observed:

“Squire, it will do you for a seat, for you and I don't
like to talk too near to the wall—the proverb says that
stone walls have ears, and those about us have heard
so many rascally confessions from the knaves they have
enclosed, that I don't like to entrust them—with even
an innocent man's story—'twould be the first time
they've heard such a one, and they'd misrepresent it
into guilt.”

The jailer laughed as he turned to leave us, and said:

“Brown, you ought to have thought of that when the
chaps nabbed you—for you told them the story, and
they not only have ears but tongues.”

“Damn them, they gave me liquor,” exclaimed
Brown, as a fierce expression darkened his face. “I
don't think a drunken man's confession should be taken,
extorted or not.”

As the jailer turned to lock up the yard with the remark
to me, of “Squire, you can rap when you have
got through”—I told him that it would save some trouble
to him, if he would let the girl in his room who was
a relation of Brown's see him now. After a slight
hesitancy, he called her, observing, it was not exactly
according to rule.

“It's Sarah, I suppose,” said Brown, taking a station
by my side with folded arms and giving a slight

nod of recognition to the girl, as in obedience to the
jailer's call she entered the yard—“You'd better stand
there, Sarah,” he said to her, “'till Mr. Trimble gets
through with me.” He then remarked in an under
tone to me, It's no use for her to hear our talk—plague
take all witnesses any how.”

Eyeing me again with a searching expression, Brown,
as if he had at last made his mind up to the matter,
said, “I believe I'll tell you all, Squire—I did the
thing.”

“Yes, Brown, I knew you did,” I replied; “the misfortune
is you told it to the officers.”

“Yes—that's a fact. But maybe you can lead the
witnesses on the wrong scent if you know just how
things are—couldn't you?” I nodded, and he continued,
“I boasted when they got me, considerable, but the
fact is that I got the money—I was in the Exchange, on
the landing, where I saw a countryman seated, who
looked to me as if he had money—I contrived to get
into conversation with him, and asked him to drink
with me, he did so, and I plied him pretty strong. The
liquor warmed him at last, and he asked me to drink
with him, I consented, and when he came to pay his
bill, he had no change, and had to dive into a cunning
side pocket in the lining of his waistcoat, to get out a
bill, though he turned his back round and was pretty
cautious—I saw he had a good deal of money. I got
him boozy, and when he left, I dogged him. He was
in to market and had his wagon on the landing not far
from the Exchange. He slept in it. He not only buttoned
his vest tight up, but his overcoat tight over that,
and laid down on the side where he hid away his rhino.
Notwithstanding this,” continued Brown, and he
laughed at the remembrance of his own ingenuity, “I

contrived to make him turn over in his sleep, and cut
clean out through overcoat and all, got his pocket with its
contents—three hundred dollars. I had spent all my
money at night with him. In the morning my nerves
wanted bracing, and what must I do but spend some of
his money for grog and breakfast. The countryman
immediately went before a magistrate and described me
as a person whom he suspected. The officers knew
me from his description, and though I had left Cincinnati
and got as far as Cleves, fifteen or eighteen miles,
they followed so close on my track as to nab me that
very day. I had been keeping up the steam pretty
high along the road—they traced me in that way—and
full of folly and the devil, for the sake of talking and
keeping off the horrors, I made my braggs, and told
all. I suppose my case is desperate.”

I told him that I thought it was.

“When I think of my old mother!” exclaimed he,
passing his hand rapidly across his brow—he then
beckoned Sarah to him, and I walked to the farther
end of the yard so as not to be a listener. Their colloquy
was interrupted by the jailer coming to the door.
When I left him, Sarah followed me out, and after requesting
me to call and see him again, she took a direction
different from mine and I went to my office.

The grand jury, of course, had no difficulty in finding
a bill against Brown, and the day of his trial soon
came. The countryman was the first witness on the
stand. It was amusing if not edifying to observe the
smirk of professional pride on the countenance of the
prisoner, when the countryman recounted how he carefully
buttoned up his coat over his money and went to
sleep on that side, and awoke on that side—the right
one—and found his pocket cut out with as much ingenuity

as a tailor could have done it. I tried to exclude
the evidence of Brown's confession from the jury
on the ground that it was extorted from him, but that
fact not appearing to the court they overruled my objection,
and the facts of the case with many exaggerations
were narrated to them by the officer who arrested
the prisoner, as his free and voluntary confession. I
had scarcely any grounds of defence at all. I tried to
ridicule the idea of Brown's having made a confession;
and presented the countryman in an attitude that made
him the laughing stock of the jury and audience—but
though it was evident to them that the countryman was
a fool, it was not less apparent, I feared, that Brown
was a knave. I had some idea of an alibi, but that
would have been carrying matters too far. I, however,
proved his good character by several witnesses. Alas,
the prosecuting attorney showed that he was an old
offender, who had been more than once a guest of the
state's between the walls of the penitentiary. The
prosecuting attorney, in fact, in his opening address to
the court and jury, attacked Brown in the sternest language
he could use. He represented him as the violator
of every sound tie—and as hurrying his mother's
grey hairs to the grave. At this last charge the prisoner
winced—I saw the lightning of his ire against the
prosecutor flash through the tears of guilt and contrition.
When I arose to address the jury in reply,
Brown called me to him and said:

“Mr. Tremble, you know all about my case—you
know I am guilty—but you must get me off, if you
can, for my old mother's sake. Plead for me as if you
were pleading for the Apostles—for the Saviour of mankind.”

This was a strong expression to convey to me the

idea that I must speak and act to the jury as if I held
him in my own heart, guiltless—was it not?

Poor Sarah, was a tearful witness of his trial. She
was spared, however, being present when the verdict
was rendered. The jury retired about dark; with the
agreement between myself and the prosecutor that
they might bring in a sealed verdict. I told Sarah for
the sake of her feelings before the court adjourned,
that they would not meet the next morning before ten
o'clock. They met at nine, and before she got there,
their verdict of guilty was recorded against the prisoner.

As they were taking Brown to jail he asked me to
step over and see him, saying that he had a fee for me.
I had been unable to get from him more than a promise
to pay before his trial. I, of course, gave that up as
fruitless, and appeared for him on Sarah's account, not
on his own, or with any hope of acquitting him. I
therefore was surprised at his remark and followed him
to the jail. He was placed in a cell by himself—the
rule after conviction—and I went with him at his request
and we were left alone.

“Squire,” said he, with more emotion than I thought
him capable of, “I don't care so much for myself—I
could stand it, I am almost guilt-hardened—but when I
think of my mother—oh! God—and Sarah, she has
been as true to me as if I were an angel instead of a
devil—but she wasn't in court to-day.”

“No,” said I; “I told her that court would not sit
until ten o'clock. I saw how deeply she was interested,
and I saved her the shock of hearing your guilt
pronounced in open court.”

“Blast that prosecuting attorney,” exclaimed Brown,
gnashing his teeth, “why need he go out of the case to

abuse me about my mother, before Sarah—I'd like to
catch him in the middle of the Ohio swimming some
dark night—if he didn't go to the bottom and stay
there it would be because I couldn't keep him down.
But Squire, about that fee—you trusted me, and as you
are the first lawyer that ever did, I'll show you that I
am for once, worthy of confidence. Over the Licking
liver, a quarter of a mile up on the Covington side—
you know, Squire, the Licking is the river right opposite
to Cincinnati, in Kentucky—Well, over that river,
a quarter of a mile up, you will see, about fifteen feet
from the bank, a large tree standing by itself, with a
large hole on the east side of it. Run your hand up
that hole, and you will take hold of a black bottle,
corked tight—break it open. In it you will find fifteen
hundred dollars—five hundred of it is counterfeit—the
rest is good. Squire, it is your fee. Your character
and countenance is good enough to pass the whole of
it.”

I bowed to the compliment which Brown paid my
“character and countenance,” at the expense of my
morals, and said, “you are not hoaxing me, I hope.”

“I am not in that mood, Squire,” replied the convict,
and asking me for my pencil, he drew on the wall a
rough map of the locality of the river and tree, and
repeated earnestly the assertion, that he himself in the
hollow of the tree had hid the bottle. I left him rubbing
the marks of his map from the wall, determined
at the first opportunity to make a visit to the spot. The
next day my professional duties called me on a visit
to another prisoner in the jail, when Brown asked thro'
the little loop hole of his door, if I had got that yet.

“No, Brown,” I replied, “I have not had time to go
there.”

“Then, Squire,” he exclaimed, “you are in as bad
a fix as I am, and the thing's out.”

“How so,” I asked—I began to suspect that he
thought I had been after the money, and that he was
forming some excuse for my not finding what he knew
was not there.

“You see me, Squire, without a coat, my hat's gone
too, Job Fowler, the scoundrel—he knows about that
bottle—he was taken out of the jail yesterday to be
tried just as they brought me in, I thought though my
respectable clothes hadn't done me any good they
might be of service to him, as his case wasn't strong
and every little helps out in such cases, as they help
the other way when the thing's dark, so I lent them to
him. He was found not guilty, and he walked off,
with my wardrobe, so the jury, damn them, aided and
abetted him in committing a felony in the very act of
acquitting him for one, and by this time he's got that
money. Never mind, we shall be the state's guests
together yet, in her palace at Columbus.”

What Brown told me in regard to the bottle and Job
Fowler, was indeed truth.

Job was acquitted in Brown's clothes, and he walked
off in them, and wended instantly to the tree beside
the Licking, where he found the bottle, which he rifled
of its contents without the trouble of uncorking it.—
Mistaking the bad money for the good, he returned instantly
to Cincinnati, and attempted to pass some of it.
The man to whom he offered it happened to be in the
court house, a spectator of his trial. His suspicions
were aroused. He had Mr. Job arrested, and on him
was found the fifteen hundred dollars. A thousand
dollars of it were good, but I got none of it, for the

gentleman from whom Brown and Fowler together had
stolen it was found.

The very day that Brown was convicted, and Job
acquitted in the former's clothes, he was arrested for
passing counterfeit money. A bill was found against
him that morning. He was tried that afternoon and
convicted, and the day after he and Brown, handcuffed
together, were conveyed to the penitentiary.

2. PART SECOND.

The interest which I took in Brown's mother and Sarah,
induced me to visit them after he was sent to the
penitentiary, to which he was sentenced for ten years.
His afflicted mother, overcome by accumulated sorrow
for his many crimes and their consequences, rapidly
sank into the grave. I happened to call at her humble
dwelling the night she died. Sarah supported her by
her needle, and a hard task it was, for the doctor's bill
and the little luxuries which her relative needed, more
than consumed her hard earnings.

The old woman called me to her bed-side, and together
with Sarah, made me promise that if I saw her
son again I would tell him that with her dying breath
she prayed for him. The promise was made, and while
she was in the act of praying her voice grew inaudible,
and uttering with her last feeble breath an ejaculation
for mercy, not for herself, but for her outcast child, her
spirit passed to the judgment seat; and if memory and
affection hold sway in the disembodied soul, doubtless
she will be a suppliant there for him, as she was here.

After the death of the old woman, I saw Sarah once
or twice, and then suddenly lost all trace of her. More

than a year had now elapsed since Brown's conviction,
and in increasing ill health and the presence of other
scenes and circumstances as touching as those of the
mother and the cousin, I had forgotten them. I was
advised by my physician to forsake all business, obtain
a vehicle and by easy stages, traveling whither Fancy
led, try to resuscitate my system. In fulfilment of this
advice, I was proceeding on my way to Columbus,
Ohio, with the double purpose of improving my health,
and by making acquaintances in the State where I had
settled, facilitate and increase my practice, should I
ever be permitted to resume my profession.

The sun was just setting in a summer's evening, as,
within a half a mile of Columbus, I passed a finely
formed female on the road, who was stopping along with
a bundle on her arm. There was something of interest
in the appearance of the girl which caused me to
look back at her after I had passed. Instantly I drew
up my horse. It was Sarah Mason. Her meeting with
me seemed to give her great pleasure. I asked her if
she would not ride, and thanking me, she entered my
vehicle and took a seat by my side.

She had been very anxious to obtain a pardon for
Brown before his mother's death. I had told her it
would be fruitless unless she could get the jury who
condemned him, together with the judges, to sign the
recommendation to the governor, and I did not beheve
they would do it. I, however, at her earnest solicitation,
drew up the petition, and when I last asked her
about her success, which was, in fact, the last time I
saw her, she told me she had not got one of the jury to
sign it, but that several had told her that they would do
so, if she would obtain, previously, the signature of the
presiding judge. By the law of Ohio, a judgeship is

not held for life, but for a term of years. The term of
office of the presiding judge on Brown's trial had expired,
and a new party prevailing in the legislature from
that which had appointed him, he had failed to obtain
the re-appointment. He had removed to St. Louis for
the purpose of practising law there, and thither Sarah
had repaired with her unsigned petition. After repeated
solicitations and prayerful entreaties, she at last prevailed
on the ex-judge to sign it. She then returned to
Cincinnati, and after considerable trouble succeeded in
finding ten of the jury, some of whom followed the
judge's example. The rest refused, stating what was
too true, that the ease with which criminals obtained
pardon from gubernatorial clemency in this country,
was one of the great causes of the frequency of crime,
for it removed the certainty of punishment which should
ever follow conviction, and which has more effect upon
the mind than severity itself, when there is a hope of
escaping it.

A new governor, in the rapid mutations of official
life in the United States had become dispenser of the
pardoning power shortly after Brown's conviction, and
it was his ear that Sarah personally sought, armed with
the recommendation.

He was a good, easy man, where party influence
was not brought to bear adversely on him, and after he
had read the petition, Sarah's entreaty soon prevailed,
and Brown was pardoned.

The very day he was pardoned he called on me at
Russell's hotel with his cousin, and after they had mutually
returned me their thanks for the interest which I
took in their behalf, he promised me, voluntarily, to pay
me a fee with the first earnings he got, which he said
solemnly should be from the fruits of honest industry.

He took my address and departed. I thought no more
of it, till, one day, most opportunely, I received, thro'
the post-office, a two hundred dollar bill of the United
States Bank, with a well-written letter from him, stating
that he had reformed his course of life, and that it was
through the influence of his cousin, whom he had
married, that he had done so. He said that he had assumed
another name in the place where he then dwelt,
which he would have no objection to communicate to
myself, but as it was of no consequence to me, and
might be to him, should my letter fall into the hands of
another person, he had withheld it, together with the
name of the place where himself and wife were located.
The letter had been dropped in the Cincinnati post-office,
and there was no clue whereby I could have
traced him had I entertained such a wish, which I did
not.

Some time after this I was a sojourner in the south,
spell-bound by the fascinations of a lady with whom I
became acquainted the previous summer in Philadelphia,
where she was spending the sultry season. She
lived with her parents on a plantation near a certain
city of the Mississippi, which, for peculiar reasons, I
may not name. Her brother was practising law there,
and he and I became close cronies. Frequently I rode
to the city with him, and on one occasion we were both
surprised, as we entered it, by an unusual commotion
among the inhabitants, who were concentrating in
crowds to a spot, collected by some strange and boisterous
attraction.

My friend rode into the melee, and presently returned
to my side, with the crowd about him, from whom he
was, evidently, protecting a man, who walked with his
hand on the neck of my friend's horse. The man walked

as if he felt that he was protected, but would die
game if he were attacked.

“Sheriff,” called out my friend to a tall person who
was expostulating with the crowd, “it is your duty to
protect Bassford; he has lived here with us some time—
has a wife and family, a good name, and he must and
shall have a fair trial.”

“Colonel Camerons' empty pocket-book was found
near Bassford's house,” exclaimed one of the crowd,
“and Bassford's dagger by the dead body.”

“And Bassford and the colonel were overheard quarrelling
a few hours before he was killed,” shouted another.

“Let Bassford answer then according to law,” said
my friend. “I will kill the first man who lays violent
hands on him.”

“And I will justify and assist you,” said the sheriff.
Mr. Leo, Mr. Gale and you, sir,” continued the officer,
turning to me, “I summon you to assist me in lodging
this man safely in jail, there to abide the laws of his
country.”

Awed by the resolution which the sheriff and his
posse exhibited, the crowd slunk back, but with deep
mutterings of wrath, while we gathered round Bassford,
and hastened with him to the jail, which was not
far off, in which we soon safely lodged him.

It occurred to me when I first looked on Bassford,
that I had seen him before, but I could not tell where.
A minuter scrutiny, as I stood by his side in the jail,
satisfied me that he was no other than my old client,
Brown. Feeling that my recognition of him would not
advance his interests if I should be questioned about
him, I maintained silence, and stood by, a spectator.—
Brown stated to the sheriff that he wished my friend,

whom I will call De Berry, to be his counsel, and requested
that he might be placed alone with him, where
he might have some private conversation with him. The
sheriff said “certainly,” and we all retired, De Berry
asking me to wait for him without. I did so, and in a
few minutes he came to me, and said that the prisoner
wished to see me. “I presume, sheriff, you will have
no objection.”

“Not the least,” replied the sheriff. “Take Mr. Trimble
in with you.”

I accordingly entered, and the moment the door was
closed Brown asked me “if I remembered him.”

“Perfectly,” I replied.

“Mr. Trimble,” he continued, “I saw you with Mr.
De Berry, and knew that you recognized me. I supposed
that you might tell him what you knew of me to
my prejudice. Here I have maintained a good character,
and I therefore resolved to see you with him, and
tell you the circumstances. I am as guiltless now as I
was guilty then. Mr. De Berry says that the court,
upon application, will admit you, if it is necessary, to
defend me with him, and I wish you would do it. Let
me tell this affair. I know it looks black against me,
but hear me first. After my cousin obtained my pardon
in Ohio, I married her, swore an oath to lead a better
life, and before God have done so. Sarah was and
is every thing to me. Not for the wealth of worlds
would I involve myself in guilt which might fall upon
her and her children. Knowing, Mr. Trimble, that in
Ohio I could not obtain employment or reinstate myself
in character, I came here with a changed name and nature,
to commence, as it were, the world again. Since
I have been here my character, as Mr. De Berry will
tell you, has been without reproach. But old associations

and companions dog us, though we fly from them.
I have been located here on a little farm belonging to
Mr. De Berry, which, with the aid of two negroes hired
from him, I cultivate, raising vegetables and such things
for the market. I had hoped the past was with the past,
but last week there came along one of my old associates,
who urged me to join with him and others in a
certain depredation. I told him of my altered life, and
positively refused. He insisted and taunted me with
hypocrisy and so forth, 'till he nearly stung me to madness.
I bore it all, until, on my telling him that my wife
had reformed me, and that, on her account, I meant to
be honest, he threw slurs on her of the blackest die. I
could bear it no longer, but leaped upon him and would
have slain him, had not some of his companions came up
and rescued him. It was on the banks of the river in
a lonely spot that we met, and their coming up might
have been accident or not. He vowed vengeance against
me and mine, and left. Colonel Cameron, as you know,
Mr. De Berry, bore the character of an overbearing
and tyrannical man. We had some dealings together.
He was in my debt, and wished to pay me in flour. I
told him politely it was the money which I wanted.—
He swore that I should not have money or flour either.
He raised his whip to strike me. I flew into a passion,
dared him to lay the weight of his finger on me, and
abused him as a man in a passion and injured would do
under the circumstances—perhaps I threatened him—I
do not know exactly what I said in my anger. This
was yesterday afternoon. It seems that the Colonel
went to Mr. Pottea's afterwards—returned after night—
was waylaid and killed. How his pocket book came by
my house I know not. As for the dagger I had such a
one, When I changed my name I thought to make
every thing about me seem natural with it, that I would
have Bassford engraved on it. I lost it some months
ago, and have not seen it since 'till to-day. Such, gentlemen,
is the truth, but great God, what is to become
of myself and family with such testimony against me.
Two or three men in the crowd called out that they
knew me before—that I had been in the Ohio penitentiary—that
my name was Brown, and here is my quarrel
with the colonel, his murder on the heels of it—my
dagger by his dead body, and his empty pocket-book
by my house. Notwithstanding all this, gentlemen, I
am innocent. Do you think, if I had murdered him
that I would not have hid my dagger—and would I
have rifled his pocket-book and pitched it away by my
own door-sill, where anybody might find it? No, my
enemy must have contrived this to ruin me.”

At this instant the door was opened by the sheriff,
and Brown's wife admitted—she threw herself into his
arms, exclaiming:—“He is innocent, I know he is innocent!”
while Brown, utterly overcome by his emotions,
pressed her to his heart and wept bitterly. I
whispered to De Berry that we had better leave them,
and accordingly withdrew.

That afternoon, Mrs. Brown called to see me. She
asked me if I would aid her husband; and I promised
that I would. She looked neat and tidy, said she had
two children, and I saw that she was soon again to be
a mother. She told me the same story that Brown had
told me, and I could not but express the deepest regret
for his and her situation.

The name of Brown's former accomplice, with whom
he had quarrelled, was Burnham. He was a desperate
character, perfectly unfeeling and unprincipled, and
possessed of great energy of spirit and frame. It is

surprising that Brown should have overcome him.
Brown's mastery originated, doubtless, in the fury of
his insulted feelings.

De Berry became very much interested in Brown's
case. The morning of his interference in his behalf,
Brown had been taken upon the charge of murdering
Colonel Cameron. While the Sheriff, who was well
disposed towards him, was proceeding with him to the
magistrate's, the crowd had gathered round them so
thickly as to interrupt their progress, and Brown had
been separated from the officer. The crowd, among
whose leaders was Burnham, had made furious demonstration
against the prisoner; but his resolute manner
had prevented their laying hands on him, when De
Berry and myself rode up, and the Sheriff, as we have
related, took his charge to jail, to prevent an outrage,
until the excitement had somewhat subsided.

The next morning, De Berry insisted upon having a
hearing before the magistrate, asserting that he meant
to offer bail for Brown. As we proceeded to the magistrate's,
we stopped at Brown's humble dwelling, and
took his wife and children with us. The tidiness of
his afflicted wife and children, and the evident order of
his household and garden, made a most favorable impression
upon us.

As we approached the magistrate's, we wondered
that we saw nobody about the door of his office, but we
learned, on arriving, that the officer of the law had determined
to have the hearing in the court-house, in consequence
of the anticipation of a great crowd, who
would be anxious to hear. To the court we repaired.
There was an immense concourse about the door,
though the Sheriff had not yet appeared with his charge.
De Berry sent the wife and children to the jail, that

they might come with him to the court-house, and by
their presence and the sympathy that they would excite,
prevent any outbreak from the mob. We took our station
on the court-house steps, where, elevated above
the crowd, we could observe their demeanor as the
Sheriff and Brown advanced. By our side stood a tall
gaunt Kentuckian, clad in a hunting-shirt, and leaning
on his rifle. He seemed to be an anxious observer of
myself and friend. He soon gathered from our conversation
the position in which we stood towards Brown,
and remarked to us:

“Strangers, I suppose you are lawyers for Bassford;
I am glad he has help, I fear he'll need it, but he once
done me a service, and I want to see right 'twixt man
and man.”

Before De Berry could reply, we were attracted by a
stir among the crowd, and not far off, in the direction
of the jail, we saw the sheriff advancing with the
prisoner, who was accompanied by his wife and children.
Approaching close behind them, were several
horsemen, among whom we could not fail to observe
Burnham, from the eagerness with which he pressed
forward.

With not so much as the ordinary bustle and confusion
incident upon such occasions; in fact, with less
suppressed emotion, the crowd gathered into the court-house,
the Squire occupying the seat of the Judge and
the prisoner a chair within the bar, by the side of De
Berry and myself, with his anxious wife to his right.
The prosecuting attorney, who was a warm friend of
the deceased Colonel, seated himself opposite to us.
Burnham pressed through the crowd within the bar,
and stationed himself near the prosecutor, to whom I
overheard him say:

“There are folks here who can prove that his real
name is not Bassford but Brown, and that he was pardoned
out of the Ohio penitentiary; that man by his
lawyer can prove it, so can I, but you had better call
him, he knows—”

“Let me pass, let me pass!” exclaimed a female at
this moment, pressing through the crowd with stern
energy; “I'll tell the truth—Bassford is innocent!”

“She's crazy!” exclaimed Burnham, looking around
with alarm, and making a threatening gesture, as if privately,
to her to hush, forgetting that the eyes of all
were upon him.

“Crazy!” retorted the woman, who was of slender
person and fine features, though they were distorted by
excess and passion, and who seemed to be possessed
by some furious purpose as if by a fiend. “They shall
judge if I am crazy. Prove it, and then you may prove
that Bassford is guilty. Gentlemen, John Burnham
there, murdered Colonel Cameron! There is the money
that Burnham took from the dead body!—there are
letters—here is his watch. Bassford's dagger he got in
a quarrel with him; he murdered the Colonel with it,
and left it by the dead body, and the pocket-book by
Bassford's house to throw the guilt on him!”

“How can you prove this, good woman?” inquired
the magistrate, while the crowd, in breathless eagerness,
were as hushed as death.

“Prove it!—by myself, by these letters, by that watch,
by that dagger—by everything, by what I am, by what
I was. The time has been when I was as innocent as
I am now vicious—as spotless as I am now abandoned;
but for that man, that time were now! Hear me for a
moment; the truth that is in me shall strike your hearts
with justice and with terror, shall acquit the innocent

and appal the guilty. In better days I knew both these
men; Bassford I loved—he loved me. My education
had been good; that was all my parents left me, with a
good name. He was thoughtless and wild then, but
not criminal; he fell in with this man Burnham, whom
he brought to my father's house and made his confidant.
Burnham professed a partiality for me, which I
rejected with scorn. He led Bassford into error, into
crime. He coiled himself into his confidence, and made
him believe that I had abandoned myself to him, at the
same time he was torturing me with inventions of Bassford's
faithlessness towards me. Each of us, Bassford
and myself, grew reserved towards the other, without
asking or making any explanation. Oh! the curse of
this pride—this pride! Burnham widened the breach.
He drove me nearly mad with jealousy, and Bassford
with distrust. Bassford and I parted in anger. Burnham
all the while pressed his passion on me. Bassford
left that part of the country, Hagerstown, Maryland.
I promised to marry Burnham; in a spell of
sickness, which was brought on me by the absence of
Bassford, he drugged me with opium made me what I
am, and abandoned me to my fate. After many wretched
years of ignominy and shame, I fell in at Louisville,
three weeks since, with Burnham; I came here with
him. He saw Bassford—tried to draw him into his
guilty plots—they quarrelled; and he—he never, never
told me aught until he had done the deed—he murdered
Colonel Cameron to ruin Bassford; and there, I repeat
it,” pointing to the watch, the money, and the
letters of the deceased, “there are the evidences of his
guilt!”

“Sheriff,” said the magistrate, “take Burnham into
your custody.”

“Kill him!” cried out an hundred voices from the
crowd, while several attempted to seize him. Uttering
a yell like a wild Indian at bay, Burnham eluded the
grasp, and drawing, at the same instant, a bowieknife
from his breast, he darted forward and plunged it
into the heart of the woman. The crowd shrunk back
in terror, as the death cry of the victim broke upon the
ear, while the murderer, brandished the bloody knife
over his head, and before any one could arrest him, he
sprung out of one of the windows of the court-room.
It was a leap which none chose to follow, and all rushed
instantaneously to the door Before the crowd got
out, Burnham had mounted his horse and made for the
woods. Several of the horsemen who had come in the
line, mounted and darted after, as if to take him.

“They want to save him,” exclaimed several who
were also mounting other horses that stood by.

“Clear the road!” shouted the Kentuckian, who, rifle
in hand, had sprung upon a mound within a few feet of
the court-house. The horsemen looked fearfully back,
as if instinctively they understood the purpose of the
hunter, and spurred their horses from the track of the
flying man. The Kentuckian raised his rifle to his
shoulder—instantly its sharp report was heard. All
eyes were turned to the murderer, who was urging his
steed to the utmost. He started, as if in renewed energy,
then reeled to and fro like a drunken man, then
fell upon the neck of his horse, at the mane of which he
seemed to grasp blindly; in a moment more he tumbled
to the earth like a dead weight. He was dragged,
with his foot in the stirrup, nearly a mile, before his
horse was overtaken and stopped. The bullet of the
sure-sighted Kentuckian had lodged in the murderer's
brain. He had fallen dead from his saddle, and was so

disfigured as scarcely to be recognized. The body
was consigned to a prayerless, hurried, and undistinguished
grave by the road side.

Brown is still alive where I left him, an entirely reformed
and honest man. A stone slab, with some rude
attempts at sculpture on it, at the foot of Brown's garden,
designate the mortal resting-place of the woman,
who, though fallen and degraded, was true to her first
affection, and braved death to save him. His children,
with holy gratitude, have kept the weeds from growing
there, and ever, in their play, become silent when they
approach it.