CHAPTER XXI.
“I know it is dreadful! I feel theAnguish of thy generous soul—but I was bornTo murder all who love me.”George Barnwell.
“I know it is dreadful! I feel theAnguish of thy generous soul—but I was bornTo murder all who love me.”George Barnwell.
“I know it is dreadful! I feel theAnguish of thy generous soul—but I was bornTo murder all who love me.”George Barnwell.
“I know it is dreadful! I feel the
Anguish of thy generous soul—but I was born
To murder all who love me.”
George Barnwell.
Dunscomb was followed to his room by Millington, between whom and himself, John Wilmeter had occasion to remark, a sudden intimacy had sprung up. The counsellor had always liked his student, or he would never have consented to give him his niece; but it was not usual for him to hold as long, or seemingly as confidential conversations with the young man, as now proved to be the case. When the interview was over, Millington mounted a horse and galloped off, in the direction of town, in that almost exploded manner of moving. Time was, and that within the memory of man, when the gentlemen of New York were in their saddles hours each day; but all this is changing with the times. We live in an age of buggies, the gig, phaeton, and curricle having disappeared, and the utilitarian vehicle just named having taken their places. Were it not for the women, who still have occasion for closer carriages, the whole nation would soon be riding about in buggies! Beresford is made, by one of his annotators, to complain that everything like individuality is becoming lost in England, and that the progress of great improvements must be checked, or independent thinkers will shortly be out of the question. If this be true of England, what might not be said on the same subject of America? Here, where there is so much community as to have completely engulphed everythinglike individual thought and action, we take it the most imitative people on earth are to be found. This truth is manifested in a thousand things. Every town is getting its Broadway, thus defeating the very object of names; to-day the country is dotted with Grecian temples, to-morrow with Gothic villages, all the purposes of domestic architecture being sadly forgotten in each; and, as one of the Spensers is said to have introduced the article of dress which bears his name, by betting he could set the fashion of cutting off the skirts of the coat, so might one who is looked up to, in this country, almost set the fashion of cutting off the nose.
Dunscomb, however, was a perfectly original thinker. This he manifested in his private life, as well as in his public profession. His opinions were formed in his own way, and his acts were as much those of the individual as circumstances would at all allow. His motives in despatching Millington so suddenly to town were known to himself, and will probably be shown to the reader, as the narrative proceeds.
“Well, sir, how are we getting on?” asked John Wilmeter, throwing himself into a chair, in his uncle’s room, with a heated and excited air. “I hope things are going to your mind?”
“We have got a jury, Jack, and that is all that can be said in the matter,” returned the uncle, looking over some papers as the conversation proceeded. “It is good progress, in a capital case, to get a jury empannelled in the first forenoon.”
“You’ll have the verdict in, by this time to-morrow, sir, I’m afraid!”
“Why afraid, boy? The sooner the poor woman is acquitted, the better will it be forher.”
“Ay, if she be acquitted; but I fear everything is looking dark, in the case.”
“And this fromyou, who fancied the accused an angel of light, only a week since!”
“She is certainly a most fascinating creature,when she choosesto be,” said John, with emphasis; “but she does not always choose to appear in that character.”
“She is most certainly a fascinating creature,when she chooses to be!” returned the uncle, with very much the same sort of emphasis.
But Dunscomb’s manner was very different from that of his nephew. John was excited, petulant, irritable, and in a state to feel and say disagreeable things; dissatisfied with himself, and consequently not very well pleased with others. A great change had come over his feelings, truly, within the last week, and the image of the gentle Anna Updyke was fast taking the place of that of Mary Monson. As the latter seldom saw the young man, and then only at the grate, the former had got to be the means of communication between the youthful advocate and his client, throwing them constantly in each other’s way. On such occasions Anna was always so truthful, so gentle, so earnest, so natural, and so sweetly feminine, that John must have been made of stone, to remain insensible of her excellent qualities. If women did but know how much their power, not to say charms, are increased by gentleness, by tenderness in lieu of coldness of manner, by keeping within the natural circle of their sex’s feelings, instead of aping an independence and spirit more suited to men than to their own condition, we should see less of discord in domestic life, happier wives, better mothers, and more reasonable mistresses. No one knew this better than Dunscomb, who had not been an indifferent spectator of his nephew’s course, and who fancied this a favourable moment to say a word to him, on a subject that he felt to be important.
“Thischoosingto be is a very material item in the female character,” continued the counsellor, after a moment of silent and profound thought. “Whatever else you may do, my boy, in the way of matrimony, marry a gentle and feminine woman. Take my word for it, there is no true happiness with any other.”
“Women have their tastes and caprices, and like to indulge them, sir, as well as ourselves.”
“All that may be true, but avoid what is termed a woman of independent spirit. They are usually so many devils incarnate. If they happen to unite moneyed independence with moral independence, I am not quite certain that their tyranny is not worse than that of Nero. A tyrannical woman is worse than a tyrannical man, because she is apt to be capricious. At one moment she will blow hot, at the next cold; at one time she will give, at the next clutch back her gifts; to-day she is the devoted and obedient wife, to-morrow the domineering partner. No, no, Jack, marry awoman; which means a kind, gentle, affectionate, thoughtful creature, whose heart is so full ofyou, there is no room in it for herself. Marry just such a girl as Anna Updyke, if you can get her.”
“I thank you, sir,” answered John, colouring. “I dare say the advice is good, and I shall bear it in mind. What would you think of a woman like Mary Monson, for a wife?”
Dunscomb turned a vacant look at his nephew, as if his thoughts were far away, and his chin dropped on his bosom. This abstraction lasted but a minute, however when the young man got his answer.
“Mary Monsonisa wife, and I fear a bad one,” returned the counsellor. “If she be the woman I suppose her to be, her history, brief as it is, is a very lamentable one. John, you are my sister’s son, and my heir. You are nearer to me than any other human being, in one sense, though I certainly love Sarah quite as well as I do you, if not a little better. These ties of feeling are strange links in our nature! At one time I loved your mother with a tenderness such as a father might feel for a child; in short, with a brother’s love—a brother’s love for a young, and pretty, and good girl, and I thought I could never love another as I loved Elizabeth. She returned my affection, and there wasa period of many years when it was supposed that we were to pass down the vale of life in company, as brother and sister—old bachelor and old maid. Your father deranged all this, and at thirty-four my sister left me. It was like pulling my heart-strings out of me, and so much the worse, boy, because they were already sore.”
John started. His uncle spoke hoarsely, and a shudder, that was so violent as to be perceptible to his companion, passed through his frame. The cheeks of the counsellor were usually colourless; now they appeared absolutely pallid.
“This, then,” thought John Wilmeter, “is the insensible old bachelor, who was thought to live altogether for himself. How little does the world really know of what is passing within it! Well may it be said, ‘here is a skeleton in every house.’”
Dunscomb soon recovered his self-command. Reaching forth an arm, he took his nephew’s hand, and said affectionately—
“I am not often thus, Jack, as you mustknow.know.A vivid recollection of days that have long been past came freshly over me, and I believe I have been a little unmanned. To you, my early history is a blank; but a very few words will serve to tell all you need ever know. I was about your time of life, Jack, when I loved, courted, and became engaged to Mary Millington—Michael’s great-aunt. Is this new to you?”
“Not entirely, sir; Sarah has told me something of the same sort—you know the girls get hold of family anecdotes sooner than we men.”
“She then probably told you that I was cruelly, heartlessly jilted, for a richer man. Mary married, and left one daughter; who also married early, her own cousin, Frank Millington, the cousin of Michael’s father. You may now see why I have ever felt so much interest in your future brother-in-law.”
“Heis a good fellow, and quite free from all jilting blood,I’ll answer for it. But, what has become of this Mrs. Frank Millington? I remember no such person.”
“Like her mother, she died young, leaving an only daughter to inherit her name and very ample fortune. The reason you never knew Mr. Frank Millington is probably because he went to Paris early, where he educated his daughter, in a great degree—there, and in England—and when he died, Mildred Millington, the heiress of both parents, is said to have had quite twenty thousand a year. Certain officious friends made a match for her, I have heard, with a Frenchman of some family, but small means; and the recent revolution has driven them to this country, where, as I have been told, she took the reins of domestic government into her own hands, until some sort of a separation has been the consequence.”
“Why, this account is surprisingly like the report we have had concerning Mary Monson, this morning!” cried Jack, springing to his feet with excitement.
“I believe her to be the same person. Many things unite to create this opinion. In the first place, there is certainly a marked family resemblance to her grandmother and mother; then the education, manners, languages, money, Marie Moulin, and the initials of the assumed name, each and all have their solution in this belief. The ‘Mademoiselle’ and the ‘Madame’ of the Swiss maid are explained; in short, if we can believe this Mary Monson to be Madame de Larocheforte, we can find an explanation of everything that is puzzling in her antecedents.”
“But, why should a woman of twenty thousand a year be living in the cottage of Peter Goodwin?”
“Because sheisa woman of twenty thousand a year. Mons. de Larocheforte found her money was altogether at her own command, by this new law, and, naturally enough, he desired to play something more than a puppet’s part in his own abode and family. The lady clings to her dollars, which she loves more than herhusband; a quarrel ensues, and she chooses to retire from his protection, and conceal herself, for a time, under Peter Goodwin’s roof, to evade pursuit. Capricious and wrong-headed women do a thousand strange things, and thoughtless gabblers often sustain them in what they do.”
“This is rendering the marriage tie very slight!”
“It is treating it with contempt; setting at naught the laws of God and man—one’s duties, and the highest obligations of woman. Still, many of the sex fancy if they abstain from one great and distinct offence, the whole catalogue of the remaining misdeeds is at their mercy.”
“Not to the extent of murder and arson, surely! Why should such a woman commit these crimes?”
“One never knows. We are fearfully constituted, John; morally and physically. The fairest form often conceals the blackest heart, andvice versa. But I am now satisfied that there is a vein of insanity in this branch of the Millingtons; and it is possible Madame de Larocheforte is more to be pitied than to be censured.”
“You surely do not think her guilty, uncle Tom?”
The counsellor looked intently at his nephew, shaded his brow a moment, gazed upward, and answered—
“I do. There is such a chain of proof against her as will scarce admit of explanation. I am afraid, Jack—I am afraid that she has done these deeds, terrible as they are! Such has been my opinion, now, for some time; though my mind has vacillated, as I make no doubt will prove to be the case with those of most of the jurors. It is a sad alternative; but I see no safety for her except in the plea of insanity. I am in hopes that something may be made out in that respect.”
“We are quite without witnesses to the point; are we not, sir?”
“Certainly; but Michael Millington has gone to town to sendby telegraph for the nearest connections of Madame de Larocheforte, who are in the neighbourhood of Philadelphia. The husband himself is somewhere on the Hudson. He must be hunted up too. Michael will see to all this. I shall get the judge to adjourn early this evening; and we must spin out the trial for the next day or two, in order to collect our forces. The judge is young and indulgent. He has certain ridiculous notions about saving the time of the public; but does not feel secure enough in his seat to be very positive.”
At this instant Timms burst into the room, in a high state of excitement, exclaiming, the moment he was sure that his words would not reach any hostile ears—
“Our case is desperate! All the Burtons are coming out dead against us; and neither ‘the new philanthropy,’ nor ‘Friends,’ nor ‘anti-gallows,’ can save us. I never knew excitement get up so fast. It’s the infernal aristocracy that kills us!—Williams makes great use of it; and our people will not standaristocracy.aristocracy.See what a magnanimous report to the legislature the learned Attorney-General has just made on the subject ofaristocracy.aristocracy.How admirably he touches up the kings and countesses!”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Dunscomb, with a contemptuous curl of the lip—“not one in a thousand knows the meaning of the word; and he among the rest. The report you mention is that of a refined gentleman, to be sure, and is addressed to his equals. What exclusive political privilege does Mary Monson possess? or what does the patroon, unless it be the privilege of having more stolen from him, by political frauds, than any other man in the State? This cant about social aristocracy, even in a state of society in which the servant deserts his master with impunity, in the midst of a dinner, is very miserable stuff! Aristocracy, forsooth! If there be aristocracy in America, the blackguard is the aristocrat. Away, then, with all this trash, and speak common sense in future.”
“You amaze me, sir! Why, I regardyouas a sort of aristocrat, Mr. Dunscomb.”
“Me!—And what do you see aristocratic about me, pray?”
“Why, sir, you don’tlooklike the rest of us. Your verywalkis different—your language, manners, dress, habits and opinions, all differ from those of the Duke’s county bar. Now, to my notion, that is being exclusive and peculiar; and whatever is peculiar is aristocratic, is it not?”
Here Dunscomb and his nephew burst out in a laugh; and, for a few minutes, Mary Monson was forgotten. Timms was quite in earnest; for he had fallen into the every-day notions, in this respect, and it was not easy to get him out of them.
“Perhaps the Duke’s county bar contains the aristocrats, and I am the cerf!” said the counsellor.
“That cannot be—youmustbe the aristocrat, if any there be among us. I don’t knowwhyit is so, but so it is; yes,youare the aristocrat, if there be one at our bar.”
Jack smiled, and looked funny; but he had the discretion to hold his tongue.Hehad heard that a Duke of Norfolk, the top of the English aristocracy, was so remarkable for his personal habits as actually to be offensive; a man who, according to Timms’s notions, would have been a long way down the social ladder; but who, nevertheless, was a top-peer, if not a top-sawyer. It was easy to see that Timms confounded a gentleman with an aristocrat; a confusion in ideas that is very common, and which is far from being unnatural, when it is remembered how few formerly acquired any of the graces of deportment who had not previously attained positive, exclusive, political rights. As for the Attorney-General and his report, Jack had sufficient sagacity to see it was a document that said one thing and meant another; professing deference for a people that it did not stop to compliment with the possession of either common honesty or good manners.
“I hopemyaristocracy is not likely to affect the interests of my client.”
“No; there is little danger of that. It is the democracy of the Burtons which will do that. I learn from Johnson that they are coming out stronger and stronger; and I feel certain Williams is sure of their testimony. By the way, sir, I had a hint from him, as we left the court-house, that the five thousand dollars mightyettake him from the field.”
“This Mr. Williams, as well as yourself, Timms, must be more cautious, or the law will yet assert its power. It is very much humbled, I am aware, under the majesty of the people and a feeble administration of its authority; but its arm is long, and its gripe potent, when it chooses to exert its force. Take my advice, and have no more to do with such arrangements.”
The dinner-bell put an end to the discussion. Timms vanished like a ghost; but Dunscomb, whose habits were gentlemanlike, and who knew that Mrs. Horton had assigned a particular seat to him, moved more deliberately; following his nephew about the time Timms was half through the meal.
An American tavern-dinner, during the sitting of the circuit, is every way worthy of a minute and graphic description; but our limits will hardly admit of our assuming the task. If “misery makes a man acquainted with strange bed-fellows,” so does the law. Judges, advocates, witnesses, sheriffs, clerks, constables, and not unfrequently the accused, dine in common, with rail-road speed. The rattling of knives, forks, and spoons, the clatter of plates, the rushing of waiters, landlord, landlady, chamber-maids, ostler and bar-keeper included, produce a confusion that would do honour to the most profound “republican simplicity.” Everything approaches a state of nature but the eatables; and they are invariably overdone. On an evil day, some Yankee invented an article termed a “cooking-stove;” and since its appearance everything like good cookery has vanished from thecommon American table. There is plenty spoiled; abundance abused. Of made dishes, with the exception of two or three of very simple characters, there never were any; and these have been burned to cinders by the baking processes of the “cook-stoves.”
It matters little, however, to theconvivesof a circuit-court dinner, what the dishes are called, or of what they are composed. “Haste” forbids “taste;” and it actually occurred that day, as it occurs almost invariably on such occasions, that a very clever country practitioner was asked thematerielof the dish he had been eating, and he could not tell it! Talk of the mysteries of French cookery! The “cook-stove” produces more mystery than all the art of all the culinary artists of Paris; and this, too, on a principle that tallies admirably with that of the purest “republican simplicity;” since it causes all things to taste alike.
To a dinner of this stamp Dunscomb now sat down, just ten minutes after the first clatter of a plate was heard, and just as the only remove was seen, in the form of slices of pie, pudding and cake. With his habits, railroad speed or lightning-line eating could find no favour; and he and Jack got their dinner, as best they might, amid the confusion and remnants of the close of such a repast. Nine-tenths of those who had so lately been at work as trencher-men were now picking their teeth, smoking segars, or preparing fresh quids for the afternoon. A few clients were already holding their lawyers by the button; and here and there one of the latter led the way to his room to “settle” some slander cause in which the plaintiff had got frightened.
It is a bad sign when eating is carried on withoutconversation.conversation.To converse, however, at such a table, is morally if not physically impossible. Morally, because each man’s mind is so intent on getting as much as he wants, that it is almost impossible to bring his thoughts to bear on any other subject; physically, on account of the clatter, a movement in which an eclipse of a plate by thebody of a waiter is no unusual thing, and universal activity of the teeth. Conversation under such circumstances would be truly a sort of ventriloquism; the portion of the human frame included in the term being all in all just at that moment.
Notwithstanding these embarrassments and unpleasant accompaniments, Dunscomb and his nephew got their dinners, and were about to quit the table as McBrain entered. The doctor would not expose his bride to the confusion of the common table, where there was so much that is revolting to all trained in the usages of good company, singularly blended with a decency of deportment, and a consideration for the rights of each, that serve to form bright spots in American character; but he had obtained a more private room for the females of his party.
“We should do pretty well,” observed McBrain, in explaining his accommodations, “were it not for a troublesome neighbour in an adjoining room, who is either insane or intoxicated. Mrs. Horton has put us in your wing, and I should think you must occasionally hear from him too?”
“The man is constantly drunk, they tell me, and is a little troublesome at times. On the whole, however, he does not annoy me much. I shall take the liberty of dining with you to-morrow, Ned; this eating against time does not agree with my constitution.”
“To-morrow!—I was thinking that my examination would be ended this afternoon, and that we might return to town in the morning. You will remember I have patients to attend to.”
“You will have more reason forpatience. If you get through in a week, you will be lucky.”
“It is a curious case! I find all the local faculty ready to swear through thick and thin against her. My own opinion is fixed—but what is the opinion of one man against those of several in the same profession?”
“We will put that question to Mrs. Horton, who is coming toask how we have dined—Thank’ee, my good Mrs. Horton, we have doneremarkablywell, considering all the circumstances.”
The landlady was pleased, and smirked, and expressed her gratification. Thesous entenduof Dunscomb was lost upon her; and human vanity is very apt to accept the flattering, and to overlook the disagreeable. She was pleased that the great York lawyer was satisfied.
Mrs. Horton was an American landlady, in the strictest sense of the word. This implies many features distinct from her European counterpart; some of which tell greatly in her favour, and others not so much so. Decency of exterior, and a feminine deportment, are so characteristic of the sex in this country, that they need scarcely be adverted to. There were no sly jokes, nodoubles entendreswith Mrs. Horton; who maintained too grave a countenance to admit of such liberties. Then, she was entirely free from the little expedients of a desire to gain that are naturally enough adopted in older communities, where the pressure of numbers drives the poor to their wits’-end, in order to live. American abundance had generated American liberality in Mrs. Horton; and if one of her guests asked for bread, she would give him the loaf. She was, moreover, what the country round termed “accommodating;” meaning that she was obliging and good-natured. Her faults were a fierce love of gossip, concealed under a veil of great indifference and modesty, a prying curiosity, and a determination to know everything, touching everybody, who ever came under her roof. This last propensity had got her into difficulties, several injurious reports having been traced to her tongue, which was indebted to her imagination for fully one-half of what she had circulated. It is scarcely necessary to add, that, among the right set, Mrs. Horton was a great talker. As Dunscomb was a favourite, he was not likely to escape on the present occasion; the room being clear of all the guests but those of his own party.
“I am glad to get a little quiet talk with you, ’Squire Dunscomb,” the landlady commenced; “for a body can depend on what is heard from such authority. Do they mean to hang Mary Monson?”
“It is rather premature to ask that question, Mrs. Horton. The jury is empannelled, and there we stand at present.”
“Is it a good jury?—Some of our Duke’s county juries are none too good, they tell me.”
“The whole institution is a miserable contrivance for the administration of justice. Could a higher class of citizens compose the juries, the system might still do, with a few improvements.”
“Why not elect them?” demanded the landlady, who wasex officio, a politician, much as women are usually politicians in this country. In other words, shefelther opinions, without knowing their reasons.
“God forbid, my good Mrs. Horton—we have elective judges; that will do for the present. Too much of a good thing is as injurious as the positively bad. I prefer the present mode of drawing lots.”
“Have you got a Quaker in the box?—If you have, you are safe enough.”
“I doubt if the District Attorney would suffer that; although he appears to be kind and considerate. The man who goes into that box must be prepared to hang if necessary.”
“For my part, I wish all hanging was done away with. I can see no good that hanging can do a man.”
“You mistake the object, my dear Mrs. Horton, though your argument is quite as good as many that are openly advanced on the same side of the question.”
“Just hear me, ’Squire,” rejoined the woman; for she loved dearly to get into a discussion on any question that she was accustomed to hear debated among her guests. “The countryhangs a body to reform a body; and what good can that do when a body is dead?”
“Very ingeniously put,” returned the counsellor, politely offering his box to the landlady, who took a few grains; and then deliberately helping himself to a pinch of snuff—“quite as ingeniously as much of the argument that appears in public. The objection lies to the premises, and not to the deduction, which is absolutely logical and just. A hanged body is certainly an unreformed body; and, as you say, it is quite useless to hang in order to reform.”
“There!” exclaimed the woman in triumph—“I told ’Squire Timms that a gentleman who knows as much as you do must be on our side. Depend on one thing, lawyer Dunscomb, and you too, gentlemen—depend on it, that Mary Monson will never be hanged.”
This was said with a meaning so peculiar, that it struck Dunscomb, who watched the woman’s earnest countenance while she was speaking, with undeviating interest and intensity.
“It is my duty and my wish, Mrs. Horton, to believe as much, and to make others believe it also, if I can,” he answered, now anxious to prolong a discourse that a moment before he had found tiresome.
“You can, if you will only try. I believe in dreams—and I dreamt a week ago that Mary Monson would be acquitted. It would be ag’in all our new notions to hang so nice a lady.”
“Ourtastesmight take offence at it; and taste is ofsomeinfluence yet, I am bound to agree with you.”
“But you do agree with me in the uselessness of hanging, when the object is to reform?”
“Unfortunately for the force of that argument, my dear landlady, society does not punish for the purposes of reformation—that is a very common blunder of superficial philanthropists.”
“Not for the purposes of reformation, ’Squire!—You astonish me! Why, for what else should it punish?”
“For its own protection. To prevent others from committing murder. Have you no other reason than your dream, my good Mrs. Horton, for thinking Mary Monson will be acquitted?”
The woman put on a knowing look, and nodded her head significantly. At the same time, she glanced towards the counsellor’s companions, as much as to say that their presence prevented her being more explicit.
“Ned, do me the favour to go to your wife, and tell her I shall stop in, and say a kind word as I pass her door;—and, Jack, go and bid Sarah be in Mrs. McBrain’s parlour, ready to give me my morning’s kiss.”
The Doctor and John complied, leaving Dunscomb alone with the woman.
“May I repeat the question, my good landlady?—Why do you think Mary Monson is to be acquitted?” asked Dunscomb, in one of his softest tones.
Mrs. Horton mused, seemed anxious to speak, but struggling with some power that withheld her. One of her hands was in a pocket where the jingling of keys and pence made its presence known. Drawing forth this hand mechanically, Dunscomb saw that it contained several eagles. The woman cast her eyes on the gold, returned it hastily to her pocket, rubbed her forehead, and seemed the wary, prudent landlady once more.
“I hope you like your room, ’Squire,” she cried, in a thoroughly, inn-keeping spirit. “It’s the very best in this house; though I’m obliged to tell Mrs. McBrain the same story as to her apartment. But you have the best. You have a troublesome neighbour between you, I’m afraid; but he’ll not be there many days, and I do all I can to keep him quiet.”
“Is that man crazy?” asked the counsellor, rising, perceiving that he had no more to expect from the woman just then; “oris he only drunk? I hear him groan, and then I hear him swear; though I cannot understand what he says.”
“He’s sent here by his friends; and your wing is the only place we have to keep him in. When a body is well paid, ’Squire, I suppose you know that the fee must not be forgotten? Now, inn-keepers have fees, as well as you gentlemen of the bar. How wonderfully Timms is getting along, Mr. Dunscomb!”
“I believe his practice increases; and they tell me he stands next to Mr. Williams in Duke’s.”
“He does, indeed; and a ‘bright particular star,’ as the poet says, has he got to be!”
“If he be a star at all,” answered the counsellor, curling his lip, “it must be a very particular one, indeed. I am sorry to leave you, Mrs. Horton; but the intermission is nearly up.”
Dunscomb gave a little friendly nod, which the landlady returned; the former went his way with singular coolness of manner, when it is remembered that on him rested the responsibility of defending a fellow-creature from the gallows. What rendered this deliberation more remarkable, was the fact that he had no faith in the virtue of Mrs. Horton’sdream.dream.