The Gilded Age, Complete

M >> Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner >> The Gilded Age, Complete


He further said that if this Noble were a pure man, and merely misguided,
he could bear it, but that he should succeed in his wicked designs
through, a base use of money would leave a blot upon his State which
would work untold evil to the morals of the people, and that he would not
suffer; the public morals must not be contaminated. He would seek this
man Noble; he would argue, he would persuade, he would appeal to his
honor.

When he arrived on the ground he found his friends unterrified; they were
standing firmly by him and were full of courage. Noble was working hard,
too, but matters were against him, he was not making much progress.
Mr. Dilworthy took an early opportunity to send for Mr. Noble; he had a
midnight interview with him, and urged him to forsake his evil ways; he
begged him to come again and again, which he did. He finally sent the
man away at 3 o'clock one morning; and when he was gone, Mr. Dilworthy
said to himself,

"I feel a good deal relieved, now, a great deal relieved."

The Senator now turned his attention to matters touching the souls of his
people. He appeared in church; he took a leading part in prayer
meetings; he met and encouraged the temperance societies; he graced the
sewing circles of the ladies with his presence, and even took a needle
now and then and made a stitch or two upon a calico shirt for some poor
Bibleless pagan of the South Seas, and this act enchanted the ladies,
who regarded the garments thus honored as in a manner sanctified.
The Senator wrought in Bible classes, and nothing could keep him away
from the Sunday Schools--neither sickness nor storms nor weariness.
He even traveled a tedious thirty miles in a poor little rickety
stagecoach to comply with the desire of the miserable hamlet of
Cattleville that he would let its Sunday School look upon him.

All the town was assembled at the stage office when he arrived,
two bonfires were burning, and a battery of anvils was popping exultant
broadsides; for a United States Senator was a sort of god in the
understanding of these people who never had seen any creature mightier
than a county judge. To them a United States Senator was a vast, vague
colossus, an awe inspiring unreality.

Next day everybody was at the village church a full half hour before time
for Sunday School to open; ranchmen and farmers had come with their
families from five miles around, all eager to get a glimpse of the great
man--the man who had been to Washington; the man who had seen the
President of the United States, and had even talked with him; the man who
had seen the actual Washington Monument--perhaps touched it with his
hands.

When the Senator arrived the Church was crowded, the windows were full,
the aisles were packed, so was the vestibule, and so indeed was the yard
in front of the building. As he worked his way through to the pulpit on
the arm of the minister and followed by the envied officials of the
village, every neck was stretched and, every eye twisted around
intervening obstructions to get a glimpse. Elderly people directed each
other's attention and, said, "There! that's him, with the grand, noble
forehead!" Boys nudged each other and said, "Hi, Johnny, here he is,
there, that's him, with the peeled head!"

The Senator took his seat in the pulpit, with the minister' on one side
of him and the Superintendent of the Sunday School on the other.
The town dignitaries sat in an impressive row within the altar railings
below. The Sunday School children occupied ten of the front benches.
dressed in their best and most uncomfortable clothes, and with hair
combed and faces too clean to feel natural. So awed were they by the
presence of a living United States Senator, that during three minutes not
a "spit ball" was thrown. After that they began to come to themselves by
degrees, and presently the spell was wholly gone and they were reciting
verses and pulling hair.

The usual Sunday School exercises were hurried through, and then the
minister, got up and bored the house with a speech built on the customary
Sunday School plan; then the Superintendent put in his oar; then the town
dignitaries had their say. They all made complimentary reference to
"their friend the Senator," and told what a great and illustrious man he
was and what he had done for his country and for religion and temperance,
and exhorted the little boys to be good and diligent and try to become
like him some day. The speakers won the deathless hatred of the house by
these delays, but at last there was an end and hope revived; inspiration
was about to find utterance.

Senator Dilworthy rose and beamed upon the assemblage for a full minute
in silence. Then he smiled with an access of sweetness upon the children
and began:

"My little friends--for I hope that all these bright-faced little people
are my friends and will let me be their friend--my little friends, I have
traveled much, I have been in many cities and many States, everywhere in
our great and noble country, and by the blessing of Providence I have
been permitted to see many gatherings like this--but I am proud, I am
truly proud to say that I never have looked upon so much intelligence,
so much grace, such sweetness of disposition as I see in the charming
young countenances I see before me at this moment. I have been asking
myself as I sat here, Where am I? Am I in some far-off monarchy, looking
upon little princes and princesses? No. Am I in some populous centre of
my own country, where the choicest children of the land have been
selected and brought together as at a fair for a prize? No. Am I in
some strange foreign clime where the children are marvels that we know
not of? No. Then where am I? Yes--where am I? I am in a simple,
remote, unpretending settlement of my own dear State, and these are the
children of the noble and virtuous men who have made me what I am!
My soul is lost in wonder at the thought! And I humbly thank Him to whom
we are but as worms of the dust, that he has been pleased to call me to
serve such men! Earth has no higher, no grander position for me. Let
kings and emperors keep their tinsel crowns, I want them not; my heart is
here!

"Again I thought, Is this a theatre? No. Is it a concert or a gilded
opera? No. Is it some other vain, brilliant, beautiful temple of
soul-staining amusement and hilarity? No. Then what is it? What did
my consciousness reply? I ask you, my little friends, What did my
consciousness reply? It replied, It is the temple of the Lord! Ah,
think of that, now. I could hardly keep the tears back, I was so
grateful. Oh, how beautiful it is to see these ranks of sunny little
faces assembled here to learn the way of life; to learn to be good; to
learn to be useful; to learn to be pious; to learn to be great and
glorious men and women; to learn to be props and pillars of the State and
shining lights in the councils and the households of the nation; to be
bearers of the banner and soldiers of the cross in the rude campaigns of
life, and raptured souls in the happy fields of Paradise hereafter.

"Children, honor your parents and be grateful to them for providing for
you the precious privileges of a Sunday School.

"Now my dear little friends, sit up straight and pretty--there, that's
it--and give me your attention and let me tell you about a poor little
Sunday School scholar I once knew.--He lived in the far west, and his
parents were poor. They could not give him a costly education; but they
were good and wise and they sent him to the Sunday School. He loved the
Sunday School. I hope you love your Sunday School--ah, I see by your
faces that you do! That is right!

"Well, this poor little boy was always in his place when the bell rang,
and he always knew his lesson; for his teachers wanted him to learn and
he loved his teachers dearly. Always love your teachers, my children,
for they love you more than you can know, now. He would not let bad boys
persuade him to go to play on Sunday. There was one little bad boy who
was always trying to persuade him, but he never could.

"So this poor little boy grew up to be a man, and had to go out in the
world, far from home and friends to earn his living. Temptations lay all
about him, and sometimes he was about to yield, but he would think of
some precious lesson he learned in his Sunday School a long time ago, and
that would save him. By and by he was elected to the legislature--Then
he did everything he could for Sunday Schools. He got laws passed for
them; he got Sunday Schools established wherever he could.

"And by and by the people made him governor--and he said it was all owing
to the Sunday School.

"After a while the people elected him a Representative to the Congress of
the United States, and he grew very famous.--Now temptations assailed him
on every hand. People tried to get him to drink wine; to dance, to go to
theatres; they even tried to buy his vote; but no, the memory of his
Sunday School saved him from all harm; he remembered the fate of the bad
little boy who used to try to get him to play on Sunday, and who grew up
and became a drunkard and was hanged. He remembered that, and was glad
he never yielded and played on Sunday.

"Well, at last, what do you think happened? Why the people gave him a
towering, illustrious position, a grand, imposing position. And what do
you think it was? What should you say it was, children? It was Senator
of the United States! That poor little boy that loved his Sunday School
became that man. That man stands before you! All that he is, he owes to
the Sunday School.

"My precious children, love your parents, love your teachers, love your
Sunday School, be pious, be obedient, be honest, be diligent, and then
you will succeed in life and be honored of all men. Above all things,
my children, be honest. Above all things be pure-minded as the snow.
Let us join in prayer."

When Senator Dilworthy departed from Cattleville, he left three dozen
boys behind him arranging a campaign of life whose objective point was
the United States Senate.

When he arrived at the State capital at midnight Mr. Noble came and held
a three-hours' conference with him, and then as he was about leaving
said:

"I've worked hard, and I've got them at last. Six of them haven't got
quite back-bone enough to slew around and come right out for you on the
first ballot to-morrow; but they're going to vote against you on the
first for the sake of appearances, and then come out for you all in a
body on the second--I've fixed all that! By supper time to-morrow you'll
be re-elected. You can go to bed and sleep easy on that."

After Mr. Noble was gone, the Senator said:

"Well, to bring about a complexion of things like this was worth coming
West for."




CHAPTER LIV.

The case of the State of New York against Laura Hawkins was finally set
down for trial on the 15th day of February, less than a year after the
shooting of George Selby.

If the public had almost forgotten the existence of Laura and her crime,
they were reminded of all the details of the murder by the newspapers,
which for some days had been announcing the approaching trial. But they
had not forgotten. The sex, the age, the beauty of the prisoner; her
high social position in Washington, the unparalleled calmness with which
the crime was committed had all conspired to fix the event in the public
mind, although nearly three hundred and sixty-five subsequent murders had
occurred to vary the monotony of metropolitan life.

No, the public read from time to time of the lovely prisoner, languishing
in the city prison, the tortured victim of the law's delay; and as the
months went by it was natural that the horror of her crime should become
a little indistinct in memory, while the heroine of it should be invested
with a sort of sentimental interest. Perhaps her counsel had calculated
on this. Perhaps it was by their advice that Laura had interested
herself in the unfortunate criminals who shared her prison confinement,
and had done not a little to relieve, from her own purse, the necessities
of some of the poor creatures. That she had done this, the public read
in the journals of the day, and the simple announcement cast a softening
light upon her character.

The court room was crowded at an early hour, before the arrival of
judges, lawyers and prisoner. There is no enjoyment so keen to certain
minds as that of looking upon the slow torture of a human being on trial
for life, except it be an execution; there is no display of human
ingenuity, wit and power so fascinating as that made by trained lawyers
in the trial of an important case, nowhere else is exhibited such
subtlety, acumen, address, eloquence.

All the conditions of intense excitement meet in a murder trial. The
awful issue at stake gives significance to the lightest word or look.
How the quick eyes of the spectators rove from the stolid jury to the
keen lawyers, the impassive judge, the anxious prisoner. Nothing is
lost of the sharp wrangle of the counsel on points of law, the measured
decision's of the bench; the duels between the attorneys and the
witnesses. The crowd sways with the rise and fall of the shifting,
testimony, in sympathetic interest, and hangs upon the dicta of the
judge in breathless silence. It speedily takes sides for or against
the accused, and recognizes as quickly its favorites among the lawyers.
Nothing delights it more than the sharp retort of a witness and the
discomfiture of an obnoxious attorney. A joke, even if it be a lame,
one, is no where so keenly relished or quickly applauded as in a murder
trial.

Within the bar the young lawyers and the privileged hangers-on filled all
the chairs except those reserved at the table for those engaged in the
case. Without, the throng occupied all the seats, the window ledges and
the standing room. The atmosphere was already something horrible.
It was the peculiar odor of a criminal court, as if it were tainted by
the presence, in different persons, of all the crimes that men and women
can commit.

There was a little stir when the Prosecuting Attorney, with two
assistants, made his way in, seated himself at the table, and spread his
papers before him. There was more stir when the counsel of the defense
appeared. They were Mr. Braham, the senior, and Mr. Quiggle and Mr.
O'Keefe, the juniors.

Everybody in the court room knew Mr. Braham, the great criminal lawyer,
and he was not unaware that he was the object of all eyes as he moved to
his place, bowing to his friends in the bar. A large but rather spare
man, with broad shoulders and a massive head, covered with chestnut curls
which fell down upon his coat collar and which he had a habit of shaking
as a lion is supposed to shake his mane. His face was clean shaven,
and he had a wide mouth and rather small dark eyes, set quite too near
together: Mr. Braham wore a brown frock coat buttoned across his breast,
with a rose-bud in the upper buttonhole, and light pantaloons.
A diamond stud was seen to flash from his bosom; and as he seated himself
and drew off his gloves a heavy seal ring was displayed upon his white
left hand. Mr. Braham having seated himself, deliberately surveyed the
entire house, made a remark to one of his assistants, and then taking an
ivory-handled knife from his pocket began to pare his finger nails,
rocking his chair backwards and forwards slowly.

A moment later Judge O'Shaunnessy entered at the rear door and took his
seat in one of the chairs behind the bench; a gentleman in black
broadcloth, with sandy hair, inclined to curl, a round; reddish and
rather jovial face, sharp rather than intellectual, and with a
self-sufficient air. His career had nothing remarkable in it. He was
descended from a long line of Irish Kings, and he was the first one of
them who had ever come into his kingdom--the kingdom of such being the
city of New York. He had, in fact, descended so far and so low that he
found himself, when a boy, a sort of street Arab in that city; but he had
ambition and native shrewdness, and he speedily took to boot-polishing,
and newspaper hawking, became the office and errand boy of a law firm,
picked up knowledge enough to get some employment in police courts, was
admitted to the bar, became a rising young politician, went to the
legislature, and was finally elected to the bench which he now honored.
In this democratic country he was obliged to conceal his royalty under
a plebeian aspect. Judge O'Shaunnessy never had a lucrative practice nor
a large salary but he had prudently laid away money-believing that
a dependant judge can never be impartial--and he had lands and houses
to the value of three or four hundred thousand dollars. Had he not
helped to build and furnish this very Court House? Did he not know that
the very "spittoon" which his judgeship used cost the city the sum of one
thousand dollars?

As soon as the judge was seated, the court was opened with the "oi yis,
oi yis" of the officer in his native language, the case called, and the
sheriff was directed to bring in the prisoner. In the midst of a
profound hush Laura entered, leaning on the arm of the officer, and was
conducted to a seat by her counsel. She was followed by her mother and
by Washington Hawkins, who were given seats near her.

Laura was very pale, but this pallor heightened the lustre of her large
eyes and gave a touching sadness to her expressive face. She was dressed
in simple black, with exquisite taste, and without an ornament. The thin
lace vail which partially covered her face did not so much conceal as
heighten her beauty. She would not have entered a drawing room with more
self-poise, nor a church with more haughty humility. There was in her
manner or face neither shame nor boldness, and when she took her seat in
fall view of half the spectators, her eyes were downcast. A murmur of
admiration ran through the room. The newspaper reporters made their
pencils fly. Mr. Braham again swept his eyes over the house as if in
approval. When Laura at length raised her eyes a little, she saw Philip
and Harry within the bar, but she gave no token of recognition.

The clerk then read the indictment, which was in the usual form. It
charged Laura Hawkins, in effect, with the premeditated murder of George
Selby, by shooting him with a pistol, with a revolver, shotgun, rifle,
repeater, breech-loader, cannon, six-shooter, with a gun, or some other,
weapon; with killing him with a slung-shot, a bludgeon, carving knife,
bowie knife, pen knife, rolling pin, car, hook, dagger, hair pin, with a
hammer, with a screw-driver; with a nail, and with all other weapons and
utensils whatsoever, at the Southern hotel and in all other hotels and
places wheresoever, on the thirteenth day of March and all other days of
the Christian era wheresoever.

Laura stood while the long indictment was read; and at the end, in
response to the inquiry, of the judge, she said in a clear, low voice;
"Not guilty." She sat down and the court proceeded to impanel a jury.

The first man called was Michael Lanigan, saloon keeper.

"Have you formed or expressed any opinion on this case, and do you know
any of the parties?"

"Not any," said Mr. Lanigan.

"Have you any conscientious objections to capital punishment?"

"No, sir, not to my knowledge."

"Have you read anything about this case?"

"To be sure, I read the papers, y'r Honor."

Objected to by Mr. Braham, for cause, and discharged.

Patrick Coughlin.

"What is your business?"

"Well--I haven't got any particular business."

"Haven't any particular business, eh? Well, what's your general
business? What do you do for a living?"

"I own some terriers, sir."

"Own some terriers, eh? Keep a rat pit?"

"Gentlemen comes there to have a little sport. I never fit 'em, sir."

"Oh, I see--you are probably the amusement committee of the city council.
Have you ever heard of this case?"

"Not till this morning, sir."

"Can you read?"

"Not fine print, y'r Honor."

The man was about to be sworn, when Mr. Braham asked,

"Could your father read?"

"The old gentleman was mighty handy at that, sir."

Mr. Braham submitted that the man was disqualified Judge thought not.
Point argued. Challenged peremptorily, and set aside.

Ethan Dobb, cart-driver.

"Can you read?"

"Yes, but haven't a habit of it."

"Have you heard of this case?"

"I think so--but it might be another. I have no opinion about it."

Dist. A. "Tha--tha--there! Hold on a bit? Did anybody tell you to say
you had no opinion about it?"

"N--n--o, sir."

"Take care now, take care. Then what suggested it to you to volunteer
that remark?"

"They've always asked that, when I was on juries."

"All right, then. Have you any conscientious scruples about capital
punishment?"

"Any which?"

"Would you object to finding a person guilty--of murder on evidence?"

"I might, sir, if I thought he wan't guilty."

The district attorney thought he saw a point.

"Would this feeling rather incline you against a capital conviction?"

The juror said he hadn't any feeling, and didn't know any of the parties.
Accepted and sworn.

Dennis Lafin, laborer. Have neither formed nor expressed an opinion.
Never had heard of the case. Believed in hangin' for them that deserved
it. Could read if it was necessary.

Mr. Braham objected. The man was evidently bloody minded. Challenged
peremptorily.

Larry O'Toole, contractor. A showily dressed man of the style known as
"vulgar genteel," had a sharp eye and a ready tongue. Had read the
newspaper reports of the case, but they made no impression on him.
Should be governed by the evidence. Knew no reason why he could not be
an impartial juror.

Question by District Attorney.

"How is it that the reports made no impression on you?"

"Never believe anything I see in the newspapers."

(Laughter from the crowd, approving smiles from his Honor and Mr.
Braham.) Juror sworn in. Mr. Braham whispered to O'Keefe, "that's the
man."

Avery Hicks, pea-nut peddler. Did he ever hear of this case? The man
shook his head.

"Can you read?"

"No." "Any scruples about capital punishment?"

"No."

He was about to be sworn, when the district attorney turning to him
carelessly, remarked,

"Understand the nature of an oath?"

"Outside," said the man, pointing to the door.

"I say, do you know what an oath is?"

"Five cents," explained the man.

"Do you mean to insult me?" roared the prosecuting officer. "Are you an
idiot?"

"Fresh baked. I'm deefe. I don't hear a word you say."

The man was discharged. "He wouldn't have made a bad juror, though,"
whispered Braham. "I saw him looking at the prisoner sympathizingly.
That's a point you want to watch for."

The result of the whole day's work was the selection of only two jurors.
These however were satisfactory to Mr. Braham. He had kept off all those
he did not know. No one knew better than this great criminal lawyer that
the battle was fought on the selection of the jury. The subsequent
examination of witnesses, the eloquence expended on the jury are all for
effect outside. At least that is the theory of Mr. Braham. But human
nature is a queer thing, he admits; sometimes jurors are unaccountably
swayed, be as careful as you can in choosing them.

It was four weary days before this jury was made up, but when it was
finally complete, it did great credit to the counsel for the defence.
So far as Mr. Braham knew, only two could read, one of whom was the
foreman, Mr. Braham's friend, the showy contractor. Low foreheads and
heavy faces they all had; some had a look of animal cunning, while the
most were only stupid. The entire panel formed that boasted heritage
commonly described as the "bulwark of our liberties."

The District Attorney, Mr. McFlinn, opened the case for the state. He
spoke with only the slightest accent, one that had been inherited but not
cultivated. He contented himself with a brief statement of the case.
The state would prove that Laura Hawkins, the prisoner at the bar, a
fiend in the form of a beautiful woman, shot dead George Selby, a
Southern gentleman, at the time and place described. That the murder
was in cold blood, deliberate and without provocation; that it had been
long premeditated and threatened; that she had followed the deceased from
Washington to commit it. All this would be proved by unimpeachable
witnesses. The attorney added that the duty of the jury, however painful
it might be, would be plain and simple. They were citizens, husbands,
perhaps fathers. They knew how insecure life had become in the
metropolis. Tomorrow our own wives might be widows, their own children
orphans, like the bereaved family in yonder hotel, deprived of husband
and father by the jealous hand of some murderous female. The attorney
sat down, and the clerk called?

"Henry Brierly."




CHAPTER LV.

Henry Brierly took the stand. Requested by the District Attorney to tell
the jury all he knew about the killing, he narrated the circumstances
substantially as the reader already knows them.