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We draw a curtain over the scene of distress
displayed in Gilbert's Folly, when the body of
Henry Falconer, late the gayest of its inmates,
was laid at the feet of his father and sister; and
pass to that which followed, when a justice of the
peace, acting in the place of a coroner, assembled
a jury of inquest around the bloody couch, to determine
from the melancholy story of the dead,
the fatal responsibility of the living. The official
was a personage who exercised, along with the duties
of a magistrate, the equally dignified functions
of mine host of the Green Tree Tavern; and was,
indeed, no less a man than that rival of Elsie Bell,
whose formidable opposition, many years before,
had completed the downfall of the Traveller's Rest.
He was now a man of substance, portly in person,
and inflated by the dignity of office into a certain
dignity of manner; his step was like the roll of a
ship, and when he breathed, it was with a forcible
and majestic expiration of breath, like the snort of
a war-horse. He had been noticed, as he advanced
in the world, for the independence,—or, to speak
more strictly, the tyranny with which he conducted
himself among his guests; not, indeed, that he
ever beat, or even committed them, as, in virtue
of his office, he might have done; but because, as

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he said, he heartily `despised peing pottered mit
'em.' He was not austere or quarrelsome of disposition,
but he was a lover of his ease in his inn;
and his despotism was shown less in violent opposition
than in contemptuous indifference of all
humours save his own. He abhorred all faultfinding,
but as he equally detested the trouble of
reprehending it, he devised a scheme by which
discontent was either nipped in the bud, or severely
reproved as soon as made manifest, and all without
any labour on his own part. He caused to be
painted on his sign-board, having daubed off the
green tree to make room for it, the following cabalistic
legend,—


Der ist glücklich, welcher zufrieden ist.
which he was accustomed to translate, viva voce,
to all incapable of understanding it, in a quaternion
as remarkable for its expressive simplicity as
for its philosophic comprehensiveness:


He vich is vise
Neffer grumples nor cries;
He vich is neither vise nor ciffil
May go to the diffil.
This,—that is to say, the original morceau,—as
he justly conceived, contained a standing answer
for all grumblers, and by being in such a conspicuous
situation, served as a warning to them beforehand;
while, at the same time, if a guest
chanced to forget its existence, it only needed the
philosophic Schlachtenschlager (for that was the
dignitary's name,) to point to it with his finger, and
demand, `Fat does that mean?' to bring him to
reason. At all events, his translation was always
at hand, in case of extremity, and was of such supreme
efficacy in laying all evil spirits by the heels,

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that he used to declare with triumph, `It fas neffer
needs to say it twice.'

Such was the functionary who now introduced
his assistants into the chamber of death, exulting
in his own importance and his success in completing
the number against all the difficulties resulting
from the confusion into which the county
had been thrown by the second appearance of the
refugees.

“I do afer, on my faith, gentlemen,” he said;
wiping his brows, as he entered, “I had more
trouple making you up than is goodt for nothing.
As for that Jake Sheeps fat run afay, I fill commit
him, the fillain.”

“Ay, Squire, when you catch him,” said one of
the party, who, although as coarse in appearance
as the others, (all being, save himself, ordinary
farmers and ignoramuses, such as could be picked
up in a hurry,) but who soon proved himself possessed
of more brain than all the others together,—
“when you catch him, Squire. But harkee,
Schlachtenschlager; concerning this forcing me on
a jury of inquest,—'tis a sort of a breach of privilege.
As an attorney at law, I should be considered
exempt; for if there's no statute for exemption,
why there's custom, my old boy, and I'll
mulct you in damages. Botheration, Squire, you
should know enough law to steer clear of a lawyer.”

“T'at for your law!” said the magistrate, “and
your lawyer too: I knows my pusiness. And if
you grumples and calls me `old poy,' it vill pe
vorse for you; for old poy means the tyfel, and if
you calls me tyfel, mine friend Affidafy”—

“Tush,” said the lawyer, it means no such thing.
But as you have nabbed me, why make haste with
this stupid business, and be done. Look at the body,
guess your guess out, and let me be gone.”

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“ `He vich is vise,' ”—

“The devil take your verses. Come, let's to business.
Now, Squire, you `know your business,'—
you never, I reckon, held an inquest before in
your life;—how do you begin?”

“How do I pegin?” said the official, scratching
his head; “fy, I reckons, ve must have a talk
apout it, and then say, the man vas murdtered.”

“The deuce you must? Why that's prejudging
the case altogether. How do you know the man
was murdered? where's your witnesses?”

“Vitnesses!” said Schlachtenschlager; “fy, I
reckons the case is clear enough mitout 'em.”

“Ah, I thought you'd say so,” cried the other;
“but that won't do. Where's the murderer?”

“Vy, I committed him.”

“Where's the prisoner, Dancy Parkins?”

“Vy, I committed him along mit the other.”

“Where's the informant, that vagabond—(I
reckon, he'll be a witness for the Commonwealth)—
that stripe-coat fellow, Stirk—Stick,—no, Sterling's
his name?”

“Vy, I committed him, too.”

“The devil you did? Well, where are the officers,
the soldiers, the volunteers, and all the rest
that were present?”

“Vy, chasing the refugees, to pe sure.”

“Well, so I thought. Now, I'll tell you what you'll
have to do: just send off as fast as you can for that
fellow Sterling, and Dancy, and half a dozen others,
and adjourn till they come; which will give me time
to run down to the Traveller's Rest, and administer
on old Elsie Bell's estate, or see what there is
to administer on.”

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“Administer on old Elsie? fat the tyfel! is the
old fitch teadt?”

“As dead as a herring,” said Affidavy; “and
there's another job for you. They say, some one
told her, the defunct here, Colonel Falconer's son,
was shot by young Gilbert; and the harridan
screeched, and fell dead with fright.”

“Mine soul!” said the justice, “they're all typing.
There's the Captain's daughter here,—they say
she's tying too. I vant to take her teposition; but
Dr. Muller says she can n'ither speak nor hear.”

“Well,” said the attorney, “you see there's nothing
to be done here at present. So, adjourn's
the word, and down to hold an inquest on old
Elsie. She has been looking up in the world lately,
and they say she'll leave something. I intend
therefore to administer, or see about it—and by
the way, Squire, we may discover something there
in relation to the murderer. He lived in her house;
and, there's no doubt, the tories made it a place of
rendezvous. We can come up here and finish afterwards.”

“Fell, I don't know,” said Schlachtenschlager;
“it's all vone, except for the trouple of going and
coming. But fere's Jake Musser?” he added, in
sudden alarm; “I declare ve're not all here!—
Fy, Jake, fere have you peen?” he continued, as
the individual, whose absence he had just discovered,
entered the apartment.

“Vy, at Elsie Pell's;—I stopped a moment to
get a trink; but old Elsie vas sick, and the plack
girl vas in a fear, and”—

“Sick!” cried Affidavy, “a'n't the old goose
dead? 'Pshaw! why then we'll go on with the
inquest, and say no more about it. I thought there
was a job there for somebody; but, it seems, it is
only for the doctor. Well, Squire, are you ready?”

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“Yes,” said the official; “but now, Mr. Affidafy,
fat shall we do for witnesses?”

“Tush,” said the man of law, “that's neither here
nor there.”

“Fy, you said, it wouldn't do mitout 'em!”

“Oh, that's according to circumstances, and
here we have circumstances enough to hang the
whole county.”

“Fell, then,” said the magistrate, “we'll pring
it in a case of murder. Are you all agreedt? Fat
says you, Peter Pork?”

“Why, I dunna,” said Peter, “but I reckon so.”

“Fat says you, Thomas Pork?”

“Why, I dunna; but I go with Peter.”

“Fat says you, Jacob Musser?”

“Fy, the same: but I reckon the Captain mought
send us up something to dtrink.—It's a very pretty
pody.”

“Never mind the pody, Jacob. Fat says you,
Jack Darpy?”

“Why, I'm no so clear in the matter;—I'm
ag'in' all hanging.”

“Fy, that's none on your pusiness,” said the
magistrate, assuming an air of dignity; “for you
see, John, the coroner's jury is not the hanging
jury.”

“Well, Squire,” said the nonconformist, “I reckon
I know that as well as any body. But, you see, I've
had a talk with the quakers on this matter, and I'm
coming to think it's ag'in' the law of scriptur' to
bring a man to the gallows. And you see, the
matter all rests on our shoulders; for if we say
murder for our 'quest, why then the grand jury
sings the same song for their indictment, and the
petty jury just follows suit. It's just like sticking
three bricks on an end; if you kick one, why down
goes the second, and clack goes t'other. And moresomover,
what Squire Affidavy says I stick to: I

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don't know the man's murdered, not an iota, without
some one to swear on black and white.”

“Fy, take a look at him, John,” said the Squire
in a heat; “he's deadt, a'n't he? and he has a pig
hole in his neck, ha'n't he? and fat more fould you
haff? You're always preeding trouble, John Darpy!”

“Well, I dunna,” said John; “the man mought
ha' shot himself; for they say he was a peeler at
the bottle, for such a young un; and when folks
drinks, there's no saying what'll come of it: it's
just as much as saying, `Clear the course, here
goes for the devil!'—Squire Affidavy, what do you
say to that?”

“Hem”—replied the man of law, looking at his
elbows, which were somewhat of the whitest, with
an attempt at humour, that faded in a moment before
a look of sullenness and anger, “I say, that
you're a fool, though you stumble upon wisdom
now and then by accident. But none of your sly
winks and blinks: we all know you have not brain
enough for drinking. But stop; we've carried this
joke far enough, and the fun is over. Send down
stairs for the girl Phoebe Jones: she was on the
ground when the shot was fired, and we must
take her testimony.”

“Fy, now I remember, so she fas,” muttered the
magistrate; but added, with a sigh like the sough
of a north-wester, “Put it is a great trouple to
swear a voman.”

The testimony of Phœbe was, however, by no
means so satisfactory as was expected. It is true,
she professed herself able to swear that Mr. Hunter
Hiram Gilbert shot Mr. Falconer; but it soon
appeared she was as ready to swear he had shot
herself, and some dozen other unfortunate persons
into the bargain. In truth, the dreadful conclusion
of an adventure which she had been brought, at

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one moment, almost to consider an innocent and
agreeable frolic,—the condition of her mistress,
from whose bed-side she had been summoned,—
and the spectacle of the ghastly corse of the bridegroom
before her eyes, more than half turned her
brain. She answered therefore by yea and nay,
and just as the question indicated the reply; until
Mr. Affidavy, a man of some little tact in his profession,
although low and debauched habits had
ruined his prospects and reputation together,
thought fit to interfere, and by a little management,
made it obvious, even to the dull brain of
Schlachtenschlager, that the girl, although an actor
in the tragedy, knew no more of its details
from her own observation, than they themselves.

They were relieved from their dilemma, however,
by the sudden appearance of lieutenant
Brooks, who delivered a brief and clear account
of the catastrophe, as far as he had witnessed it
himself; and his testimony left it no longer to be
doubted that the unfortunate defunct had fallen in
consequence of a pistol-shot fired from a weapon
in the hands of Hyland Gilbert. He produced the
instrument, which, as well as the pistol discharged
by the deceased, he had picked from the ground,
and now delivered, along with their fellows, and a
pair taken from Sterling, to the magistrate, averring
that they were in the condition in which he
had found them.

“A very pretty pistol,” said the official; “but
how is this Mr. Lieutenant? did the young fellow
fire them all?”

The soldier stared his honour in the face, and
smiled; but his eye fell on the body of his friend,
and the flash of humour faded into clouds.

“This weapon,” said he, touching one, “I presume
to be that by which Mr. Falconer was slain.
It was picked from the ground by Mr. Gilbert's

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side; the fellow to it, was found in the holsters
attached to Gilbert's saddle. This,” he added,
pointing to another, “belonged to my unfortunate
friend, and was that with which he shot at the
prisoner.”

“Fat!” cried the official, “did he shoot, too?”

“Undoubtedly: I plainly distinguished two explosions,
the one immediately after the other.”

“Fy then, mine Gott!” said Schlachtenschlager,
looking round upon his assistants with an air of
unutterable sagacity, “this, mine friends, does ferry
much alter the case. It vas not murder, but a
fight. Who fires the pistol first?”

“Sir, that is impossible to say. But allow me
to suggest a doubt whether that is necessary to be
inquired into. With deference, I should suppose
the object of this inquest would be simply to determine
who shot the pistol that killed the deceased;
leaving all other questions to be determined
by other tribunals.”

“'Pshaw!” said Affidavy, who seemed to derive
no little private amusement from the ignorance of
the magistrate, when suffered to run its own
course; “you have spoiled the sport. The young
gentleman is, however, right, Squire, and”—

“Holdt your tongue, Mr. Affidafy, and let me
mindt mine own pusiness,” said the magistrate, in
some wrath; “sure I know fat I am about! And
hark ye, Mr. Witness, you are a very goodt young
man, and an officer, and a gentleman; put you
must not tell me fat I am to do, nor fat I am not to
do.”

“Surely not,” replied the witness; “I will not be
so presumptuous.”

“Right; you are a very goodt young man, and
an officer, and a gentleman; and you have very
goodt sense.—Fat do you think I must say in this

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case? for, mine Gott, it puzzles me! Mine own
opinion is, that somepody shot this young man.”

“It cannot be doubted, sir.”

“And that that somepody fas him fat shot the
pistol fat fas not shot by the young man fat fas
shot.”

“Very true, sir.”

“Ferry fell, sir,” continued the official, with
dignity; “now show me the man, and you shall
hear fat I have to say for mine inquest in no
time.”

“The man you speak of is by this time lodged
in the county prison under a warrant issued by
yourself. There were two pistols discharged, one
by the deceased, the other, as I can swear to the
best of my belief, by the prisoner; and I can bear
witness in like manner, that my unfortunate friend
owes his death to the pistol discharged by the prisoner.”

“Fy then, the case is clear enough, and I vonder
you couldn't say so much before. Do you
swear to all this?”

“I do.”

“Fell now, come;—fat fas the reason of all this
running afay, and murdering?”

“That, I beg leave to suggest, is a question entirely
irrelevant.”

“Is it? Fell then, fy don't you answer it?”

“Pshaw!” mumbled Affidavy, who was perhaps
wearying of a sport he did not himself direct.
“Squire, you may discharge the witness: we have
laid our heads together and agreed upon a finding.”

“Fat! mitout me?”

“Certainly. You don't think you are to make
the verdict?—The witness will be pleased to retire,”
he added, and the lieutenant, looking once
more on the dead, immediately withdrew.

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“We find, Squire,” the attorney went on, “that
the deceased came to his death in consequence of
a pistol-bullet shot into his neck by Hyland Gilbert,
otherwise called Herman Hunter. If you want to
be learned about jugulars, carotids, parotids, and
so on, we will call in Dr. Muller, and have him
examine the wound.”

“Fy, I don't know any thing about them things;
put I don't see that you say any thing apout murder?”

“Not a word: as you said yourself to Jack
Darby here, the coroner's jury is not the hanging
jury.”

“Fell now, the matter's finished, and I am ferry
glad. I suppose it is all right?”

“Entirely—the young Hawk is as dead as a
chicken.”

“It is a clear case then, Mr. Affidafy,” said
the dignitary, with a long and tempestuous breath,
indicating the satisfaction he felt at being released
from labours so overpowering, “they fill hang the
young fillain?”

“Why that depends upon circumstances, Squire.”

“Oh the tyfel! it is all `upon circumstances' mit
a lawyer?”

“It is a good case on either side,” said Affidavy;
“and not so bad on the prisoner's as might be supposed,—
that is, if he had but money to make it an
object to take up his cause.”

“Mine Gott, he has money! There fas his fatch;
'twas goldt, and worth forty pound.”

“Eh! indeed? has he a gold watch?”

“And there fas a purse of guineas”—

“Of guineas!”

“And there fas a—fat you call it?—a pill of exchange
on New York, and a letter of credit,—
mine Gott, it fas mitout limit, except time; put I
toubt me, it fas not goodt.”

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