Angelo. We must not make a scarecrow of the law,
Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,
And let it keep one shape, till custom make it
Their perch, and not their terror.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

The events of the preceding evening caused quite a sensation in the village. We shall better understand the various opinions and feelings of the inhabitants by stepping, at about eleven o’clock the following morning, into the shop, or, as it was called in those days, and would generally be called now, the “store” of Truman and Jenkins. This was an establishment at the foot of the hill, where it hung out its sign, in company with several others of the same character, which professed to supply all the wants of the community. Here everything was to be had from a gallon of molasses to a skein of thread, or a quintal of codfish, to a pound of nails. On one side, as you entered, were ranges of shelves, protected by a counter, on which were exposed rolls of flannels of divers colors, and calico and broadcloth, and other “dry goods,” while a showcase on the counter contained combs, and tooth-brushes, and soaps, and perfumery, and a variety of other small articles. The back of the store was used as a receptacle for hogsheads of molasses, and puncheons of rum and wine, and barrels of whisky and sugar. Overhead and on the posts were hung pails, and rakes, and iron chains, and a thousand things necessary to the complete enjoyment of civilization. On the other side was a small counting-room partitioned off, with a door, the upper part of which was glass, for the convenience of looking into the shop, in order to be ready to attend to the wants of such customers as might come in. This little room, scarcely eight feet square, contained a small close stove, around which were gathered some half a dozen persons.

“I say, squire,” exclaimed Tom Gladding, a tall, awkward, good-natured looking fellow, with legs sprawling out, and heels on the top of the stove, addressing himself to a man in a black suit, rather better dressed than the others, “what do you think of this here rusty old Father Holden cut up last night at Conference?”

Squire Miller, as one in authority, and who might be called to adjudicate upon the case, and for other reasons of his own, was not disposed to commit himself, he, therefore, cautiously replied, more Novo Anglicano, by asking another question, “Were you there, Mr. Gladding?”

“No,” said Tom, laughing; “the old folks used to make me go so regular, when I was a boy, I guess I’ve done my part. So after a while I give it up.”

“It is a pity you ever gave it up,” said the squire. “You might get a great deal of good from it.”

“There’s two opinions about that,” said Tom. “You see, squire, as long as mother was alive, I always went with her regular, ‘cause it kind o’ comforted her, though somehow or other I never took to it. So when she died I sort o’ slacked off ’till now it’s ’een amost two year since I been in.”

“They say,” observed Mr. Jenkins, “they’ve took the old man up.”

“I’m sorry for that,” cried Tom. “To go to take up a kind o’ half-crazy man for speaking in meetin’!”

“Why,” inquired the squire, “would you allow the man to go about disturbing the neighbors as he pleased?”

“I never heard tell of his disturbing nobody,” said Tom. “Just take him off his notions about the ten vargins and their lamps, and the judgment day, and I don’t know a likelier man than old Holden. In my opinion, he’s a cleverer fellow than Davenport, by a long shot.”

“I don’t believe he’s been caught,” said a man in a pee-jacket, who, from his appearance, was a fisherman. “I passed his island this morning about sunrise, with a boatload of oysters, and I see the old man at his door.”

“Well,” observed Mr. Jenkins, “I hope he isn’t. It’s enough to make a body puke up his boots to hear Davenport, and I don’t much blame Holden for cutting him short.”

“I heard somebody say,” said Gladding, “that the old man shook his fist right in old Davenport’s face, and told him up and down he was a good for nothing liar. I want to know if he can sue him, squire?”

“Why, as to that,” answered Miller, who being appealed to on a question of law, conceived it necessary to show his learning, “if a man strikes at me within striking distance, I can sue him for assault, though he shouldn’t touch me. That I call one of the nice pints of the law. I decided so myself in the case of Samuel Pond versus Ezekiel Backus. You see Pond and Backus had a little quarrel about some potatoes Pond sold him, and Pond got mad, and told Backus he lied. Backus is rather hasty, and doubled up his fist, and put it near Pond’s nose, and insinuated that if he said that again he would knock him down.” Here the squire paused, and looked round to see what impression he was making on his audience, and the momentary silence was taken advantage of by Gladding to observe:

“That Pond’s a mean cuss.”

The justice took no further notice of honest Tom’s not very complimentary remark than to cast at him a look of angry surprise, which the other endured with complete indifference.

“So,” continued Squire Miller, “Pond went to Lawyer Tippit, and he brought the suit before me. Backus pleaded his own case, but he had a fool for a client; the law was all against him, and I had to fine him a dollar and cost.”

“That’s considerable to pay,” exclaimed Tom, “just for skinning such a fellow’s nose as Sam Pond’s (I’ve heard of the case afore), but you ain’t said nothing, squire, about calling a man a liar.”

“Well,” said Squire Miller, “that’s what we call a mute point. I heard the affirmative and negative argued once by Lawyer Ketchum and Lawyer Tippit. Lawyer Tippit was the affirmative, and Lawyer Ketchum the negative. Lawyer Tippit’s principle was in medio pessimus ibis, while Lawyer Ketchum held qui facit per alien facit per se. They, therefore, couldn’t agree, they were so wide apart, you see. So they separated without either giving up, though I think Lawyer Tippit had a little the best of the argument.”

“Lawyer Tippit knows a thing or two,” said the fisherman, in a low tone.

Here Squire Miller handed to Mr. Jenkins twelve and a half cents, for the four glasses of Jamaica he had drank, a portion of which some way or other seemed to have got into his last speech, and took his leave.

He had hardly left the store when who should come in but Constable Basset, bearing in his hand a black staff, “having a head with the arms of the State thereon,” the badge of his office, as provided by law, and which he was required to carry “upon proper occasions.” Some such occasion had, in the judgment of the constable, evidently arisen, else it would not now be forthcoming.

He was a bullet-headed, carroty-haired little fellow, with a snub nose and eyes so diminutive and deeply sunken, that but for the sparks of light they emitted, they would have been undiscernible. The expression of his face was like that of a wiry terrier, being derived partly from his occupation, which, in his opinion, required him to be as vigilant in spying out offenders as the aforesaid peppery animal, in scenting vermin, and being partly the gift of nature. But though the person of Basset was small, such was not his opinion of himself. That was in an inverse ratio to his size, and at once the source of his highest joys, and, sooth to say, of an occasional mortification. But the former greatly preponderated, and, on the whole, it was a pleasure to a benevolent mind to look at him, if for no other reason than to consider how much enjoyment there may be in ignorance.

As soon as Gladding set his eyes on the constable, he hailed him:

“Here, Basset,” he cried, “what are you going to do this morning with that are stick?”

The constable did not much relish hearing the badge of an office which he esteemed one of the most important in the State thus lightly spoken of and degraded to a common stick; he, therefore, replied somewhat shortly

“I guess, Mr. Gladding, you don’t see the head of my staff, do ye?”

“Don’t I?” said Gladding. “I know old Authority-by-the-State-of-Connecticut a mile off, without seeing his head, I rather think. But what are you up to now?”

Basset, who, though no Solomon, had too much wit to admit every one into his confidence, answered:

“O, nothing; I was only looking for Squire Miller.”

“Why,” said Gladding, “he only left the store a minute ago. I say Basset, you got a warrant agin old Holden?”

“Why,” said Basset, “what makes you ask?”

“Because,” replied Gladding, mischievously, who strongly suspecting an intention to arrest Holden, and knowing the constable’s cowardice, was determined to play upon his fears, “I shouldn’t like to be in your skin when you go for to take him.”

“I’d like to see the man what would dare to resist when I showed him my authority,” said the constable. “I guess I’d make him cry copeevy in less than no time.”

“Well,” said Gladding, who all this while had been leisurely whittling a bit of white pine, “well, Basset, you know your own business best, and I’m not a man to interfere. My principle is, let every man skin his own skunks. You haint no wife nor children, have you?”

“No,” said Basset. “What makes you ask?”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. I always think it judgmatical, you see, to choose a man for constable who haint got no family; ’cause, if any accident should happen, ’twouldn’t be of so much consequence.”

“I don’t catch your meaning clear,” said Basset.

“You’ll catch it clear enough, I guess,” answered Gladding, “if Holden gits hold o’ ye.”

“Now, Tom Gladding, you needn’t think you’re going to frighten me,” cried Basset, on whom the charm was beginning to work.

“I never had sich an idea,” said Tom. “But folks does say he’s a desperate fighting character. Did you never hear tell of Kidd the pirate, and his treasures, ever so much gold and silver, and rings and watches, and all sorts o’ trinkets and notions, buried somewhere along shore, or perhaps on the old fellow’s island? Folks does say that when it was kivered, two men was murdered on the spot, so that their sperits should watch it, and hender other folks from gitting on’t. But them may be all lies. I heard tell, too,” he added, bending down towards the constable, and speaking in a low, confidential tone, as if he wished to be overheard by no one, “that Holden’s Kidd himself; but I don’t believe a word on’t. I tell you this as a friend of your’n, and I advise you to be prudent.”

Poor Basset left the shop, with a much less confident air than that with which he had entered it. The truth is, he had in his pocket, all the while, a warrant issued by Squire Miller to arrest Holden, which he now most heartily wished he had never burnt his fingers with. He had heard before, the strange stories in circulation about the Solitary, but had listened to them with only a vague feeling of curiosity, without any personal interest therein, so that no impression of any consequence had been made upon his mind. But now the case was different. The matter was brought home to his own bosom. Here was he, Constable Basset, required and commanded, “by authority of the State of Connecticut,” to arrest a man of the most violent character, “for,” said Basset to himself, “he must be a dangerous fellow, else how would he venture to insult a whole conference? Tom Gladding’s more’n half right, and I must look sharp.” Gladly would he have abandoned the whole business, notwithstanding his cupidity was not a little excited by the fees, but he doubted whether the sheriff, his deputy, or any other constable would execute the warrant in his stead; nor did any plausible excuse present itself to account for transferring it to other hands. Thus musing, with fear and avarice contending in his breast, he walked up the street. But it may be necessary to tell how Basset got into the dilemma, and, in order to do so, we must retrace our steps.

The interruption at the conference had not a little offended Davenport. A pompous and conceited man, any slight to himself, any failure to accord a deference he considered his due, he felt sensibly as an injury; much more, then, an open defiance and direct attack. That Holden or any one should have the hardihood, before an assemblage of his friends and acquaintances, to interrupt him and load him with reproaches, wounded his self love to the quick, and he fancied it would affect his reputation and influence in the community were the offence to be passed over without notice. He therefore resolved that something should be done to punish the offender, though unwilling to appear himself in the matter, as that might expose his motives; and all the way home, his mind was engrossed with schemes to accomplish his purpose. It was little attention, then, he be stowed upon the “good gracious” and “massy on us” of his better half, as, with indignation becoming the provocation, she kept herself warm, and shortened the way. But, notwithstanding, he was forced to hear them, and they affected him like so many little stings to urge him to revenge. So excited were his feelings, that it was some time before he fell asleep that night, long after notes other than those of music had announced the passage of Mrs. Davenport to a land of forgetfulness, though not before her husband had matured a plan for the morrow.

Accordingly, after breakfast, Davenport walked round to the office of Mr. Ketchum. Ketchum was a young man, who, but a short time before, had, in the fortunate town of Hillsdale, hung out his professional sign, or shingle, as people generally called it, whereon, in gilt letters, were emblazoned his name and the titles of “Attorney and Counsellor at Law,” whereby the public were given to understand that the owner of the aforesaid name and titles was prepared with pen or tongue, or both, to vindicate, a entrance, the rights of all who were able and willing to pay three dollars for an argument before a Justice Court, and in proportion before the higher tribunals. He was a stirring, pushing fellow, whose business, however, was as yet quite limited, and to whom, for that reason, a new case was a bonne bouche on which he sprung with the avidity of a trout.

This gentleman Davenport found apparently lost in the study of a russet sheep-skin covered book. A few other books, bound in like manner, were lying on the table, with pens and loose paper and an ink-stand, among which were mingled files of papers purporting to be writs and deeds. Against the walls were two or three shelves containing some dingy-looking books having a family likeness to the former.

After the usual compliments, Davenport made known his business. “A scandal,” he said, “had been occasioned by the conduct of Holden, and a great injury inflicted on the cause of religion. It was for that reason,” he intimated, “and not from any private feeling he wanted him brought to justice. Some people think him a little touched,” he said, “though I don’t believe it, and if it was only my own case I should overlook his insults, for it is the part of a Christian to suffer wrong without complaining, but there’s others to be thought of, and I’d sooner cut off my right hand than not do my duty. So, squire,” he concluded, “we must see if we can’t learn him reason, and stop his disturbing the worship of God.”

“There is no difficulty about that, Squire Davenport,” said Ketchum, who was acquainted with the particulars of the occurrence of the night previous, before the arrival of his client, having heard them discussed over breakfast at his boarding-house. “You have the plainest case in the world. We’ll soon put him through a course of sprouts.”

“How do you think we had better proceed?” said Davenport.

“Why,” replied the other, opening the Statute Book, “you have at least two causes of action; you can bring a civil action for the slander, and also proceed against him on the part of the State for the interruption of the meeting.”

“I don’t care about suing him on my own account,” said the client, who, perhaps, not reposing unlimited confidence in the young man’s knowledge of law, and doubting the success of a civil action, had visions of possible costs he might be obliged to pay floating before his imagination. Besides, Davenport was a shrewd fellow who had been “in the law” before; and experience taught him how to make allowance for the natural anxiety of a new practitioner to obtain business. “No, I have no feeling about it myself,” said Davenport, “and it is my opinion we had better take him on the part of the State.”

“It is just as well,” said the attorney; “one suit will not interfere with the other. We can first proceed against him criminally, and afterwards bring an action for damages.”

“Well, well,” said Davenport, “now about the prosecution.”

“Then,” said Ketchum, opening the Statute Book at the title “Meetings,” after first running though the index; “we can take him under the Act on the 492d page, entitled, ’An Act for preserving due order in town meetings, society meetings, and in the meetings of other communities, and for preventing tumults therein,’” and he read the act aloud.

“I don’t exactly like that,” observed Davenport, “The fine, in the first place, is only eighty-four cents, except the case is aggravated, when it is a binding over, and then the County Court cannot go over thirty-four dollars fine. There’s no imprisonment and Tom Pownal or Armstrong would go bail, and pay the fine too, if it comes to that; so there would be nothing gained by the operation.”

“Let as see if we cannot find something else,” said Ketchum, “to suit your taste better I think (for he now perfectly understood the temper of his client, and read the vindictive purpose of his soul, and, alas! was willing to descend to the meanness of ministering to its gratification,) I think it would be a reproach to the law if such a high-handed outrage should be permitted to pass unpunished.” He again referred to the index and apparently finding what he wanted turned the leaves till he came to the title, “Workhouses.” “Here,” cried he, “at the 688th page, in the seventh section, we have got him;” and he read from the Statutes a provision, authorising and empowering an associate or Justice of the Peace to send “’all rogues, vagabonds, sturdy beggars, and other lewd, idle, dissolute, profane and disorderly persons that have no settlement in this State, to such workhouses, and order them to be kept to hard labor’ &c.; and here on the next page, ‘also such as are guilty of reviling and profane speaking.’”

“That last will do, if the law will hold him,” said Davenport.

“Leave that to me,” said Ketchum. “That section will hold water or nothing will. Give me the names of your witnesses, and we will set the mill a grinding. I suppose,” he added, carelessly, “you have no objection to bringing the case before Squire Miller?”

“Oh, none in the world,” answered the other, who knew perfectly well the influence he exercised over the Justice. “But you haven’t said a word about the Grand Juror to make the complaint.”

“That will be all straight,” replied Ketchum. “Two Grand Jurors I know were at the meeting, either of whom will answer our purpose. Trust that to me, and I will attend to it.”

Hereupon, Davenport mentioned the names of the witnesses he wished subp[=oe]ned. “And now, Squire,” he added, “that this matter is concluded between us, how comes on my case with Fanning?”

Ketchum felt some surprise at the question, although his countenance expressed none, for it was only a short time since he had gone over the whole subject with his client, and the plan of operations had been agreed on between them. He understood, however, the character of Davenport too well not to know that he had a reason of his own for asking, and not doubting it would come out in the course of the conversation, he replied very composedly that it would probably be reached the next term.

Davenport went on for awhile, talking of his case, Ketchum all the time wondering at his drift, until, having concluded what it pleased him to say, he rose to take leave. After bidding good morning by way of farewell, he walked to the door, when suddenly turning, as if the thought had just struck him, he observed “By the way, if anybody should happen to notice that I had called on you, I have no objections to your saying I had a talk with you about that case of Fanning’s.”

As soon as the door was closed, Ketchum leaned back in his chair and indulged in a low sarcastic laugh. “The old sinner,” he said, aloud; “he is a cute one; sharp as a pin, but needles are sharper. What a knack he has of whipping the devil round the stump! To look at that man you would suppose he was too good for preaching. And he flatters himself he is imposing on me! He must get up earlier for that. It is my opinion his only chance when his turn comes will be in cheating his Satanic Majesty. Well, practice makes perfect, and he has enough of it. I do declare,” he added, after a pause, as if scruples of conscience were arising in his mind, “I am almost sorry I undertook this business. But all trades must live.”

Consoling himself with this reflection, Ketchum started to hunt up the grand juror. He found no difficulty in inducing him to make complaint to Justice Miller, having first satisfied him that an offence had been committed which the law compelled him to notice officially.

Squire Miller, however, seemed disposed, at first, to take a different view of the subject. He said he had known Holden a good many years, and never heard harm of him except that he was a little flighty sometimes; but if the grand juror insisted, of course he would issue the warrant.

The minister of the law must have been inexorable, for the complaint was made, and the warrant signed in due form and delivered to Basset to be executed.