Whatever may be the result of the present public movement for the abolition of capital punishment, and however far future experiments may go towards establishing the expediency and safety of such a change in criminal jurisprudence, the history of every nation and people will show, we believe, the remarkable fact, that ever since Cain stood before his Maker with his hands reeking with the blood of his murdered brother, and his heart so deeply smitten with the consciousness of having justly forfeited his own life by taking the life of another, that he could not divest himself of the belief that all men would seek to slay him, no one principle has been found to be more deeply implanted in the human breast than the desire to see the wilful shedding of blood atoned for by the blood of the perpetrator. So strong, so active, and so impelling, indeed, seems this principle, that no sooner goes forth the dread tale of homicide, than all community rise up, as one man, instinctively impressed with the duty of hunting down the guilty and bringing them to justice; while the guilty themselves seem no less instinctively impressed with the abiding consciousness that the doom, which heaven and earth has decreed to their crimes, must inevitably overtake them.
Deep and fearful was the excitement, in the hitherto quiet and peaceful village of Westminster, as from mouth to mouth, and house to house, spread the startling intelligence, that a meeting of unarmed citizens, assembled at the Court House, had been assailed, and numbers shot down in cold blood by the minions of British authority. The whole town was soon in commotion. No loud noise or clamor of voices, it is true, was heard proclaiming the deed on the midnight air; but the rapid footfalls of men hurrying along the streets, the hastily exchanged inquiry, the eager, suppressed tones of those conversing in small groups at the corners and by-places around the village, the hasty opening and shutting of doors, and the dancing of lights in every direction, gave ominous indication of the feeling that had every where been awakened, and the secret movement which was everywhere afoot among the people.
A small band, who had gathered in the yard of what was called the People's Tavern, were listening, with many a demonstration of horror and indignation, to the account of one who had escaped from the Court House after the tories had got possession.
“Where are our leaders, Morris?” asked one of the listeners, as the speaker, a fluent, energetic young man, closed his recital of the atrocities he had witnessed. “Did they escape, or are they among the wounded and prisoners?”
“Wright and Carpenter had gone off before we were attacked,” was the reply, “the rest, not among the wounded I have named escaped in the confusion, I think, except Dr. Jones, of Buckingham, who was driven into the felon's hole with other prisoners; and it may be well that he was, perhaps, as those bloodthirsty brutes would have suffered no surgeon to be sent for to attend those who are not past help.”
“And Tom Dunning, whose rifle we shall need,—what became of him?”
“He got out in the same manner I did. We stood in a dark corner, at the head of the stairs, taking note of the proceedings below; when that crafty little chap, that joined us from Brush's, came wriggling like an eel out from between the legs of the crowding tories, in the passage; and, working himself up stairs unnoticed, in the same way, beckoned us to follow him, as we did, into the court-room, where, at his suggestion, we stripped off the sheets of a bed, in one of those corner sleeping cuddies, made a rope, and by it let ourselves down through a window to the ground in the rear of the house; when we separated, Dunning going home, as he said, to arm himself. But here he comes,” added the speaker, peering out towards the street, from which several forms were dimly seen approaching—“here he comes, and those just behind him I should judge to be Carpenter and Fletcher, by their gait.”
“Well, Dunning,” asked one of the company, as the hunter came striding up to the spot, “what is your response to all this?”
“Der-sixty bullets, and a—ditter—pound of powder!” was the stern and significant reply of the other, as with one hand he struck his rattling bullet-pouch and huge powder-horn, and with the other brought down the breech of his rifle with a heavy blow upon the ground.
“That's the man for me!” exclaimed Fletcher, now coming up with Carpenter.