“Why, there’s ups and downs, I suppose, in all families. Dorothy was high-tempered, and Peter was sometimes cross-grained.”
“Do you mean that they quarrelled?”
“They got r’iled with each other, now and then.”
“Was Peter Goodwin a sober man?”
The witness now appeared to be bothered. He looked around him, and meeting everywhere with countenances which evidently reflected ‘yes,’ he had not the moral courage to run counter to public opinion, and say ‘no.’ It is amazing what a tyrant this concentration of minds gets to be over those who are not very clear-headed themselves, and who are not constituted, morally, to resist its influence. It almost possesses a power to persuade these persons not to put faith in their own senses, and disposes them to believe what they hear, rather than what they have seen. Indeed, one effect is to cause them to see with the eyes of others. As the ‘neighbours,’ those inquisitors who know so much of persons of their association and intimacy, and so little of all others, very generally fancied Peter a sober man, Burton scarce knew what to answer. Circumstances had made him acquainted with the delinquency of the old man, but his allegations would not be sustained were he to speak the whole truth, since Peter had succeeded in keeping his infirmity from being generally known. To a man like the witness, it was easier to sacrifice the truth than to face a neighbourhood.
“I suppose he was much as others,” answered Burton, after a delay that caused some surprise. “He was human, and had a human natur’. Independence days, and other rejoicings, I’ve known him give in more than the temperance people think is quite right; but I shouldn’t say he was downright intemperate.”
“He drank to excess, then, on occasions?”
“Peter had a very weak head, which was his greatest difficulty.”
“Did you ever count the money in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking?”
“I never did. There was gold and paper; but how much I do not know.”