suffrage, the issue would not have been very doubtful. Through the
brilliant records of "our own correspondent" and the illustrated columns
of a distinguished "weekly," Charles Conway had now become a celebrity,
and meetings were held and councils consulted how best to honor his
arrival on his return to England. As though glad to turn from the
disparaging stories of fraud, baseness, and deception which Dunn's fall
disclosed, to nobler and more spirit-stirring themes, the nation seemed
to hail with a sort of enthusiasm the character of this brave soldier!

His whole military career was narrated at length, and national pride
deeply flattered by a record which proved that in an age stigmatized by
late disclosures, chivalry and heroism had not died out, but survived in
all their most brilliant and ennobling features. While municipal bodies
voted their freedom and swords of honor, and public journals discussed
the probable rewards of the Crown, another turn was given to popular
interest by the announcement that, on a certain day, Christopher Davis
was to be tried at the Old Bailey for the murder of Davenport Dunn. Had
the hand which took away his life been that of some one brought down
to beggary by his machinations, a certain amount of sympathy would
certainly have been wrung from national feeling. Here, however, if any
such plea existed, no token was given. Davis had maintained, at the
coroner's inquest, a dogged, unbroken silence, simply declaring that he
reserved whatever he meant to say for the time of his trial. He did not
scruple, besides, to exhibit an insolent contempt for a verdict which he
felt could exercise little influence on the future, while to his
lawyer he explained that he was not going to give "Conway's people" the
information that he had so totally failed in securing the documents
he sought for, and his presumed possession of which might induce a
compromise with Beecher.

In vain was he assured that his obstinate refusal to answer the
questions of the jury would seriously endanger his safety by arming
the public mind against him; he sternly resisted every argument on this
score, and curtly said, "There are higher interests at stake than mine
here,--it is my daughter, the Viscountess, is to be thought of, not me."
Nor did his reserve end there. Through the long interval which preceded
his trial, he confided very sparingly in his lawyer, his interviews with
him being mainly occupied in discussing points of