My counsel, a brother of the deceased Coroner, rose and said:  “May it please the Court, my learned friend on the other side has so well and eloquently stated the law governing in this case that it only remains for me to inquire to what extent it has been already complied with.  It is true, your Honor is a committing magistrate, and as such it is your duty to commit—­what?  That is a matter which the law has wisely and justly left to your own discretion, and wisely you have discharged already every obligation that the law imposes.  Since I have known your Honor you have done nothing but commit.  You have committed embracery, theft, arson, perjury, adultery, murder—­every crime in the calendar and every excess known to the sensual and depraved, including my learned friend, the District Attorney.  You have done your whole duty as a committing magistrate, and as there is no evidence against this worthy young man, my client, I move that he be discharged.”

An impressive silence ensued.  The Judge arose, put on the black cap and in a voice trembling with emotion sentenced me to life and liberty.  Then turning to my counsel he said, coldly but significantly: 

“I will see you later.”

The next morning the lawyer who had so conscientiously defended me against a charge of murdering his own brother—­with whom he had a quarrel about some land—­had disappeared and his fate is to this day unknown.

In the meantime my poor father’s body had been secretly buried at midnight in the back yard of his late residence, with his late boots on and the contents of his late stomach unanalyzed.  “He was opposed to display,” said my dear mother, as she finished tamping down the earth above him and assisted the children to litter the place with straw; “his instincts were all domestic and he loved a quiet life.”

My mother’s application for letters of administration stated that she had good reason to believe that the deceased was dead, for he had not come home to his meals for several days; but the Judge of the Crowbait Court—­as she ever afterward contemptuously called it—­decided that the proof of death was insufficient, and put the estate into the hands of the Public Administrator, who was his son-in-law.  It was found that the liabilities were exactly balanced by the assets; there was left only the patent for the device for bursting open safes without noise, by hydraulic pressure and this had passed into the ownership of the Probate Judge and the Public Administrator—­as my dear mother preferred to spell it.  Thus, within a few brief months a worthy and respectable family was reduced from prosperity to crime; necessity compelled us to go to work.

In the selection of occupations we were governed by a variety of considerations, such as personal fitness, inclination, and so forth.  My mother opened a select private school for instruction in the art of changing the spots upon leopard-skin rugs; my eldest brother, George Henry, who had a turn for music, became a bugler in a neighboring asylum for deaf mutes; my sister, Mary Maria, took orders for Professor Pumpernickel’s Essence of Latchkeys for flavoring mineral springs, and I set up as an adjuster and gilder of crossbeams for gibbets.  The other children, too young for labor, continued to steal small articles exposed in front of shops, as they had been taught.