I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked, ere this, that I have thus far shown a criminal remissness in pursuing, catching, and bringing to condign punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance, at once decorous and exciting--a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon, the dock, and the "dead-thraw." You might have liked it, reader, but _I_ should not. I and my subject would presently have quarrelled, and then I should have broken down. I was happy to find that facts perfectly exonerated me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, for the good reason that he was never caught--the result of the further circumstance that he was never pursued. The magistrates made a shuffling, as if they were going to rise and do valiant things; but since Moore himself, instead of urging and leading them as heretofore, lay still on his little cottage-couch, laughing in his sleeve, and sneering with every feature of his pale, foreign face, they considered better of it, and after fulfilling certain indispensable forms, prudently resolved to let the matter quietly drop, which they did.
Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver once before alluded to, a frantic Antinomian in religion, and a mad leveller in politics. The poor soul died of delirium tremens a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.

The justice-loving public will have remarked that I have been remiss in pursuing, catching, and bringing to punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon and the dock. You might have liked it, reader, but I should not. I was happy to find that facts exonerated me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, because he was never caught. The magistrates made a shuffling, as if they were going do valiant things; but since Moore did not urge them on, they prudently resolved to let the matter quietly drop.
Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver. The poor soul died of delirium tremens a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.
