For several days before that appointed for the trial of Roland Cashel, the assize town was crowded with visitors from every part of the island. Not a house, not a room was unoccupied, so intense was the interest to witness a cause into which so many elements of exciting story entered. His great wealth, his boundless extravagance, the singular character of his early life, gave rise to a hundred curious anecdotes, which the press circulated with a most unscrupulous freedom.

Nor did public curiosity stop at the walls of the prison; for every detail of his life, since the day of his committal, was carefully recorded by the papers. The unbroken solitude in which he lived; the apparent calm collectedness in which he awaited his trial; his resolute refusal to employ legal assistance; his seeming indifference to the alleged clews to the discovery of the murder,—were commented on and repeated till they formed the table-talk of the land.

The only person with whom he desired to communicate was Dr. Tiernay; but the doctor had left Ireland in company with old Mr. Corrigan and Miss Leicester, and none knew whither they had directed their steps.

Of all his former friends and acquaintances, Cashel did not appear to remember one; nor, certainly, did they obtrude themselves in any way upon his recollection. The public, it is true, occupied themselves abundantly with his interests. Letters, some with signatures, the greater number without, were addressed to him, containing advices and counsels the strangest and most opposite, and requests, which to one in his situation were the most inappropriate. Exhortations to confess his crime came from some, evidently more anxious for the solution of a mystery than the repentance of a criminal. Some suggested legal quibbles to be used at the trial; others hinted at certain most skilful advocates, whose services had been crowned with success in the case of most atrocious wretches. A few asked for autographs; and one, in a neat crowquill hand, with paper smelling strongly of musk, requested a lock of his hair!

If by any accident Cashel opened one of these epistles, he was certain to feel amused. It was to him, at least, a new view of life, and of that civilization against which he now felt himself a rebel. Generally, however, he knew nothing of them: a careless indifference, a reckless disregard of the future, had taken complete possession of him; and the only impatience he ever manifested was at the slow march of the time which should elapse before the day of trial.

The day at length arrived; and even within the dreary walls of the prison were heard the murmured accents of excitement as the great hour drew nigh.

Mr. Goring at an early hour had visited the prisoner, to entreat him, for the last time, to abandon his mad refusal of legal aid; explaining forcibly that there were constantly cases occurring where innocence could only be asserted by disentangling the ingenious tissue with which legal astuteness can invest a circumstance. Cashel rejected this counsel calmly but peremptorily; and when pressed home by other arguments, in a moment of passing impatience confessed that he was “weary of life, and would make no effort to prolong it.”

“Even so, sir,” said Goring. “There is here another question at issue. Are you satisfied to fill the dishonored grave of a criminal? Does not the name by which men will speak of you hereafter possess any terror for you now?”

A slight tremor shook Cashel's voice as he replied, “Were I one who left kindred or attached friends behind him, these considerations would have their weight, nor would I willingly leave them the heritage of such disgrace; but I am alone in the world, without one to blush for my dishonor, or shed a tear over my sorrow. The calumny of my fellowmen will only fall on ears sealed by death; nor will their jeers break the slumber I am so soon to sleep.”

Goring labored hard to dissuade him from his resolve, but to no purpose. The only consolation of which Roland seemed capable arose from the dogged indifference he felt as to the result, and the consciousness of an innocence he was too proud to assert.

From an early hour of the morning the court was crowded. Many persons distinguished in the world of fashion were to be seen amid the gowned and wigged throng that filled the body of the building; and in the galleries were a vast number of ladies, whose elegance of dress told how much they regarded the scene as one of display, as well as of exciting interest. Some had been frequent guests at his house; others had often received him at their own; and there they sat, in eager expectancy to see how he would behave, to criticise his bearing, to scan his looks through their “lorgnettes,” and note the accents in which he would speak. A few, indeed, of his more intimate friends denied themselves the treat such an exhibition promised; and it was plain to see how highly they estimated their own forbearance. Still, Frobisher and some of his set stood beneath the gallery, and watched the proceedings with interest.

Some routine business of an uninteresting nature over, the case of the King versus Roland Cashel was called, and the governor of the jail was ordered to produce the prisoner. A murmur of intense interest quickly ran through the crowded assembly, and as suddenly was subdued to a dead silence as the crowd, separating, permitted the passage of two armed policemen, after whom Cashel walked, followed by two others. Scarcely had he merged from the dense throng and taken his place in the dock, when a buzz of astonishment went round; for the prisoner, instead of being dressed decorously in black, as is customary, or at least in some costume bespeaking care and respect, was attired in the very suit he wore on the eventful night of the murder, the torn sleeves and blood-stained patches attracting every eye around him. He was paler and thinner than his wont; and if his countenance was more deeply thoughtful, there was nothing in it that evinced anxiety, or even expectancy. As he entered the dock, they who stood nearest to him remarked that a slight flush stole over his face, and something that seemed painful to his feelings appeared to work within him. A brief effort overcame this, and he raised his eyes and carried his looks around the court with the most perfect unconcern.

The prisoner was now arraigned, and the clerk proceeded to read over the indictment; after which came the solemn question, “How say you, prisoner, Guilty or Not Guilty?” Either not understanding the “quaere” as directly addressed to himself, or conceiving it to be some formality not requiring an answer, Cashel stood in a calm and respectful silence for some minutes, when the judge, in a mild voice, explained the meaning of the interrogation.

“Not Guilty, my Lord,” said Cashel, promptly; and though the words were few, and those almost of course on such an occasion, the feeling in the court was manifestly in concurrence with the speaker. The routine detail of calling over the jury panel involving the privilege of “challenge,” it became necessary to explain this to Cashel, whose ignorance of all legal forms being now so manifest, the judge asked who was counsel for the prisoner.

“He has not named any, my Lord.”

With patient kindness the judge turned to the dock, and counselled him, even now, late as it was, to select some one among the learned members of the Bar, whose guidance would materially serve his interests, and save him from the many embarrassments his own unassisted efforts would produce.

“I thank you, my Lord, for your consideration,” replied he, calmly, “but if I be innocent of this crime, I stand in need of no skill to defend me. If guilty, I do not deserve it.”

“Were guilt and innocence always easy of detection,” said the judge, “your remark might have some show of reason; but such is rarely the case, and once more I would entreat you to intrust your cause to some one conversant with our forms and acquainted with our duties.”

“I am not guilty, my Lord,” replied Roland, boldly, “nor do I fear that any artifice can make me appear such. I will not have counsel.”

The Attorney-General here in a low voice addressed the Bench, and suggested that although the prisoner might not himself select a defender, yet the interests of justice generally requiring that the witnesses should be cross-examined, it would be well if the Court would appoint some one to that duty.

The judge repeated the suggestion aloud, adding his perfect concurrence in its nature, and inviting the learned Bar to lend a volunteer in the cause; when a voice called out, “I will willingly accept the office, my Lord, with your permission.”

“Very well, Mr. Clare Jones,” replied the judge; and that gentleman, of whom we have so long lost sight, advanced to the front of the bar, beside the dock.

Cashel, during this scene, appeared like one totally uninterested in all that was going forward; nor did he even turn his head towards where his self-appointed advocate was standing. As the names of the jury were called over, Jones closely scrutinized each individual, keenly inquiring from what part of the county he came—whether he had resided as a tenant on the Cashel estate—and if he had, on any occasion, expressed himself strongly on the guilt or innocence of the accused. To all these details Roland listened with an interest the novelty suggested, but, it was plain to see, without any particle of that feeling which his own position might have called for. The jury were at length impanelled, and the trial began.

Few, even among the most accomplished weavers of narrative, can equal the skill with which a clever lawyer details the story of a criminal trial. The orderly sequence in which the facts occur; the neat equipoise in which matters are weighed; the rigid insistence upon some points, the insinuated probabilities and the likelihood of others,—are all arranged and combined with a masterly power that more discursive fancies would fail in.

Events and incidents that to common intelligence appear to have no bearing on the case, arise, like unexpected witnesses, at intervals, to corroborate this, or to insinuate that. Time, place, distance, locality, the laws of light and sound, the phenomena of science, are all invoked, not with the abstruse pedantry of a bookworm, but with the ready-witted acuteness of one who has studied mankind in the party-colored page of real life.

To any one unaccustomed to these efforts, the effect produced is almost miraculous: conviction steals in from so many sources, that the mind, like a city assaulted on every side, is captured almost at once. All the force of cause and effect is often imparted to matters which are merely consecutive; and it requires patient consideration to disembarrass a case of much that is merely insinuated, and more that is actually speculative.

In the present instance everything was circumstantial; but so much the more did it impress all who listened, even to him who, leaning on the rails of the dock, now heard with wonderment how terribly consistent were all the events which seemed to point him out as guilty.

After a brief exordium, in which he professed his deep sorrow at the duty which had devolved on him, and his ardent desire to suffer nothing to escape him with reference to the prisoner save what the interests of truth and justice imperatively might call for, the Attorney-General entered upon a narrative of the last day of Mr. Kennyfeck's life; detailing with minute precision his departure from Tubbermore at an early hour in Mr. Cashel's company, and stating how something bordering upon altercation between them was overheard by the bystanders as they drove away. “The words themselves, few and unimportant as they might seem,” added he, “under common circumstances, come before us with a terrible significance when remembered in connection with the horrible event that followed.” He then traced their course to Drumcoologan, where differences of opinion, trivial, some might call them, but of importance to call for weighty consideration here, repeatedly occurred respecting the tenantry and the management of the estate. These would all be proved by competent witnesses, he alleged; and he desired the jury to bear in mind that such testimony should be taken as that of men much more disposed to think and speak well of Mr. Cashel, whose very spendthrift tastes had the character of virtues in the peasants eyes, in contrast with the careful and more scrupulous discretion practised by “the agent.”

“You will be told, gentlemen of the jury,” continued he, “how, after a day spent in continued differences of opinion, they separated at evening,—one to return to Tubbermore by the road; the other, by the less travelled path that led over the mountains. And here it is worthy of remark that Mr. Cashel, although ignorant of the way, a stranger, for the first time in his life in the district, positively refuses all offers of accompaniment, and will not even take a guide to show him the road. Mr. Kennyfeck continues for some time to transact business with the tenantry, and leaves Drumcoologan, at last, just as night was closing in. Now, about halfway between the manor-house of Tubbermore and the village of Drumcoologan, the road has been so much injured by the passage of a mountain-torrent, that when the travellers passed in the morning they found themselves obliged to descend from the carriage and proceed for some distance on foot,—a precaution that Mr. Kennyfeck was compelled also to take on his return, ordering the servant to wait for him on the crest of the hill. That spot he was never destined to reach! The groom waited long and anxiously for his coming; he could not leave his horses to go back and find out the reasons of his delay,—he was alone. The distance to Tubbermore was too great to permit of his proceeding thither to give the alarm; he waited, therefore, with that anxiety which the sad condition of our country is but too often calculated to inspire even among the most courageous, when, at last, footsteps were heard approaching, he called out aloud his master's name, but, instead of hearing the well-known voice in answer, he was accosted in Irish by an old man, who told him, in the forcible accents of his native tongue, 'that a murdered man was lying on the roadside.' The groom at once hurried back, and at the foot of the ascent discovered the lifeless but still warm body of his master; a bullet-wound was found in the back of the skull, and the marks of some severe blows across the face. On investigating further, at a little distance off, a pistol was picked up from a small drain, where it seemed to have been thrown in haste; the bore corresponded exactly with the bullet taken from the body; but more important still, this pistol appears to be the fellow of another belonging to Mr. Cashel, and will be identified by a competent witness as having been his property.

“An interval now occurs, in which a cloud of mystery intervenes; and we are unable to follow the steps of the prisoner, of whom nothing is known, till, on the alarm of the murder reaching Tubbermore, a rumor runs that footsteps have been heard in Mr. Cashel's apartment, the key of which the owner had taken with him. The report gains currency rapidly that it is Mr. Cashel himself; and although the servants aver that he never could have traversed the hall and the staircase unseen by some of them, a new discovery appears to explain the fact. It is this. The ivy which grew on the wall of the house, and which reached to the window of Mr. Cashel's dressing-room, is found torn down, and indicating the passage of some one by its branches. On the discovery of this most important circumstance, the Chief Justice, accompanied by several other gentlemen, proceeded in a body to the chamber, and demanded admittance. From them you will hear in detail what took place,—the disorder in which they found the apartment; heaps of papers littered the floor; letters lay in charred masses upon the hearth; the glass of the window was broken, and the marks of feet upon the window-sill and the floor showed that some one had entered by that means. Lastly—and to this fact you will give your utmost attention—the prisoner himself is found with his clothes torn in several places; marks of blood are seen upon them, and his wrist shows a recent wound, from which the blood flows profusely. Although cautioned by the wise foresight of the learned judge against any rash attempt at explanation, or any inadvertent admission which might act to his prejudice hire-after, he bursts forth into a violent invective upon the murderer, and suggests that they should mount their horses at once, and scour the country in search of him. This counsel being, for obvious reasons, rejected, and his plan of escape frustrated, he falls into a moody despondency and will not speak. Shrouding himself in an affected misanthropy, he pretends to believe that he is the victim of some deep-planned treachery,—that all these circumstances, whose detail I have given you, have been the deliberate schemes of his enemies. It is difficult to accept of this explanation, gentlemen of the jury; and, although I would be far from diminishing in the slightest the grounds of any valid defence a man so situated may take up, I would caution you against any rash credulity of vague and unsupported assertions; or, at least, to weigh them well against the statements of truth-telling witnesses. The prisoner is bound to lay before you a narrative of that day, from the hour of his leaving home to that of his return, to explain why he separated from his companion, and came back alone by a path he had never travelled before, and at night; with what object he entered his own house by the window,—a feat of considerable difficulty and of some danger. His disordered and blood-stained dress; his wounded hand; the missing pistol; the agitation of his manner when discovered amid the charred and torn remains of letters,—all these have to be accounted for. And remember at what moment they occurred! When his house was the scene of festivity and rejoicing; when above a thousand guests were abandoning themselves to the unbridled enjoyment of pleasure,—this is the time the host takes to arrange papers, to destroy letters, to make, in fact, those hurried arrangements that men are driven to on the eve of either flight or some desperate undertaking. Bear all this in mind, gentlemen: and remember that, to explain these circumstances, the narrative of the prisoner must be full, coherent, and consistent in all its parts. The courts of justice admit of neither reservations nor mysteries. We are here to investigate the truth, whose cause admits of no compromise.”

The witnesses for the prosecution were now called over and sworn. The first examined were some of the servants who had overheard the conversation between Cashel and Kennyfeck on the morning of leaving Tubbermore. They differed slightly as to the exact expressions used, but agreed perfectly as to their general import,—a fact which even the cross-examination of Mr. Jones only served to strengthen. Some peasants of Drumcoologan were next examined, to show that during the day slight differences were constantly occurring between the parties, and that Cashel had more than once made use of the expression, “Have your own way now, but ere long I'll take mine;” or words very similar.

The old man who discovered the body, and the postilion, were then questioned as to all the details of the place, the hour, and the fact; and then Tom Keane was called for. It was by him the pistol was picked up from the drain. The air of reluctance with which the witness ascended the table, and the look of affectionate interest he bestowed upon the dock were remarked by the whole assemblage. If the countenance of the man evinced little of frankness or candor, the stealthy glance he threw around him as he took his seat showed that he was not deficient in cunning.

As his examination proceeded, the dogged reluctance of his answers, the rugged bluntness by which he avoided any clear explanation of his meaning, were severely commented on by the Attorney-General, and even called forth the dignified censure of the Bench; so that the impression produced by his evidence was, that he was endeavoring throughout to screen his landlord from the imputation of a well-merited guilt.

The cross-examination now opened, but without in any way serving to shake the material character of the testimony, at the same time that it placed in a still stronger light the attachment of the witness to the prisoner. Cashel, hitherto inattentive and indifferent to all that was going forward, became deeply interested as this examination proceeded; his features, apathetic and heavy before, grew animated and eager, and he leaned forward to hear the witness with every sign of anxiety.

The spectators who thronged the court attributed the prisoner's eagerness to the important nature of the testimony, and the close reference it bore to the manner of the crime; they little knew the simple truth, that it was the semblance of affection for him,—the pretended interest in his fate,—which touched his lonely heart, and kindled there a love of life.

“That poor peasant, then,” said Roland to himself, “he, at least, deems me guiltless. I did not think that there lived one who cared as much for me!”

With the apparent intention of showing to the Court and jury that Keane was not biassed towards his former master, Mr. Jones addressed several questions to him; but instead of eliciting the fact, they called forth from the witness a burst of gratitude and love for him that actually shook the building by the applause it excited, and called for the interference of the Bench to repress.

“You may go down, sir,” said Jones, with the fretful impatience of a man worsted in a controversy; and the witness descended from the table amid the scarcely suppressed plaudits of the crowd. As he passed the dock, Cashel leaned forward and extended his hand towards him. The fellow drew back, and they who were next him perceived that a sallow sickly color spread itself over his face, and that his lips became bloodless.

“Give me your hand, man!” said Cashel.

“Oh, Mr. Cashel! oh, sir!” said he, with that whining affectation of modesty the peasant can so easily assume.

“Give me your hand, I say,” said Cashel, firmly. “Its honest grasp will make me think better of the world than I have done for many a day.”

The fellow made the effort, but with such signs of inward terror and trepidation that he seemed like one ready to faint; and when his cold, nerveless hand quitted Cashel's, it fell powerless to his side. He moved now quickly forward, and was soon lost to sight in the dense throng.

The next witnesses examined were the group who, headed by the Chief Justice, had entered Cashel's room. If they all spoke guardedly, and with great reserve, as to the manner of the prisoner, and the construction they would feel disposed to put upon the mode in which he received them, they agreed as to every detail and every word spoken with an accuracy that profoundly impressed the jury.

The magistrate, Mr. Goring, as having taken the most active part in the proceedings, was subjected to a long and searching cross-examination by Jones, who appeared to imply that some private source of dislike to Cashel had been the animating cause of his zeal in this instance.

Although not a single fact arose to give a shade of color to this suspicion, the lawyer clung to it with the peculiar pertinacity that often establishes by persistence when it fails in proof; and so pointedly and directly at last, that the learned judge felt bound to interfere, and observe, that nothing in the testimony of the respected witness could lay any ground for the insinuation thrown out by the counsel.

Upon this there ensued one of those sharp altercations between Bench and Bar which seem the “complement” of every eventful trial in Ireland; and which, after a brief contest, usually leave both the combatants excessively in the wrong.

The present case was no exception to this rule. The Judge was heated and imperious; the counsel flippant in all the insolence of mock respect, and ended by the stereotyped panegyric on the “glorious sanctity that invests the counsel of a defence in a criminal action—the inviolability of a pledge which no member of the Bar could suffer to be sullied in his person”—and a great many similar fine things, which, if not “briefed” by the attorney, are generally paid for by the client! The scrimmage ended, as it ever does, by a salute of honor; in which each, while averring that he was incontestably right, bore testimony to the conscientious scruples and delicate motives of the other; and at last they bethought them of the business for which they were there, and of him whose fate for life or death was on the issue. The examination of Mr. Goring was renewed.

“You have told us, sir,” said Jones, “that immediately after the terrible tidings had reached Tubbermore of Mr. Kennyfeck's death, suspicion seemed at once to turn on Mr. Cashel. Will you explain this, or at least let us hear how you can account for a circumstance so strange?”

“I did not say as much as you have inferred,” replied Goring. “I merely observed that Mr. Cashel's name became most singularly mixed up with the event, and rumors of a difference between him and his agent were buzzed about.”

“Might not this mention of Mr. Cashel's name have proceeded from an anxious feeling on the part of his friends to know of his safety?”

“It might.”

“Are you not certain that it was so?”

“In one instance, certainly. I remember that a gentleman at once drew our attention to the necessity of seeing after him.”

“Who was this gentleman?”

“Mr. Linton,—a near and intimate friend of Mr. Cashel.”

“And he suggested that it would be proper to take steps for Mr. Cashers safety?”

“He did so.”

“Was anything done in consequence of that advice?”

“Nothing, I believe. The state of confusion that prevailed; the terror that pervaded every side, the dreadful scenes enacting around us,—prevented our following up the matter with all the foresight which might be desired.”

“And, in fact, you sought relief from the unsettled distraction of your thoughts, by fixing the crime upon some one—even though he should prove, of all assembled there, the least likely.”

“We did not attach anything to Mr. Cashel's disfavor until we discovered that he was in his dressing-room, and in the manner already stated.”

“But you certainly jumped to your conclusion by a sudden bound?”

“It would be fairer to say that our thoughts converged to the same impression at the same time.”

“Where is this Mr. Linton? Is he among the list of your witnesses, Mr. Attorney?”

“No, we have not called him.”

“I thought as much!” said Jones, sneeringly; “and yet the omission is singular, of one whose name is so frequently mixed up in these proceedings. He might prove an inconvenient witness.”

A slight murmur here ran through the court; and a gentleman, advancing to the bar, whispered some words to the Attorney-General, who, rising, said:—

“My Lord, I am just this instant informed that Mr. Linton is dangerously ill of fever at his house near Dublin. My informant adds, that no hopes are entertained of his recovery.”

“Was he indisposed at the period in which my learned friend drew up this case? or was there any intention of summoning him here for examination?” asked Jones.

“We did not require Mr. Linton's testimony,” replied the Attorney-General.

“It can scarcely be inferred that we feared it,” said a junior barrister, “since the first palpable evidences that implicated the prisoner were discovered by Mr. Linton: the wadding of the pistol; part of a letter in Mr. Cashel's own handwriting; and the tracks corresponding with his boots.”

“This is all most irregular, my Lord,” broke in Jones, eagerly. “Here are statements thrown out in all the loose carelessness of conversation, totally unsupported by evidence. I submit that it is impossible to offer a defence to a cause conducted in this manner.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Jones; this is not evidence.”

“But this is, my Lord!” said the Attorney-General, in a heated manner; “and for motives of delicacy we might not have used it, if not driven to this course by the insinuations of counsel. Here is a note in pencil, dated from the 'Pass of Ennismore,' and running thus: 'It looks badly; but I fear you have no other course than to arrest him. In fact, it is too late for anything else. Consult Malone and Meek.' And this can be proved to be in Mr. Linton's handwriting.”

Mr. Clare Jones did not speak a word as the note was handed up to the Bench, and then to the jury-box; he even affected to think it of no importance, and did not deign to examine it for himself.

“You may go down, Mr. Goring,” said he, after a slight pause, in which he appeared deliberating what course to follow.

Making his way to the side of the dock, Jones addressed himself to Cashel in a low, cautious voice:—

“It now remains with you, Mr. Cashel, to decide whether you will intrust me with the facts on which you ground your innocence, or prefer to see yourself overwhelmed by adverse testimony.”

Cashel made no reply, but leaned his head on his hand in deep thought

“Have you any witnesses to call?” whispered Jones. “Shall we try an alibi?”

Cashel did not answer.

“What is your defence, sir, in one word?” asked Jones, shortly.

“I am not guilty,” said Cashel, slowly; “but I do not expect others to believe me so.”

“Is your defence to rest upon that bare assertion?” asked the lawyer; but Roland did not seem to heed the question, as, folding his arms, he stood erect in the dock, his attention to all appearance bestowed upon the ceremonial of the court.

Jones, at once turning to the Bench, expressed his regret that, neither being able, from the shortness of the time, to obtain proper information on the case, nor being honored by the confidence of the accused, he must decline the task of commenting on the evidence; and would only entreat the jury to weigh the testimony they had heard with a merciful disposition, and wherever discrepancies and doubts occurred, to give the full benefit of such to the prisoner.

“You have no witnesses to call?” asked the judge.

“I am told there are none, my Lord,” said Jones, with an accent of resignation.

A brief colloquy, in a low voice, ensued between the Crown lawyers and Clare Jones, when, at length, a well-known barrister rose to address the jury for the prosecution. The gentleman who now claimed the attention of the Court was one who, not possessing either the patient habits of study, or that minute attention to technical detail which constitute the legal mind, was a fluent, easy speaker, with an excellent memory, and a thorough knowledge of the stamp and temperament of the men that usually fill a jury-box. He was eminently popular with that class, on whom he had often bestowed all the flatteries of his craft; assuring them that their “order” was the bone and sinew of the land, and that “our proudest boast as a nation was in the untitled nobility of commerce.”

His whole address on the present occasion tended to show that the murder of Mr. Kennyfeck was one among the many instances of the unbridled license and tyranny assumed by the aristocracy over the middle ranks.

Mr. Kennyfeck was no bad subject for such eulogium as he desired to bestow. He was the father of a family; a well-known citizen of Dublin; a grave, white-cravated, pompous man of respectable exterior, always seen at vestries, and usually heading the lists of public charities. Cashel was the very antithesis to all this: the reckless squanderer of accidentally acquired wealth; the wayward and spoiled child of fortune, with the tastes of a buccaneer and the means of a prince, suddenly thrown into the world of fashion. What a terrible ordeal to a mind so untrained—to a temper so unbridled! and how fearfully had it told upon him! After commenting upon the evidence, and showing in what a continuous chain each event was linked with the other,—how consistent were all,—how easily explicable every circumstance, he remarked that the whole case had but one solitary difficulty; and although that was one which weighed more in a moral than a legal sense, it required that he should dwell a few moments upon it.

“The criminal law of our land, gentlemen of the jury, is satisfied with the facts which establish guilt or innocence, without requiring that the motives of accused parties should be too closely scrutinized. Crime consists, of course, of the spirit in which a guilty action is done; but the law wisely infers that a guilty act is the evidence of a guilty spirit; and therefore, although there may be circumstances to extenuate the criminality of an act, the offence before the law is the same; and the fact, the great fact, that a man has killed his fellow-man, is what constitutes murder.

“I have said that this case has but one difficulty; and that is, the possible motive which could have led to the fatal act Now, this would present itself as a considerable obstacle if the relations between the parties were such as we happily witness them in every county of this island, where the proprietor and his agent are persons linked, by the sacred obligation of duty, and the frequent intercourse of social life, into the closest friendship.

“That blood should stain the bonds of such brotherhood would be scarcely credible—and even when credible, inexplicable; it would be repugnant to all our senses to conceive an act so unnatural. But was the present a similar case? or rather, was it one exactly the opposite? You have heard that repeated differences occurred between the parties, amounting even to altercations. Mr. Hoare's evidence has shown you that Mr. Cashel's extravagance had placed him in difficulties of no common kind; his demands for money were incessant, and the utter disregard of the cost of obtaining it is almost beyond belief. The exigence on one side, the manly resistance on the other, must have led to constant misunderstanding. But these were not the only circumstances that contributed to a feeling of estrangement, soon to become something still more perilous. And here I pause to ask myself how far I am warranted in disclosing facts of a private nature, although in their bearing they have an important relation to the case before us! It is a question of great delicacy; and were it not that the eternal interests of truth and justice transcend all others, I might shrink from the performance of a task which, considered in a merely personal point of view, is deeply distressing. But it is not of one so humble as myself of whom there is a question here: the issue is, whether a man's blood should be spilled, and no expiation be made for it?”

The counsel after this entered into a discursive kind of narrative of Cashel's intimacy with the Kennyfeck family, with whom he had been for a time domesticated; and after a mass of plausible generalities, wound up by an imputed charge that he had won the affections of the younger daughter, who, with the consent of her parents, was to become his wife.

“It will not seem strange to you, gentlemen,” said he, “that I have not called to that table as a witness either the widow or the orphan to prove these facts, or that I have not subjected their sacred sorrows to the rude assaults of a cross-examination. You will not think the worse of me for this reserve, nor shall I ask of you to give my statements the value of sworn evidence; you will hear them, and decide what value they possess in leading you to a true understanding of this case.

“I have said, that if a regular pledge and promise of marriage did not bind the parties, something which is considered equivalent among persons of honor did exist, and that by their mutual acquaintances they were regarded as contracted to each other. Mr. Cashel made her splendid and expensive presents, which had never been accepted save for the relations between them; he distinguished her on all occasions by exclusive attention, and among his friends he spoke of his approaching marriage as a matter fixed and determined on. In this state of things a discovery took place, which at once served to display the character of the young gentleman, and to rescue the family from one of the very deepest, because one of the most irremediable, of all calamities. Information reached them, accompanied by such circumstances as left no doubt of its veracity, that this Mr. Cashel had been married already, and that his wife, a young Spanish lady, was still living, and residing at the Havannah.

“I leave you to imagine the misery which this sad announcement produced in that circle, where, until he entered it, happiness had never been disturbed. It is not necessary that I should dwell upon the distress this cruel treachery produced: with its consequences alone we have any concern here; and these were a gradual estrangement,—a refusal, calm but firm, to receive Mr. Cashel as before; an intimation that they knew of circumstances which, from delicacy to him, they would never advert to openly, but which must at once bar all the contemplated relations: and to this sad, humiliating alternative he submitted!

“To avoid the slanderous stories which gossip would be certain to put in circulation, they did not decline the invitation they had before accepted to visit Tubbermore; they came, however, under the express stipulation that no close intimacy was ever to be resumed between Mr. Cashel and themselves; he was not even to use the common privilege of a host,—to visit them in their own apartments. That this degree of cold distance was maintained between them, on every occasion, all the guests assembled at the house can testify; and he neither joined the party in carriage nor on horseback. Perhaps this interdiction was carried out with too rigid a discipline; perhaps the cold reserve they maintained had assumed a character of insult, to one whose blood still glowed with the fire of southern associations; perhaps some circumstance with which we are unacquainted contributed to render this estrangement significant, and consequently painful to a man who could not brook the semblance of a check. It is needless to ask how or whence originating, since we can see in the fact itself cause sufficient for indignant reproof on one side, for a wounded self-love and tarnished honor on the other.

“Are we at a loss for such motives, then, in the presence of facts like these? Ask yourselves, Is a man, bred and trained up in all the riotous freedom of a service scarcely above the rank of piracy,—accustomed to the lawless license of a land where each makes the law with his own right hand,—is such a man one to bear a slight with patient submission, or to submit to an open shame in tame obedience? Can you not easily imagine how all the petty differences of opinion they might have had were merely skirmishes in front of that line where deeper and graver feelings stood in battle array? Can you suppose that, however ruled over by the ordinary courtesies of life, this youth nourished his plans of ultimate revenge, not only upon those who refused with indignation his traitorous alliance, but who were the depository of a secret that must interdict all views of marriage in any other quarter?”