We once wandered, dearly beloved reader, you and I together, over some steep bare hills which lie between Winslow Park and Northferry, watching Chandos in his gardener's guise, as he travelled towards the house of Mr. Tracy. Those hills, not at all unlike the Mendips in some of their features, were somewhat different in others. The high road took the most sterile and desolate part of them, where the curlew loved to dwell in solitude, and the wild plover laid her spotted eggs. But here and there, in their long range--which might extend some five-and-thirty miles from the spot where they began to tower above the plain in one county to that where they bend the head again in another--were some dells and valleys, in which the woods nestled and the streams glided on. The river which Chandos had swam at Winslow, and which, passing on, increasing in size, gave to the village or small town near Mr. Tracy's property the name it bore, by reason of what is called a horse-ferry established there from time immemorial, had at some period of the world's history undertaken the troublesome task of forcing a way for itself through the opposing barrier of hill, and had somehow succeeded. It is wonderful what feats rivers and people will perform when they are driven into a corner, and have no way out of it but by a great effort. Then, when they have accomplished their task, how they rejoice in the triumphant exertions of their vigour, and play in scorn with the obstacles they have surmounted.
In a deep valley amongst those hills, seldom if ever trodden by human foot--for there was wanting footing for man or beast in many parts of the gorge--is one scene of exceeding beauty, well worthy of being more frequently visited than it has been. I know not whether in the spring, when the young leaves coming out decorate the sides of the dell with every hue of yellow and green, or in the autumn, when the mellow brown and red of the decaying year spreads a melancholy splendour over the woods, the picture is more beautiful; but to see it in its best aspect must always be when the tears, either of the year's wayward youth or of its sorrowful age, have been pouring down for some days before. The reason is this,--that over a high shelf of rock, the river, having overcome all the obstructions of the previous way, bounds down towards the goal to which its eager course tends in the distant plains, then first in sight, and the boughs of a thousand kinds of trees and shrubs wave round the rejoicing waterfall as if in triumph. It is not indeed with one boisterous leap that the river springs from the height, some fifty feet above, to the tumbling pool beneath; but as if at two great steps it strides upon its way, setting one white foot in foam upon a rocky point about half-way down, and then again another in the depth of the valley. A projecting point of crag, upon which a sapling ash-tree has rooted itself, stands out between the two falls; and round the point, scattered amongst the roots of the trees, lie numerous large blocks of stone, riven from the rocks above, in times the remoteness of which is told by the yellow and white lichens and green moss with which they are covered.
About a hundred yards in front of the waterfall, one fine day in the early spring of the year, when several hours of heavy rain during the preceding night had gorged the river, and given the cataract the voice of thunder, sat the gipsey woman, Sally Stanley, with her picturesque costume in its varied and bright colouring, contrasting beautifully with the cold gray stone, the rushing water, and the brown tints of the uncovered branches; while, here and there, an early green leaf, or the warm reddish brown of the unevolved buds, served to harmonize in some degree the scene with the glowing hues of her dress, or at all events to render the contrast not too strong. Nobody else was seen in the neighbourhood; and yet there were the three cross sticks, with the suspended pot, the glowing wood fire well piled up, and one small dingy tent between two large masses of stone. The woman sat beside the pot and sewed, with her left shoulder turned towards the waterfall, and her eyes apparently looking down the dell.
Opposite to her, spanning the river, was a little rude bridge, made with two trunks of trees, joining a narrow path on the one side to its continuation on the other which might be seen winding from shelf to shelf of the rock in its way to the prolongation of the valley above.
Sally Stanley sat and sewed, as we have said, an unusual occupation for a gipsey; and while she sewed she sang, a much more frequent custom of her people. But to neither affair did she seem to give much attention, turning her ear towards the stream and path, as if for some expected voice or footfall.
At length a step was heard; but she made no sudden movement, and with her head bent, listened still, slowly turning her face in the direction of the descending path, so as to gain a sight of the person who was coming down, before he crossed the river. The figure which appeared was that of a man in the prime of life--in the early prime, well dressed after a country fashion, bearing himself with a free and easy air, and, with his well-turned powerful limbs, and fine cut features, presenting the aspect of as handsome a man as one would wish to see.
A faint, almost sad smile came over the face of the gipsey woman; but she took not the slightest notice till the traveller was in the midst of the bridge, when, dropping the coarse blue stocking she was mending, she advanced towards him, and addressed him in the usual cant of her tribe, begging him to cross her hand and have his destiny told, and promising him as pretty a fortune, and as extensive a matrimonial connexion, as any moderate man could well desire.
Lockwood, for he it was who now approached, laughed, and replied, "I have not time now, my good girl; for I am hungry, thirsty, sad, and sorry, and have a long way to go before I can get food, drink, or consolation."
"Not so, Master, not so," answered Sally Stanley; "you only cross my hand with a pretty little half-crown, and I will give you food, drink, and consolation, such as you cannot get where you are going, I am sure."
"That is no bad offer either," answered Lockwood; "and I may as well sit down by the side of your pot, and have a chat with you, as go and eat bread and cheese, and drink beer by myself in a frowsy tap-room."
"A great deal better," said the woman with a laugh. "Where could you be more comfortable than here, if you were going to the best house in all the land? Do you think that man builds better than God?"
"Why, no," answered Lockwood; "and in those respects I am a bit of a gipsey myself. I am as fond of the free air as any of you, and do not much fear foul weather, even when Æolus unchains all his blasts. But come, let us see your promised fare. I dare say it is of the best in the county, as you certainly have the choice of all that is going. Here is your half-crown for you."
He was soon seated close to where the woman had been previously sitting, with a deep tin dish upon his knee, while she, with a large wooden ladle, dipped into the pot and brought up a mixed mess, very savory to the nose, and consisting a various materials, whereof a fine turkey's leg was at all events the most conspicuous. Bread she had none to give him, but a hard biscuit supplied its place very well, and to say sooth, Lockwood, whose appetite was sharpened by a long walk, enjoyed his meal exceedingly.
"Now then," he said, "for your drink and your consolation;" and the woman brought him forth from her little tent a black bottle, the odour emitted by which, as soon as the cork was pulled out, announced it as that liquor to which we justly give the same name that eastern nations bestow upon an evil spirit. But Lockwood would none of it, and while he finished the contents of the platter, she brought him a large jug of water from the stream.
"Well," he said, after taking a long draught, "I must now wend on my way."
"You are in mighty haste," she answered, "to set out for a place you will not reach."
"How do you know I will not reach it?" he asked, smiling in his strength.
"Because I know all about you," answered Sally Stanley, "where you are going, why you are going, what has been in your thoughts all the way from Winslow hither."
"You are mighty wise," exclaimed Lockwood. "I know well enough that you gipsies are famous for fishing out of gentlemen's servants all about their masters and mistresses, but I did not know you troubled your heads with such people as myself. As to my thoughts, however, there I defy you."
"Do you?" said the woman, laughing aloud. "Now I will show you. You have been thinking of Chandos Winslow, your half-brother, and of the murder of good old Roberts, the steward; and you have been fancying that another hand, as near akin to your own, might have shed the blood that is charged upon Chandos Winslow's; and you are going down to Northferry to see what you can make out of the case."
"A marvellous good guess," replied Lockwood; "but I now recollect you, my pretty brown lass. You are the mother of the boy down at the cottage; and, like all your people, you are good at putting two and two together."
"I am the boy's mother," answered the woman; "but you are wrong in thinking that is my only way of knowing. I see more things than you fancy, hear more than people dream of; and I tell you, you will not get to Northferry to-day nor to-morrow either; nor will you go to the assizes, nor give your evidence in court: and if you did, you would only mar what you try to mend."
"That won't stop me," answered Lockwood sturdily; "truth is truth, and it shall be told: 'Magna est veritas, et prævalebit,' my pretty lass. I will tell my plain, straightforward tale in spite of any one; but I do not know what you have to do with it, and am rather curious to hear; for, to tell you the truth, I do not like you the better for wanting to stop me. If there were any gratitude in human nature, you would be grateful to Chandos Winslow, for he did all in his power to make your boy a good scholar and a good Christian: though, by the way, I suppose you care very little about his being either."
The woman's eye flashed for an instant, with a very wild and peculiar gleam in it, which I think I mentioned before, and she answered vehemently, "You are wrong, Henry Lockwood, you are wrong; I am grateful to him for everything;" and then she burst into a flood of tears.
Lockwood gazed at her with some emotion, and then put his hand kindly upon her arm, saying, "I did not mean to grieve you, my good woman; but still I do not understand you rightly: you say that you are grateful to this young gentleman; and yet you would prevent me from doing what I can to save him when his life is in danger for another man's act. You seem to know so much, that perhaps you know more; for your people are always prying about, and it is not unlikely that some of them saw the deed done. However, from what you said just now, and from the way in which you divined what I had been thinking about, I am sure you do not suspect Chandos Winslow, and that your suspicions take the same direction as my own; though mine are well nigh certainties, and yours can be but doubts."
"Are yours well nigh certainties?" she exclaimed eagerly. "Can you prove it? Can you satisfy judge and jury? But, no," she added, in a mournful tone, "it were better not--you cannot prove it--you can have nothing but suspicions either. You did not see your bad brother's hand strike the blow--you cannot tell what was the provocation given--you can mention no cause for a man killing his own steward."
"Yes I can," answered Lockwood. "The blow struck I certainly did not see; for I was well nigh two miles off at the time."
"I know that as well as you do," said the woman with a laugh; "I know where you were, and all about you. But what is it you can prove if you were so far distant?"
"I can prove that there was a cause," answered Lockwood, "a cause for the act in one case, and none in the other; for the very night before, poor Roberts found a note in Sir Harry's own handwriting, declaring that he had left a copy of his second will, dated not five years ago, in the hands of his eldest son. Roberts showed me the memorandum himself, the moment after he had found it, and he was as well aware as I am that Sir William has destroyed the will, because it did not suit his purposes. Was that not cause enough for giving a knock on the head to one who possessed such dangerous information? Besides, there is a great deal more: the very next day he came over to seize on the furniture in those two rooms, and lock it all up; but I have been beforehand with him. All the papers that Roberts had found were safe enough, and the furniture was moved to farmer Richards's great barn and under my lock and key. He sent me down word that he would prosecute me. I told him to do so if he dared. But now I must go, my good woman; and I say the truth shall be told, whatever comes of it."
"Do you think, Lockwood," asked the gipsey woman, "that if Chandos Winslow himself had seen the murder committed, he would bring such a charge against his brother?"
"Perhaps not," replied Lockwood; "but that is not the question. Here am I, no way partial in the business, whose duty it is to an innocent man to tell the truth, whether he wishes it or not; and therefore I shall go on to Northferry at once, and see Mr. Tracy, and tell him all I know. If he does not do what is right, I will go on to the lawyers and tell them."
"Mr. Tracy you cannot and you will not see," said Sally Stanley. "Have you not heard he was arrested for debt, and taken to London yesterday afternoon; and the two girls and their uncle are gone up after him this morning?"
"Arrested?" exclaimed Lockwood; "what! the rich Mr. Tracy arrested? he who was supposed to be the most wealthy man in all the county?"
"Aye, there it is, Harry Lockwood," said the woman: "that is the difference between your people and the gipsies. We are content with food and clothing, the open sunshine, and the free air; but you are never content. If you are poor you must be rich; if you are rich, you must be richer. The madness of gain is upon you all; and this wealthy Mr. Tracy must needs speculate, to make himself more wealthy, till he has made beggars of himself and his children. All on account of these railroads, with which they are putting the whole land in fetters; he who, a month ago, was rolling in riches, has not so much in his pocket as Sally Stanley, who once begged her bread at a rich man's door, and was driven away with a cur at her heels. You will not see Mr. Tracy for a long time to come."
"Then I will go to the lawyers," rejoined Lockwood; "for the story shall be told."
"No, it shall not," answered the woman, "that I am resolved. I tell you, you will spoil all; and if you leave the matter alone, he is quite safe."
"I will not trust to that," answered Lockwood. "There, take off your hand!--you are not such a fool as to think you can stop me;" and at the same moment he shook off the grasp which she had laid upon his arm, somewhat rudely and impatiently, perhaps.
The next instant his collar was seized by a stout man, who sprang from behind the masses of broken stone, while another leaped out and caught his right arm, and a third seized him round the legs and tried to throw him down. His great strength, however, sufficed to frustrate their efforts for a moment or two. He disengaged his arm, aimed a blow at the man who grasped his collar, which was parried with difficulty, and kicked off the other gipsey who was grasping his legs; but three or four more came running down from amongst the woods, and after a sturdy resistance he was overpowered and his hands tied.
"What the devil do you mean by ill-treating one of our women?" demanded a tall, powerful fellow, of about fifty years of age. But Lockwood only replied by a loud laugh; and the gipsey grinned at the open falsehood of his own pretext.
"What shall we do with him, Sally?" said the latter, turning to the woman; "he must be looked sharp after if we are to keep him, for he is a rough customer, I can tell you."
"Ah, you have found that out," cried Lockwood; "you will find me rougher still before I have done with you."
"Hush! hush!" said Sally Stanley; "take him away and keep him where we agreed upon. I will find those who will watch him well. You had better go with them quietly, young man; for you must see by this time that there is no use of struggling."
"Not much, I believe," answered Lockwood. "But I should wish to know, before I go, my good woman, what it is you want, and what you are to do with me."
"To keep you from making mischief," replied Sally Stanley. "There, take him away, lads, and I will come up directly; but mind you keep him safe."
"This is weary work. Three days have I been alone; without the sight of any human face but that of the turnkey. How burdensome becomes the weight of thought as each hour goes by! It presses upon the brain as if a heavy stone were laid upon the head. What a terrible thing is solitude, notwithstanding all that Zimmermann has said of it--notwithstanding all that can be done to alleviate it! But this is something more than solitude. Alexander Selkirk on his desert island could change the scene, could vary the occupation every hour. Now, he could go up the Blue Mountain, and gaze afar, 'the monarch of all he surveyed.' Then he could wander down to the sea-shore, and send hope and expectation forth on a voyage of discovery over the green waters before his eyes, to see if ship or boat from the far native land were winging its way like a bird towards his place of exile. Or else memory, like a bark freighted with treasure, would touch the land, and he would see the stores of other days, the joys, the loves, the dreams of youth and manhood spread out upon the beach. He could tame his wild birds or his free goats; he could plant or reap his little field; he could garner or grind his corn. He was no worse in fate than Eve-less Adam; and though it may not be good for man to be alone, yet, when there is variety and occupation, the evil is but small. Here, what is the variety? Four or five short steps from wall to wall; the heavy door on one side; the high grated window on the other. But yet, it might be worse. What a terrible thing solitary confinement must be! Here the jailor comes in and speaks civilly; will stop a minute or two to tell you what is going on without; will press me to walk in the yard, and tell me it is quite airy andcheerful. Cheerful! Good God, what a word in the stony heart of a prison! I declare I should regard the man who could be cheerful in such a place as ten times worse than even his crimes had made him. To be cheerful here would be an aggravation of every offence--and yet, perhaps, I am wrong. Cheerfulness in some men is constitutional.
"Oh! yes, it might be worse. To be condemned to perfect solitude, and silence too, with nothing but thought, thought, thought, rolling one upon the other, like the eternal billows of a dark and gloomy sea: not a sight for the eye, not a sound for the ear, till the one became blind, the other deaf, for want of objects. It is horrible! What monster could devise such a means of starving the senses one by one, till the living death of hopeless idiocy became the wretch's fate? What were the cord, or the axe, or the rack itself to that? Yet, even that might have an aggravation--if there were guilt upon the mind--some dark terrible crime--murder!--the death of a fellow-creature, sent before to be our accuser at God's throne! What awful storms would then move that black ocean of thought, prolonged through the whole of life! What would it be with me, even through three or four short days, when, innocent as I am, the passing of these solitary hours is well nigh intolerable.--Innocent as I am! Who is innocent? Who can lay his hand upon his heart, with God and his own conscience to witness, and say, 'I am innocent; I have done no wrong?'--Who can arraign the decree of the Almighty which strikes him for many a hidden fault, through the instrumentality of the false judgment or iniquitous persecution of his fellow-man? Not I, for one! I raised my hand against Lord Overton unjustly; I shed his blood, though I did not take his life; I was a murderer in intention, if not in act; and now I am accused of--perhaps may suffer for--the death of one whom I would have shed my own blood to defend. The ways of God are strange and wonderful, but very just.
"How curious it is that in solitude all the things we have done amiss in life return upon the mind, distinct and clear--magnified even, if faults can be magnified--when in the pleasures, and the business, and the every-day cares of life, we forget them totally! And yet man was evidently meant for society. Is it that the ever-present consciousness of our errors in this mortal state, would be a burden too heavy to bear, were there not an alleviation in the thoughtful absorption of the world's concerns--a burden which even faith in a Saviour (as far as man's weakness will permit him to have faith) would not be sufficient to relieve, unless his worldly carelessness lightened the load, by deceiving him as to the weight? Perhaps it may be so; and yet, it is strange how often in this life, our weakness is our strength. Since I have been here, how reproachfully acts which I thought before perfectly venial have risen up in judgment against me I how dark have seemed many deeds committed! how sadly ungrateful many an omission has appeared! And shall not the same be the case hereafter? When a few hours of solitude are sufficient to draw back thus far the glittering veil which habit and the world cast over our faults, what will be the terrible sight when that veil is torn away altogether, and the dark array of a whole life's sins and follies stand naked and undisguised before us!--when the voice of conscience, fully awakened, never to sleep again, exclaims, 'Lo your own acts! The children of your mortal life! The witnesses against you for eternity!'"
The above is an extract from a journal of Chandos Winslow, kept during his imprisonment. I know that such grave subjects are not palatable to most readers: they call themlongueurs; they skip them; they want the story, nothing more. Let them do as they please; the extract was necessary to the depiction of the character. But I must show another side of it also--a somewhat lighter and more cheerful one; but still one which is as likely to be skipped as the other, by the mere novel-reader. For some time Chandos went on in the same strain of gloomy thought; and occasionally dark forebodings would mingle with the text: for the more he reflected upon the course he had determined to pursue, the more difficult, nay, hopeless, seemed to be the attempt to defend himself. At length, however, came the following passage:--
"But I will have no more of such reveries. It is very strange, that for the last four days I have not been able to read. The small space of my brain seems too much crowded with thoughts of my own, to give other people's thoughts admission. I will force myself to read, however; and think of what I read."
Then came another passage, evidently after he had been reading for some time.
"I know not how it is, but none of these Italian poets interest me much--perhaps the most, that mad-cap Ariosto. There is a reckless vigour about him which none of the rest possesses; and their prettinesses tire. Tasso is certainly very sweet and very graceful, but seldom powerful; and Dante, dark, terrible, and stern, wants the relief of beauty. His Inferno is certainly a grand poem, the personification of thousand hates and vengeances; but the Paradise is a poor affair.
"It is very strange how much more difficult men find it to imagine and to paint perfect happiness than exquisite torture. Perhaps it is because in this life we are much more familiar with pain than pleasure. Pain and grief are to human beings, positive; our greatest happiness here below rarely more than negative--at all events, never unmixed. But in none of the Italians do we find the grand march, the sustained majesty of the Greeks and the Romans. I cannot help thinking that Boccaccio had more poetry in his nature than most of his brethren; and there are some fine passages in his great poem, notwithstanding its many wants. Many of his novels, too, are full of poetry. But, after all, ten lines of Homer are worth all the Italian poetry that ever was written. Alfieri seems to have felt this inferiority of the poets of Italy to the ancients, even too much; and the effect has been a stiffness in his writings, produced by aiming at dignity in a language which is not dignified. When the thought itself is grand, its grandeur can only be preserved in so weak a tongue by clothing it in the very simplest words. Dante was not alone aware of this, but was impelled to that course by his own sharp character. He never strove to embellish by mere words, though sometimes, as if to impress the idea upon the reader's mind, he reiterates it in another form, venturing upon pleonasm as a means of force, in which he was probably mistaken; at least, the effect upon my mind is always disagreeable. It would be better if the verses were spoken. I cannot but think--though perhaps it is national partiality--that the poets of England are superior to any that have ever lived since the fall of the Roman empire. The French have no poetry. The Germans have two or three great poets; but their literature may be considered as yet in its infancy. The Spaniards have some beautiful poems, it is true; but in all of them are blemishes which overbalance the perfections. In the English tongue there has been excellent poetry enough written in every different style and manner, to supply the whole world. A crowd of our poets are unknown even to ourselves; and many of the very best are imperfectly known, and that but to a few. The sonnet, indeed, attained its highest point with Petrarch; and yet how beautiful are some of Sir Philip Sidney's!--for instance, the one beginning--
'No more, my dear, no more these councils try,Oh give my passions leave to run their race.'
I forget the rest. My memory fails me sadly. What a strange thing memory is! It seems as if the brain had a court painter, who sketches rapidly everything presented to the senses; and then the pictures are pushed into the lumber-room of the past, to grow dim and mouldy, with the smoke and damp of years, till they are wanted, when they are taken forth again, and the dust is brushed off, though sometimes not entirely--But who have we here? It is not the turnkey's hour."
Here ends the journal for the time; and it may be as well to inquire, what was the circumstance which caused the interruption; for it gave Chandos sufficient thought for the rest of the day.
Just as he had written the last words his solicitor was admitted, a shrewd little elderly man, not without some kindness of disposition, and with a great talent for making himself useful in small things, which is one of the most serviceable qualities to himself that a man can possess. His ostensible object was to tell Chandos that he had been to London for the purpose of holding a consultation upon his case, and to cheer him up with the prospect of certain acquittal; for as physicians often think it necessary (and with good reason) to keep up the spirits of their patients, as long as there is any hope, by assuring them of recovery, so the solicitors in criminal causes judge it right to comfort the accused by promising them acquittal. I do believe that, there never yet was a man hanged, who had a hundred pounds to fee lawyers, without being promised, in the words of the toast, "long life and prosperity," till the very moment when the jury gave their verdict. But the worthy solicitor had another object too, it would seem; for as soon as he had disposed of all the evidence which had struck the great barrister as so important with a mere "Pshaw! we will soon get over that," he slipped a letter into Chandos's hand, saying, "That came to my office for you while I was gone, and I brought it myself; for you know they have a trick of opening prisoners' letters here. I gave General Tracy a hint, that all your friends had better address under cover to me; and if you have any answer to send, let it be ready and give it to me to-morrow. Keep it close until I am gone, and then you can read it at your leisure."
Chandos Winslow had glanced at the address, and had seen that the handwriting was that of a lady. He had never seen Rose Tracy's writing. The letter might come from either of a dozen other persons, friends or relations, who had heard of his situation, and might wish to express sympathy and kindness. Nevertheless Chandos did not doubt who was the writer; and as soon as the solicitor was gone, he tore it open, and pressed his lips on the name at the bottom.
"Dear Mr. Winslow," the letter began.--There had evidently been a struggle how to commence it. She had even blotted the words Mr. Winslow, though Rose Tracy was not apt to blot her letters. The prisoner thought that he could discern the name of Chandos traced and erased beneath; and he murmured to himself, "She might have left it."
"Dear Mr. Winslow," wrote Rose Tracy, "although I write under great distress of mind, from the very painful circumstances in which my father has been placed by the failure of some extensive speculations in which he was unfortunately led to engage, I cannot quit Northferry without writing you a few lines (for doing which I have my uncle's sanction) to say, that I am ready and willing to come down and give evidence at the approaching trial; being perfectly certain of your innocence, and believing in my heart that the crime of which you are accused was committed by one of those persons whose voices we both heard when we last met. I have thought it necessary to write upon this subject, because your friend, Sir ---- seemed to doubt whether you would wish to call me as a witness. I thank you most sincerely for seeking to spare me the agitation which public examination in a court of justice must always cause; and I thank you still more for that delicate sense of honour which I know is one great cause of your hesitation. But I do beseech you, do not let any such feelings prevent you from using the means necessary to your exculpation. I know the world may blame me, when it is made public, that I was aware of your name and family; that I did not inform my father of the fact; and that I saw you at the same spot more than once--I dare not say by accident. The blame will perhaps be just, and probably will be more severe than if all the truth could be stated; but I will put it to your own heart, my friend, how much less grief the severest censure of the world would cause than to think that you had been lost for want of my testimony. Oh, spare me that pain, Chandos! spare me the most terrible anguish that could be inflicted on
"Rose Tracy."
Chandos kissed the letter over and over again. It is wonderful in the moments of distress and abandonment, when false friends forsake, and the light world of acquaintances shun us, how sweetly, how cheeringly, even small testimonies of undiminished regard come to us from the true and firm. Oh, how Chandos Winslow loved Rose Tracy at that moment! How he longed to tell her the sensations that her generous anxiety to save him even at the expense of pain and shame to herself inspired in his bosom! He dared not, however, write all he felt; but in the course of that evening he expressed his thanks in a way which he thought would shadow forth, to her eye at least, the deeper feelings which he could not venture to dwell upon. To write the letter was a happiness to him; but when he came to conclude it with a "farewell," something seemed to ask him, if it might not be the last. He fell into deep, sad thought again, and gloomy despondency took possession of him altogether. He thought he could have been careless of life but for Rose Tracy; and he felt sadly how acuminated and intense become the affections which attach us to existence here when they all centre in one object.
The assizes were opened at the town of S---- with all due solemnity. There were sheriffs, and magistrates, and town council, and javelin-men, all on the move. The judges went to church and to dinner. The day of that most disgraceful of exhibitions, an assize ball, was fixed, and the grand jury was sworn and charged. Did a grand jury perform its functions properly, or even know all its attributes as they were formerly exercised, and still exist, it would be one of the most useful institutions in the monarchy; but, alas! its just attributes are nearly forgotten, its functions are falling into desuetude, and it confines its operations, almost always, to returning as true those bills presented to it which have even a shadow of probability on their side; or, instead of denouncing real and serious evils, to the presentment of waggons overthrown and suffocating court-houses.
The lawyers were seen flitting about the streets; the usual morning consultations and evening revels took place: witnesses and jurymen crowded the inns; an enormous quantity of bad port, bad sherry, and worse madeira, was consumed; and solicitors merited well the simile applied by sailors to personages who are peculiarly busy.
The calendar was very heavy. Nine very hard-fisted farmers had had their ricks burnt; a manufacturer who indulged in truck, and was notorious for reductions on Saturday, had been awoke in the night by the blowing up of one of his factories; there had been a riot in one of the workhouses where the poor were starved according to law, on the pretence of feeding them, and punished for complaining. The magistrate, wisely or unwisely, had sent the case to the sessions; and it was flanked by those of a man who had died from the neglect of a relieving officer, and a woman who had drowned her child from the insanity of destitution. There were several affrays with poachers, in which blood had been shed; and that of two gentlemen, who had first horsewhipped and then shot at each other, to the extinction of one life, and the risk of both. In short, it was an edifying display of the results of civilization up to the period at which we have now arrived, and of the peculiarly polished state of England, and its respect for social order. I say nothing of the brotherly love, the Christian charity, and the enlightened benevolence which oozed out through the pores of the calendar. Verily it was fitted to raise us high in the eyes of Europe.
It is marvellous with what celerity the grand jury returned true bills against the whole of the accused. Did I say against the whole? It was a mistake. Out of a hundred and thirty-four cases, they threw out one, just to keep up the privilege of rejection. It was the case of a small proprietor who had knocked down in the presence of three or four men, a rascally labourer, who would insist upon passing along a path which had been used by his ancestors for five generations. They threw it out, however, and the path was closed thenceforth to all men for ever and aye.
Amongst the other bills found, was one against Chandos Winslow, Esq., for the wilful murder of John Roberts, attorney-al-law, &c. &c. &c. But it was a late case on the roll, and a good deal of condemnation was done before that came on. The first sharp appetite was taken off from both judge and jury, and the solicitor congratulated himself and his client on the hanging period of the assizes being on the decline. It is strange and not pleasant to think of, on how many small circumstances a man's life hangs in the most civilized countries of Europe, especially in the most Christian. A famished juror or two will turn the balance any day; and I fear me that hunger is not an appetite which leans to mercy. The beginning of the assizes is always a bad time to be tried. I would not advise my felonious friend to attempt it if it can be put off. The jury then think themselves a many-headed Aristides. Brutus was nothing to them, and Cato a mere babe. They would condemn their own children to magnify the law. Then, again, the end of the assizes is as bad; for both judge and jurymen have got tired of the thing, and want to get home to their wives and families. This can only be accomplished by despatching their men out of hand; and haste is always cruel, rarely just.
The charge of the judge to the grand jury is a more important matter than people generally imagine. It is treated as a matter of course: or at best as an opportunity afforded once in so many months for a great functionary to make a clever speech on a very favourable subject. But it is much more than this. It frequently gives a tone to the whole proceedings of the court. From the grand jury it is reflected upon the petty jury, and affects them more than it does the former. If the judge represents strongly the serious increase of crime upon the calendar, and urges the necessity of vindicating the law and rigidly administering justice, the Aristides' spirit I have talked of becomes very rampant, and you are sure to hear, "Guilty, my lord," very frequently repeated in the court. If, on the contrary, he congratulates the county on the small amount of crime that has occurred since last he was seated in that place, and declares that there are but one or two serious cases for their consideration, the worthy jurymen think, when there are so few, it may be just as well to let the poor fellows get off, as it is cold work hanging without company.
As I have said, however, the calendar was heavy, and the judge made a very serious and impressive charge, alluding particularly to the case of the murder of Mr. Roberts. He called the attention of the grand jury particularly to it; recommended them to cast from their minds everything they had heard, and to consider the matter simply on the testimony which supported the charge. He represented their duties as merely preliminary; (in which, indeed, he was right;) but though he never mentioned the name of the accused person, he declared the act to have been most barbarous and horrible; spoke of the deceased as an innocent, honourable, industrious man, whose murder was an awful stain upon the county and the kingdom; and in aggravating the heinousness of the offence, produced, naturally enough, a very unfavourable opinion of the person charged with committing it. While he was speaking in reprobation of the crime with so much eloquence, the minds of the grand jury necessarily connected it with Chandos Winslow as the perpetrator, and of course they returned a true bill, as they would have done had not the evidence been half so strong against him. It is very possible that the grand jury did dismiss from their minds all they had heard before, though that is rarely done, and little to be expected; but they assuredly did not dismiss from their minds the judge's charge, and that was quite sufficient.
The speech of his lordship was printed and circulated in the town of S---- that night, and when the solicitor read it, he muttered between his teeth, "He will sum up against the prisoner, that is clear. Our only hope is in the striking of the jury."
How horrible that any man should be able to divine, or pretend to divine, how a judge will sum up in a case, the evidence upon which is not yet before him! But, nevertheless, a solicitor of experience is seldom wrong in such matters.
Chandos Winslow, too, read the charge, and came to the same conclusion. In the cold and measured phrase, in the well-poised and cautious words, even in the scrupulous abstinence from all allusion to himself, he saw an impression against him, and was sure that it had not only been felt, but communicated. The most deadly poison is that which acts with the least outward signs. He thought over the circumstances deeply, and remained in thought for many hours. He tried to view his own case as if it were not his own. He recalled every fact, and arranged the one in connexion with the other. He separated what he himself knew, but was resolved not to communicate, from that which was before the public eye, and a terrible mass of criminatory circumstances was left unmixed. He looked at the whole steadfastly and resolutely, and he asked himself what he had to oppose to it. The answer was--"Nothing."
Vague professions of innocence, the testimony of persons who had known him long to his general character--this was all; but he knew well that all this was nothing in a case like that before him. He was aware, moreover, that the refusal to give explanations would be construed into a mere consciousness of guilt, and yet he could neither do away the presumption of crime which existed in a thousand of the facts against him, nor even account for one moment of his time without casting back the charge of murder upon his own brother. It was a terrible situation. The thought of Rose Tracy aggravated it, shook his firmness, made his resolution waver; and starting up, he paced his cell backwards and forwards for some minutes. But he conquered himself; he conquered the repugnance to death and cold forgetfulness; he conquered the clinging of the heart to life and love, and he sat down again, saying aloud, "No, I will not be the destroyer of my brother."
I will not say that hope went out, for the hope beyond this life remained; but the hope of saving himself, the hope of his counsel making any available defence, passed away as he reviewed the strong presumptive proofs against him, spreading out, link after link, in a long chain, which bound him ready for a death of ignominy. He made up his mind to it. He gave up the consideration of the charge and the defence. He took one step over the earthly future, and, as if standing at the ports of the tomb, he ventured to cast his eyes beyond. It is, it must be, an awful moment for any man, when the words of fate are pronounced and heard, when the irreversible decree has been notified to us, "This night shall thy soul be required of thee!" when all the soft ties are to be broken; when all the warm affections are to come to an end; when all the new cold things of an untried fate are before us, and the prospect from the top of the bleak hill of death swells into eternity. Then comes the terrible question, "How shall I answer at the Throne of one perfectly pure, perfectly holy, for all the trespasses committed in this mortal state? how have I stood the trial, trod the path assigned to me? how have I fought the fight? how have I employed the talent?"
Who is there at such a moment that can dare to answer, "Well?"
What would it be, when the presence of an earthly judge is terrible to an offender, to plead one's own cause, to be one's own advocate before the Almighty and Omniscient; to stand polluted in the Holy of Holies, in the presence of Him who will not behold iniquity? But there is an Advocate to raise his voice in our behalf; not to defend, but to mediate, to justify us by his righteousness, to atone for us by his blood, to make the compensation which eternal justice requires for sin, and reconcile the offending creature to the offended Creator.
To Him Chandos Winslow raised his spirit in faith, and his voice in prayer, and he found strength that no philosophy can give, hope when all the hopes of earth had passed away.
It was the morning of Thursday, and generally understood that the trial of Mr. Chandos Winslow, for the murder of his late father's steward, would come on that day. Moreover, it appeared likely that the case would occupy two days, unless it was early called on, as the number of witnesses was considerable. Those who are knowing in such things considered the arrangement as rather ominous: Friday being looked upon as an excellent day for condemnation. The court was crowded to suffocation; but the spectators had a long time to wait ere they had the pleasure of seeing a gentleman placed in the felon's dock. The court was occupied during the greater part of the morning with cases of small interest; and, between two and three in the afternoon, the crowd began in some degree to diminish; many persons growing tired, and a belief becoming prevalent that the cause would not be tried that day.
At length, however, when it was least expected, the cause was called on, and two or three solicitors' clerks ran out of the court to call the counsel in the case. The appearance of the leader for the crown excited some attention; but that of the famous barrister, whom every one knew to have been brought down especially from London, and who was generally reported to be the intimate friend of the prisoner, created a murmur which lasted for some minutes. The two lawyers were in the court, before Chandos Winslow was placed in the dock; for the officers of the prison had been taken somewhat by surprise, from the rapidity with which the preceding case had been brought to a conclusion. After a momentary pause, however, the accused appeared, and there was an instant movement, causing a good deal of confusion, from many persons endeavouring to gain a better sight of the prisoner.
It is probable that every one expected to behold a very different sort of person from that which was now presented to him; but certain it is, that the actual impression produced was highly favourable. The tall, commanding, manly form; the air of calm unembarrassed grace; the grave, but firm, and almost stern look; the lofty brow and speaking eye; the lip that quivered a little with irrepressible emotion, at being made the gazing-stock of thousands: all excited in the multitude those feelings of admiration which predispose to sympathy and confidence. Bearing his head high, with his shoulders thrown back, and his chest open, with his eye fixed tranquilly on the judge, and his step as firm as if he had been treading his father's halls, Chandos Winslow advanced to the front of the dock; and immediately his friend Sir ---- rose from his place, and with a kindly nod of the head, spoke to him for a few moments, as if to show all persons that he was proud of his friendship.
The indictment was read, setting forth in various counts the charge against the prisoner. Sir ----, desired to see the instrument, and then merely remarked, that it was bad in law, and could not be sustained.
"When the case for the defence comes on, I will hear your objection," said the judge.
"I do not know that it will be necessary, my lord;" replied the counsel. "My friend and client has an invincible objection to take advantage of any technicality; and, I think, we can do without a flaw, although I may judge it my duty to show your lordship that there is a fatal one in this indictment."
When called upon to plead, Chandos replied, "Not guilty," in a firm, slow, and distinct voice; and the confident tone of the leader for the defence, as well as the calm self-possession of the prisoner, had its effect both upon the spectators and the jury. It was soon to be driven away, however; for the leader for the crown rose after a few words from a junior; and a very different impression was speedily produced. The lawyer who conducted the prosecution was a tall handsome man, with strongly marked and expressive features, a powerful and flexible voice, and great dignity of manner. He had one quality, however, which was greatly in favour of a prisoner if he were retained as counsel for the defence, but which told sadly against him if he appeared on behalf of the crown. He seemed--it was merely seeming--so fully, so firmly convinced of the justice of the cause he advocated, his manner was so sincere, his apparent candour so great, that the jury, thoroughly believing he had no doubt, and weighing their wits against his, naturally asked themselves, "If so learned and shrewd a man has arrived at this conclusion, why should we venture to differ from him?"
On the present occasion, he paused for an instant and rested his hand upon the table, as if almost overpowered by his feelings--he never was calmer in his life--and then, raising his head, went on, with the clear, distinct, grave tones of his voice penetrating into every part of the court, in which there reigned a dead silence.
"My lord, and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "the most painful task of a life that has not been free from sorrows is imposed upon me this day; and I know--I feel--that I shall acquit myself ill. I beg you, therefore, to bear with me, if my statements are not so clear, if my reasonings are not so forcible as they ought to be; for, in my anxiety not to press anything too heavily against the prisoner at the bar, I fear I may fall into the opposite error, and not give due weight to many minor facts necessary to a full elucidation of the subject. That error, however, is far less important than the grave and serious fault--I might almost call it a crime, in a person in my present position--of suffering either professional vanity, or the spirit of partisanship, to seduce me into urging anything unjustly against a prisoner under trial. Into that fault, at least, I will not fall--of that crime, I will not render myself guilty. I will make no statement that I do not feel sure will be borne out by evidence, I will use no argument which may not be justly applied; and I do assure the court, aye, and the prisoner, that, if I could have avoided the task, I would have done so; that if he can prove himself innocent, I shall rejoice; and if my learned friend can show that my reasonings are not just, my views erroneous, I shall have a triumph in defeat, and sincere satisfaction in a verdict against me. But I have a high and solemn duty to perform to my country, gentlemen of the jury, as you have also; and we must not suffer any personal feeling to interfere with its due execution. We must recollect, that mercy to a criminal is cruelty to society, and that to spare the offender is to encourage the offence. With these views, I will 'nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice,' but succinctly state to you the facts, as many witnesses will afterwards prove them, omitting all that seems to me doubtful, and urging nothing that is not necessary to the due understanding of the case. On the evening of the fifth of February, gentlemen of the jury, a highly respectable gentleman, of the name of Roberts, called at the house of Mr. Tracy, of Northferry, in this county, and inquired for a person of the name of Acton, under which name, oralias, as it is termed, you will find that the prisoner is also indicted. This Mr. Roberts, it will be shown to you, was the steward and confidential law agent of the late Sir Harry Winslow, a gentleman of large property in this county; and in that capacity he was well acquainted and had had numerous transactions with the younger son of Sir Harry, a young gentleman, I must say, bearing a very high character, but, at the same time, of a disposition to which I can only apply the terms ofsharpandvindictive, as I shall be enabled to show. This person, known by the name of Acton, was at the time acting in the capacity of head-gardener, at the house of Mr. Tracy, where he had been for nearly three months, or ever since the death of Sir Harry Winslow. Upon my life, gentlemen of the jury, if the truth of the whole were not too fatally established, I might think I was reciting a romance. Mr. Roberts did not mention his business with the person he inquired for, but being perfectly respectable in his exterior, was directed by the servants to seek the head-gardener in the grounds, where he was usually to be found at this hour. Now those grounds are very extensive, and an authentic plan has been taken of them--I hold it in my hand--of which a copy has been furnished for your guidance. You will there see that the real front of the house is turned towards the gardens, which are remarkable, I am told, for their beauty and high cultivation: an earthly Paradise, into which murder now first entered. Before the house is a very extensive lawn, bordered with thick shrubberies, through which run several gravel walks. This lawn is terminated by a belt of planting irregularly disposed, so as to admit here and there views of the distant country to any eye looking from the windows of the house; but completely concealing a second lawn, somewhat less in extent, surrounded again by other shrubberies and other walks, sloping down with a gradual descent to the open fields, (also the property of Mr. Tracy,) from which the grounds are separated by a hedge, and in some places by that peculiar species of enclosure called a haw-haw, or sunk wall, with a broad ditch on the external side, faced on the side of the grounds with perpendicular masonry, surmounted by a holly hedge; number 5 in the plan, gentlemen of the jury. In the inside of this haw-haw and the hedge which forms its continuation, is a broad walk under beech-trees, called the Lady's Walk; but just opposite to the part of the walk where the figure 5 appears, the beech-trees are interrupted, and a plot of grass occupies the semicircular opening in the wood, in the bite or crescent of which is situated a small building, in imitation of a Greek temple, covering a fish-pond. Between that fish-pond and the haw-haw is a space of about twenty-five yards, which is the scene of the tragedy that is under our consideration: a narrow strip for so terrible an event. You will see that the broad gravel path, called the Lady's Walk, passes close to the little building, the temple, number 7 in the plan. Another walk, winding round the two lawns, and through the thick shrubberies, conducts to the western side of the building, where it enters the Lady's Walk. Down this winding path, it is probable, that poor Mr. Roberts came to meet his death, as it will be proved that he crossed the first lawn (number 2) towards it from the western side of the house. I should have mentioned that the hour at which he asked for Acton, the head-gardener, was five in the evening, when the sun is just down at that period of the year, but when the twilight is still clear. He was never seen alive afterwards, that we know of, but by his murderer; and about ten at night he was found lying on the grass between the little temple and the haw-haw, with two severe blows on the head, one of which had fractured the skull, and so severely injured the brain that death must have been instantaneous. By his side was found an implement used in gardening, and called, I believe, a Dutch hoe, which will be produced for your inspection. It was covered--at least, the iron head was covered--with blood and grey hair, and the surgeon who made a post mortem examination of the body will prove, that the wound which produced death must have been inflicted by an instrument very similar. Such are the bare facts of the murder of Mr. Roberts as they appear beyond all doubt; and I now approach with deep pain, reluctance, and even diffidence, the circumstances which connect the prisoner at the bar with the fatal event. First, gentlemen, it will be my duty to show you that the person who, under the name of Acton, filled the humble situation of head-gardener to Mr. Tracy, of Northferry, is one and the same person as Mr. Chandos Winslow, younger son of the late Sir Harry Winslow, of Elmsly and Winslow Abbey, in this county. It might be irrelevant to inquire what induced a gentleman of such birth and pretensions to condescend to such an office, but if it could be shown that he quitted his brother's mansion and abandoned the society in which he had moved from his birth on some disgust, occasioned by transactions in which this very unfortunate Mr. Roberts had a share, it might, indeed, be important in establishing a motive for the act with which he is charged."
Sir ---- instantly rose, and said aloud, "I hope my learned brother will not make insinuations which he is not able fully to bear out by evidence."
"If my learned friend had not interrupted me," replied the leader for the Crown, "he would have heard me declare that I was unwilling to press against the prisoner anything that could not be proved beyond all doubt; and therefore, that it was not my intention to connect any former disputes between the prisoner and the unhappy Mr. Roberts with the present charge; but to beg the jury to dismiss from their minds everything in their consideration of motives but the actual subject of dispute which I am about to allude to, and which can be proved by evidence unimpeachable."
"I must beg the interference of the court in protection of my client," said the prisoner's counsel, in a firm and stern tone; "it is contrary to all practice, and, I must add, contrary to all justice, to allude to imaginary circumstances as facts when there is no intention of proving them, thereby producing an impression upon the minds of the jury most detrimental to a prisoner, without giving the prisoner's counsel a fair opportunity of removing it. Were it not a most dangerous precedent, I should say that I am very glad such a course has been pursued by my learned friend, as, in this case, I am in a condition to rebut his insinuations as well as to disprove his facts; but, reverencing law and justice, and seeing great inconvenience likely to occur hereafter from such a practice, I must most solemnly claim the protection of the court for my client."
"The jury will rely only upon evidence," said the judge; "the assertions or insinuations of counsel, unsupported by evidence, are mere wind. The course of alluding even to any circumstance not intended to be proved, I must say, is very mischievous; but I dare say it was in the brief."
"I bow to the decision of the court," said the leader for the Crown; "but I can assure my learned friend, that I intended to produce no impression upon the minds of the jury but a just one; and, without at all recurring to the past, I am perfectly prepared to show by evidence that at the time the murder was committed, the prisoner at the bar and the unfortunate Mr. Roberts were engaged in a very sharp dispute about some property left to the former. I have said, gentlemen of the jury," he continued, with perfect tranquillity and satisfaction, "that it would be irrelevant to inquire what could induce a gentleman of the prisoner's rank and pretensions to accept the humble post of gardener in the family of Mr. Tracy. However, the fact that he did so will be established, and in that situation he inhabited a cottage (number 9 in the plan) close to the hedge bordering the Lady's Walk, and was entrusted with a key of the small gate into the grounds (at number 10.) It will be in evidence, gentlemen, that after having been absent for about a month, by Mr. Tracy's permission, during which he had resumed his station, mingled with his own rank of society in London, and fought a duel with Viscount Overton, in which the latter was desperately wounded, the prisoner returned to his cottage at Northferry on the afternoon of the fifth of February, the day of the murder, and almost immediately went out again. It will be shown to you, that the sun was then setting, or had already set, and that he entered the gardens, and took his way towards the very spot where the crime was committed, having in his hand the identical hoe (or one precisely similar) which was afterwards found by the dead body. This will be proved by two witnesses, whose veracity will not, I presume, be impeached. You will soon have it in evidence, that he did not return to his cottage till six, when he was in a state of much agitation; that he then went to his room, and, after washing his hands, threw the water he had used for the purpose out of the window; but that, nevertheless, there was upon the towel a red stain, as of blood diluted with water. You will find, that one arm of the fustian coat which he wore that night was stained with blood; and it will be also shown that footmarks, exactly corresponding with the shoes he wore, even to the most minute particulars, were found coming and going from the spot where the murdered man lay to the haw-haw. Now, gentlemen of the jury, it may seem difficult to prove to you that the murder, which was not discovered till ten, took place between the hours of five and six. There would indeed be a presumption that such was the case, from the fact of Mr. Roberts having gone down in that direction at five in search of the prisoner, who was then in the garden, and never having got further than the Lady's Walk; but still there would be a doubt, and I should be the first to entreat you to give the person accused the benefit of that doubt. But, unfortunately, I regret most deeply to say it, by one of those strange accidents which ever, sooner or later, bring their guilt home to the perpetrators of great crimes, I have the means of showing that the fatal deed must have been done some time between ten minutes or a quarter after five and half-past five." Sir ---- leaned forward and listened eagerly, and the leader for the prosecution continued, with an air of solemn sadness, "I allow from ten minutes to a quarter of an hour for any error that Mr. Tracy's servants may have made in regard to the time of Mr. Roberts' visit to the house, and for the time occupied by him in seeking through the grounds for the prisoner; but at half-past five, it then being almost dark, a little boy, the son of a gipsey woman, saw, in passing along as he returned from the school at Northferry, a dark body lying on the ground, like the figure of a man asleep, close by the little fish-pond or basin near which Mr. Roberts was murdered. The boy's history is not without its interest. He had, it seems, aided in saving the life of General Tracy, Mr. Tracy's elder brother, from the attack of a furious bull. The General, in gratitude, took the boy under his protection, and placed him to board at the cottage of the head-gardener. The hour at which he ought to have returned from school to the cottage was somewhat earlier--about five, I believe; but he met with his mother in the village, and lingered for a time with her. In order to shorten the way, he stole through the gardens, and got over the gate near the head-gardener's cottage, thus passing within twenty or thirty yards of the spot where the body lay. He will prove that he thought it was a man asleep, and that he is quite certain that it was a man."
The learned gentleman paused, and, from under his bushy eyebrows, turned a glance towards the face of the leader for the defence. What he saw there he did not exactly understand; for there was a very slight smile on the great barrister's lip; but that smile had something of triumph in it. He knew not if the smile was sincere, or whether it was not assumed to cover mortification; but yet, it was evidently kept down rather than displayed, and in this state of doubt he might not have called the boy, perhaps, had it been possible to avoid it. The passing of these considerations through his mind did not arrest his eloquence for more than a moment, and he went on as follows:--
"I have now, gentlemen of the jury, given you a brief outline of the case against the prisoner, as I believe it will be fully proved by evidence; and I do not think, if such be the case, and if the respectability of the witnesses is unimpeached and their testimony be not shaken by cross-examination, that you can come to any other conclusion than that which, I grieve to say, I myself have arrived at. You will hear what they have to say, you will judge from their words, and even the manner in which their evidence is given, what credence they deserve. God forbid that you should attach more to their evidence against the prisoner than to any testimony which can be fairly adduced in his favour. What course of defence my learned friend may adopt I cannot divine, but mere testimonials of character, learning, high qualities, and previous integrity cannot avail here. Nor must rank and station be taken for one moment into consideration. A prisoner at the bar of justice stands stripped of all adventitious advantages. He is there as before the throne of Heaven, only in the common character of man. If he be of high rank and good education, it is no reason for pre-supposing innocence or extenuating guilt. Quite on the contrary. Crimes of the most serious magnitude have been proved against persons greatly elevated in station. Peers of England have suffered on the scaffold for deliberate murder; and the advantages of rank and education, in the immunity which they give from ordinary temptation, only serve to aggravate the offence. Nor can a previous upright, honourable, and even peaceful life, if it could here be proved, weigh much to neutralize distinct evidence. We have too many instances, gentlemen, of men, the great bulk of whose life has been high, holy, and innocent, yielding to some strong temptation, and committing acts which on cooler reflection they have often shuddered at. Need I cite the case of the unfortunate Dr. Dodd? You must look upon the prisoner merely as a man; you must weigh well every tittle of the evidence against him. You will find that, as in almost all cases of murder, that evidence is purely circumstantial; no man but a madman commits such a crime when the eyes of any but accomplices are upon him. But you have all too much good sense and experience not to know that a long chain of circumstantial evidence, perfect and unbroken as this seems to me to be, is more strong, more conclusive than even direct evidence. In such cases, to suppose a fraud on the part of the witnesses for the crown, is to imagine that an immense number of persons are all combined in one common league to destroy another, and that they have so well arranged their scheme that cross-examination will not unravel it: whereas, in direct evidence, often afforded by one or two witnesses only, a much greater opportunity is to be found for successful falsehood if any motive for injuring a prisoner exists. I do not ask a verdict at your hands. I am far from desiring one against the prisoner at the bar. I pray Heaven that he may be able to exculpate himself and quit that dock free from all suspicion. Even if there be a reasonable doubt in your minds, you must give him the advantage of it; but you will remember that it must be a reasonable doubt. You must not say to yourselves, 'Perhaps he did not commit the act, after all,' because no one saw him commit it; but if the chain of evidence is clear and convincing, you must remember your oaths, your duty to your country and your God; and, having consulted only conscience, express by your verdict the conviction of your minds, as you will answer for it at the dreadful day of judgment."
The learned gentleman sat down after having produced a terrible effect upon the minds of the jury; but the judge, who was accustomed to such speeches, and moreover hungry, interrupted the further proceedings by inquiring, in the most commonplace tone in the world, if the evidence for the prosecution could be got through that night. There seemed some doubt upon the subject; and as it was now late; for the counsel had spoken very slowly, his lordship suggested that it would be better to take the evidence of one witness, and then adjourn to the following day. The testimony given was of little importance, for it only went to prove the identity of Chandos Winslow with John Acton--a fact which there was no intention of denying; and after it had been heard the court rose.