Convict by many witnesses and proofs,
And by thine own confession.
MARINO FALIERO.
The Master of Fiction has compared the course of a supposititious
history to the career of a stone, rolled down the side of a mountain;
which, at first, labouring and stumbling along, in a slow and
hesitating manner, as if on the point of being arrested by every
petty obstruction, gathers force as it descends, and at last pitches
onwards with impetuous leaps, which soon conduct it to the bottom. To
give the figure the completeness of an allegory, it may be added,
that when the moving body has once acquired a little superfluous
momentum of its own, it communicates it to other stones, and these
again to others, which, increasing in number as they grow in
velocity, are at last seen rattling down to the vale below, in a
perfect avalanche, as confounding to the senses as it is hurrying to
the spirits. In this manner, a single incident begins its weary
course along the declivity of story, stirring up others as it rolls
onward; until, in the end, there is such a mass in motion, that, if
all were to be described as fully as at the starting, it would
require a Briareus himself to do them justice. It is, then, difficult
to keep pace even with the original event, the course of which is as
violent as the others; and this can be done only by imitating the
hurry of the moving body, and marching, in great leaps, to the end.
We must pass by, with a word, the confusion caused throughout the
whole village by the rencounter in the prison-yard; the steps that
were taken in consequence to follow the refugee who had escaped; the
proceedings that were had in relation to the bodies, (for the wounded
Staples expired within a few hours after his surrender;) and,
finally, those that paved the way for the trial of the unfortunate
Hyland.
The morning broke; the hour of trial approached; the village was
thronged with the idle and the curious; the court was opened, the
grand jury empannelled and charged, and in a short time returned into
court a formal bill of indictment against Hyland Gilbert, with some
two or three _aliases_, for the wilful murder of Henry Falconer.
The details of the trial it is not our purpose to narrate. There were
the usual preliminary flourishes, thrusts, and counter-thrusts, on
the part of the counsel, with those applications for postponement and
arguments against it, that weary the patience of the good citizens
who come to a tribunal of life and death as to a raree-show, and
perhaps with some such feelings as conducted the ancient Romans to
the amphitheatre. There was even an attempt made by the prisoner's
counsel (of whom the unlucky Affidavy was _not_ one--at least, he did
not make his appearance,) to oppose the jurisdiction of the court,
precisely as Affidavy had boasted he would do, but with so little
zeal and energy, that it was soon seen the prisoner was to derive no
benefit from such a plea. In fact, from the beginning to the end, the
counsel for the prisoner conducted the case in so spiritless and
desponding a manner, as to convey the most melancholy prognostic to
those who judge of the goodness or badness of a cause by the colour
of a counsellor's complexion. It seemed as if they were themselves
too well satisfied of his guilt to think of contending for his
innocence; and it was soon seen that they had good cause to despair;
for the prisoner, upon being formally arraigned at the bar, rose up,
and despite the opposition of his counsel, insisted upon pleading
_Guilty_ to the indictment.
From the consequences of this rashness--a result of mingled remorse
and despair--the unhappy young man was saved by the humanity of his
judges, who directed the plea of Not Guilty to be entered, as, we
believe, is usual, or at least frequent, in such cases.
Upon being asked 'How he would be tried?' he answered, with the same
readiness, "By God and my country;" and the elder of his counsel
making some trivial remark on the latter word, coupled with the hint
that his _domicil_ was strictly within a foreign territory, he
repeated the word with great vehemence, insisting 'that he was born
upon the soil on which he stood, and whether he lived or died, and
whether it owned the sway of the royal government, or assumed the
state of a free Republic, it was still as much _his_ country as
before, since still the land of his birth.'
He was directed to resume his seat; but the readiness with which he
seemed to abandon all the little hopes remaining to him softened the
hearts of his judges, and brought tears into the eyes of many who
came to see, in a Gilbert and refugee, some dread-looking monster,
and beheld only an emaciated youth, evidently nurtured on the lap of
gentleness. Indeed, there was no little confusion produced on several
occasions, by the compassion his appearance excited; one instance of
which happened, when Captain Loring, summoned entirely without the
knowledge of Hyland, along with two or three others, for no
imaginable purpose, but to testify to the mildness of his disposition
and the excellence of his previous character, entered the witness's
box, and laid eyes on the youth for the first time since his arrest.
He no sooner beheld his wretched plight, than forgetting half his own
wrongs, he began to blubber and stretch out his arms, and declare,
'after all, adzooks, he didn't believe his young Herman had committed
the murder, for all they said of him.' Then being reproved, and
something in the rebuke reminding him of his daughter, he burst into
a rage, reproaching the young man for his deceit and base outrage,
from which he was only diverted by a second rebuke, to begin to
blubber and defend as before. In short, it was soon found that his
testimony was not to be obtained, and as his wits were pretty
generally thought to be infirm, he was directed to be removed. This
was, however, at a later stage of the trial, and after the more
important witnesses had been examined. These comprehended those
individuals who were present at the scene of blood, the chief of whom
were captain Caliver, lieutenant Brooks, and the adventurer Sterling.
The evidence of the two former might have been esteemed sufficient of
itself to convict the prisoner, and there seemed a degree of cruelty
in bringing into the court, merely to confirm their testimony, a man
enduring so much bodily suffering as this wretched Sterling. It
seemed, that he had received some serious injury, when hurled so
roughly by Oran Gilbert among the rocks; for it was remarked, soon
after the cavalcade was formed that conducted the body of young
Falconer to Hawk-Hollow, that he became wan and troubled, and
occasionally a little wandering in his behaviour. He had grown worse
during the three days he was confined in prison, and had caused no
little trouble by his groans at night. In addition to all this, he
had bled freely from the cut he received from the jailer, while
attempting to escape; that attempt, as he averred on a previous
occasion, having been made in his sleep, he being occasionally
afflicted with the infirmity of somnambulism. When he appeared in
court, all were struck with his haggard appearance; the light of
cunning had departed from his eyes and mouth, being superseded in the
one by a certain wild, yet torpid and smouldering ray, such as might
be looked for in the organs of an expiring maniac, while the other
was distorted with pain, of which it was hard to say whether it
existed most in mind or body. Upon being called upon to declare what
he knew in relation to the prisoner and the deceased, he swore, to
the surprise of every one, 'that he knew nothing to prove the
prisoner's guilt, but much that spoke in favour of his innocence.'
Even Hyland, who had leaned his head down in passive despair, was
startled at a declaration so unexpected; his counsel became a little
animated, and the Deputy Attorney General reminded the witness, 'that
he was now in a court of justice, speaking to truth upon oath, and
not upon the boards of a theatre, delivering the tricksy paradoxes of
a play-wright.'
"Very true," said Sterling, with a ghastly smile; "but that day is
over."
Upon being asked what he meant by the last expression, he replied,
'that he alluded to his original profession of the stage, on which he
once had his day, like others.' He then proceeded to state, that
while pursuing his vocation, some years before, in the island of
Jamaica, he had several times seen the prisoner, then a young man of
eighteen or twenty, the heir of a rich widow, his kinswoman, and
occupying a highly favourable situation in society, and being, as far
as he knew, of estimable character. He next encountered him in the
month of May, at the tavern of Elsie Bell; although he did not
immediately recognise him. The third time he saw him was at the
Terrapin Hole, among, or near to, the refugees, among whom, as he
caused it to appear, he had himself stumbled by accident; the
consequence of which was that he was induced to join the band, to
protect himself from a peculiar peril in which he was placed. On the
evening of that day, he accompanied the leader of the band to the
park of Gilbert's Folly, where the prisoner was found struggling in
mortal combat with the deceased. A conflict ensuing, of which he
could say but little, having spent several hours previously in
drinking, he did himself attack the deceased with a pistol, scarce
knowing, in his intoxication, what he did, and would have killed him,
had he not been restrained by the prisoner, who took the pistol from
his hand, and assisted the deceased to make his escape; "and this the
prisoner did," added the witness, with a firm voice, "although, at
that moment, he was bleeding from a pistol-shot, received but a
moment before from the deceased, with whom he had fought a duel, and
by whom he had been treated with some unfairness and much barbarity."
He then continued to state, that the design having been communicated
to him of carrying off Miss Loring, he himself, esteeming it rather a
wild frolic than a serious outrage, had obtained permission to
co-operate in an assumed character; and that what confirmed him in
the belief that no wrong was meditated to any one, was his
overhearing a conversation betwixt the prisoner and Oran Gilbert, in
which the former insisted that no one should be injured, particularly
naming the deceased and his father, Colonel Falconer. At the time the
band broke into the house, he, being again overcome by wine and in a
mischievous mood, knocked down the deceased with a fiddle; and had
the prisoner been moved by any malicious impulse, he could have
easily killed him at that time. As for the murder itself, all that he
could say was, that at the moment the pistols were discharged, he was
himself nearer to the prisoner than was any other person on the
ground; and yet he could neither swear upon his knowledge nor to the
best of his belief, that the prisoner had fired the pistol that
terminated the deceased's career. There were several pistols fired,
he knew not by whom, nor did he believe any man could say by whom,
for the morning was still dark, and all were in confusion. It was as
likely that the deceased had been killed by his own (the deceased's)
pistol, as by the prisoner's; for being notoriously an expert shot,
nothing but accident could have caused him to miss the prisoner, at
whom he aimed, and who was so nigh at hand; and the accident that
diverted the pistol from the prisoner, might have turned it against
the neck of the deceased himself. Finally, he was convinced, that, be
the matter as it might, there could have been no malice aforethought
on the prisoner's part, or he would have taken advantage of those
moments to execute his purpose when he could have done so without
risk or discovery.
This testimony, which was justly esteemed extraordinary, coming as it
did from one who had been admitted as evidence against the prisoner,
produced a remarkable effect throughout the whole court and jury, as
well as the spectators; and was indeed more like a harangue designed
for the prisoner's benefit than any thing else. It was delivered with
pain, but still firmly, and at the close, the witness appearing to be
exhausted, he was allowed to retire, while the Deputy, saying, 'he
was gratified to hear such mitigating circumstances advanced in the
prisoner's favour,' added that he would summon two witnesses to prove
the murder from the prisoner's own voluntary confession, and would
then produce two pistols, the only ones discharged, one of which he
would prove had been fired by the deceased, the other by the
prisoner.
The jailer and his assistant were called, and both swore, that the
prisoner had repeatedly called himself a murderer.
Honest Schlachtenschlager, who had officiated as coroner, was then
summoned, and appeared in court, bearing five pistols, being those
delivered to him by Brooks, while sitting on the inquest. These being
handed to the latter gentleman, he immediately identified one as the
weapon discharged by the deceased; the second, he averred, he had
taken from the ground at the prisoner's side, and the other, its
fellow, from his holsters: the remaining pair belonged to Sterling,
and had been taken from him before or after the murder, he knew not
which, and had been by the witness given into the possession of
Schlachtenschlager.
"Yes," said Schlachtenschlager, "that fas fat the young man said.
T'at pistol mit the colden star on the preech, and the plue parrel,
fas the ploodty feapon."
Here the worthy magistrate was directed to hold his tongue, his
evidence not having been required, and his commentaries being wholly
superfluous. But he had said enough to give a new and unexpected turn
to the whole proceedings; for the prisoner, who had been staring from
the pistols to the witness, with a sort of passive recklessness, no
sooner heard the words 'golden star,' and 'blue barrel,' uttered than
he started up as if seized with a fit of madness, his eyes staring
out of his head, his arms outstretched, and his whole figure
displaying the influence of some extraordinary conception.
"The golden star! the blue barrel!" he cried, in a voice that
thrilled every bosom. "Oh heaven! have I been mad up to this moment?
Ha, ha, ha! what a fool! what a dolt! Give me the pistol!"
"Sit down," said one of the judges; and even his own counsel
endeavoured to force him back on his seat.
"I won't sit down," he cried in the same tones. "The pistol! the
pistol! my life depends upon it! Oh, heaven be thanked! I am an
innocent man. The pistol! look at the pistol: there is a shot in the
vent, and it will not fire! I remember now, it flashed when aimed at
Sterling. Call Dancy Parkins--examine it, look at it, prick it with a
needle,--blow in it, pour water in it--it could not harm him! No!
heaven be thanked! no, no, no!" And so great became his agitation,
that he fell to the floor in a fit of convulsions.
This singular announcement produced unspeakable agitation. The court
was ordered to be cleared, and the prisoner to be withdrawn a moment,
until restored to his senses. Dancy Parkins was then called, and upon
being shown the pistol, swore positively to the effect, that one of
them (he knew not which,) had become useless in consequence of a
leaden shot, or some other substance, getting into the vent; that the
day before the attempt upon Gilbert's Folly, he had been directed by
the prisoner, upon whom he attended, to remove the obstruction; that
he had received it for that purpose, but finding the removal more
difficult than he anticipated, and being hurried by other
circumstances, he returned it to the prisoner's holsters, intending
to resume the task at another time; and then being separated from
him, for the purpose of intercepting the clergyman, had forgotten it
entirely. He knew not which of the two pistols it was; but if, as he
supposed, the prisoner had not attempted to fire both, one would be
found charged: the other, that is to say, the one out of order, he
had himself taken care to empty of its contents before attempting to
remove the shot from the vent.
The pistols were immediately examined, and one found well charged.
The other was empty; and, as had been said, and as was hoped by
almost every man present, it was discovered that there was some
foreign body in the vent, which rendered it wholly unserviceable.
"This is indeed extraordinary!" said a judge on the bench.
"With your honour's permission," said the Deputy, who had been
whispering to one of the under functionaries of justice, and now
looked up in some perplexity, "I will recall the witness Sterling to
the stand; though I humbly submit, I know no more than your honour
what he has to say more. Yet he desires to be recalled."
"Ay, let him come," said Hyland, clasping his hands with joy. "He
remembers the circumstance; for I showed him the pistol, and he told
me the shot could be only taken out by a drill."
At this moment, the current of feeling was strongly in the prisoner's
favour, and the condition of his weapon rendering it impossible that
_it_ could have discharged the fatal bullet, there was scarce a man
present who did not believe him innocent, and believe so with
pleasure, notwithstanding his unhappy connexion with the outlaws. But
it was destined to be seen upon what a reed they had based their
commiseration and belief, when Sterling, appearing again, craved to
mention a circumstance which was now recalled to his memory by the
turn of proceedings, and of which his previous forgetfulness should
be rightly attributed to illness and disorder of mind. He remembered
well the conversation of which the prisoner spoke; he _had_ said,
that nothing but a drill would remove the obstruction; _but_--and
here he spoke with a degree of agitation that showed his reluctance
to advance any thing against the prisoner--it happened that the
conversation terminated in himself offering to remove the difficulty,
by taking the pistol with him to Elsie Bell's, where some instrument
might be found to serve the purpose; that he _had_, accordingly,
taken it, leaving one of his own pistols with the prisoner, but had
found neither leisure nor opportunity to repair it; that the
circumstances of flight had prevented a re-exchange; and finally,
that the incident had not been again thought of by him until the
present moment. He was not himself disarmed until after Falconer's
death; he had a pistol in his hand at the moment, which he dropped,
while seizing upon the prisoner; and taking it up again (as he
supposed) afterwards, it was probable he had then, without observing
it, regained his own; and _this_ might perhaps be the weapon with
which the unfortunate shot had been fired. He was disarmed a few
moments afterwards, and was then seized with indisposition, which
prevented his examining into the matter, or indeed thinking of it.
This testimony was as decisive as it was wholly unexpected. It struck
the prisoner dumb, and his looks of horror were esteemed the best
proofs of guilt. It was in vain that he afterwards exclaimed that the
witness had sworn falsely; he had no testimony to disprove the story,
and it was one that all others found apt and true, especially when
Sterling's pistols having been examined, one of them was discovered
to be empty. No one had dreamed of doubting the prisoner's guilt,
until the moment when his sudden burst of animation at the sight of
the weapons, threw all into confusion; and such was the change of
feeling produced by Sterling's testimony, that it soon became the
general impression that the prisoner had been playing a part in first
acknowledging himself guilty, and then affecting to be surprised into
a belief of his own innocence. Such an opinion as this could not,
indeed, long prevail; for it was manifest, upon considering the
circumstances, that the prisoner must have been as ignorant as others
of the true condition of the pistols, unless he had previously, as if
in anticipation of arrest, founded his whole scheme of bloodshed upon
the accident of the obstruction; in which case he must have fired the
other pistol, which was still loaded, or used some third one, which
he had cast out of sight, although instantly surrounded by many
different persons. The testimony of Sterling afforded the only and
the best solution of the riddle, as far as it related to the crime;
while in regard to the prisoner himself, all that could be imagined
to account for his change of deportment, was to suppose that even
_he_ had forgotten the original exchange of weapons,--that he was
inspired with the hope of escape, upon the presentation of his own as
that by which the murder had been committed,--and that that hope,
thus accidentally excited, still nerved him to assert his innocence.
The contest was however over, the hour of grace was past, and the
jury, after being charged in a manner highly unfavourable to him,
were sent out to form a verdict, the character of which no one
thought of doubting. It was even supposed that a few moments would
suffice to terminate their deliberations, and that they would shortly
return, to pronounce the word of doom. In this, however, the
spectators were disappointed: some merciful, or doubting member of
the panel had thrown a difficulty in the way of others; and, the
prisoner being remanded, the court was adjourned until such time as
they should be found to have agreed upon a verdict.
In the meanwhile, expectation was still on the stretch; the
spectators from a distance still lingered in the village, the
villagers themselves wandered up and down, or collected together at
their doors in groups, all awaiting the tap of the bell that should
call the court together to receive the verdict, and all agitated by
the thousand rumours that were supposed to have made their way from
the jury-room. It was twenty times, at least, in the course of the
night, reported that the jury had already agreed, and twenty times
there was a rush of people towards the court-doors, anxious and eager
to behold the bearing of the prisoner, while listening to the word
that should consign him to the death of a felon; but twenty times
curiosity was disappointed; and the morning came without bringing the
jury from their place of deliberation.
But long before the night had passed away, a new feature was added to
the story of Hyland's fate, and new characters mingled in the drama,
bringing with them new revelations.