THE ASSIZE TOWN.
I had not been above a week in my new quarters, when my servant
presented me, among my letters one morning, with a packet, which with
considerable pains, I at length recognised to be directed to me. The
entire envelope was covered with writing in various hands, among which
I detected something which bore a faint resemblance to my name; but the
address which followed was perfectly unreadable, not only to me, as it
appeared, but also to the “experts” of the different post-offices, for
it had been followed by sundry directions to try various places
beginning with T, which seemed to be the letter commencing the “great
unknown locality:” thus I read “try Tralee,” “try Tyrone,” “try
Tanderagee,” &c. &c. I wonder that they didn’t add, “try Teheran,” and
I suppose they would at last, rather than abandon the pursuit.
“But, Stubber,” said I, as I conned over the various addresses on this
incomprehensible cover, “are you sure this is for me?”
“The postmaster, sir, desired me to ask you if you’d have it, for he
has offered it to every one down in these parts lately; the waterguard
officers will take it at 8d. Cir, if you won’t, but I begged you might
have the refusal.”
“Oh! very well; I am happy to find matters are managed so impartially
in the post-office here. Nothing like a public cant for making matters
find their true level. Tell the postmaster, then, I’ll keep the letter,
and the rather, as it happens, by good luck, to be intended for me.”
“And now for the interior,” said I, as I broke the seal and read:
“Paris, Rue Castiglione.
“My dear Mr. Lorrequer—As her ladyship and my son have in vain essayed
to get any thing from you in the shape of reply to their letters, it
has devolved upon me to try my fortune, which were I to augur from the
legibility of my writing, may not, I should fear, prove more successful
than the”—(what can the word be?) “the—the”—why, it can’t be damnable,
surely?—no, it is amiable, I see—“than the amiable epistle of my lady.
I cannot, however, permit myself to leave this without apprising you
that we are about to start for Baden, where we purpose remaining a
month or two. Your cousin Guy, who has been staying for some time with
us, has been obliged to set out for Geneva, but hopes to join in some
weeks hence. He is a great favourite with us all, but has not effaced
the memory of our older friend, yourself. Could you not find means to
come over and see us—if only a flying visit? Rotterdam is the route,
and a few days would bring you to our quarters. Hoping that you may
feel so disposed, I have enclosed herewith a letter to the Horse
Guards, which I trust may facilitate your obtaining leave of absence. I
know of no other mode of making your peace with the ladies, who are too
highly incensed at your desertion to send one civil postscript to this
letter; and Kilkee and myself are absolutely exhausted in our defence
of you. Believe me, yours truly,
“Callonby.”
Had I received an official notification of my being appointed paymaster
to the forces, or chaplain to Chelsea hospital, I believe I should have
received the information with less surprise than I perused this
letter—that after the long interval which had elapsed, during which I
had considered myself totally forgotten by this family, I should now
receive a letter—and such a letter, too—quite in the vein of our former
intimacy and good feeling, inviting me to their house, and again
professing their willingness that I should be on the terms of our old
familiarity—was little short of wonderful to me. I read, too—with what
pleasure?—that slight mention of my cousin, whom I had so long regarded
as my successful rival, but who I began now to hope had not been
preferred to me. Perhaps it was not yet too late to think that all was
not hopeless. It appeared, too, that several letters had been written
which had never reached me; so, while I accused them of neglect and
forgetfulness, I was really more amenable to the charge myself; for,
from the moment I had heard of my cousin Guy’s having been domesticated
amongst them, and the rumours of his marriage had reached me, I
suffered my absurd jealousy to blind my reason, and never wrote another
line after. I ought to have known how “bavarde” [boasting] Guy always
was—that he never met with the most commonplace attentions any where,
that he did not immediately write home about settlements and pin-money,
and portions for younger children, and all that sort of nonsense. Now I
saw it all plainly, and ten thousand times quicker than my hopes were
extinguished before were they again kindled, and I could not refrain
from regarding Lady Jane as a mirror of constancy, and myself the most
fortunate man in Europe. My old castle-building propensities came back
upon me in an instant, and I pictured myself, with Lady Jane as my
companion, wandering among the beautiful scenery of the Neckar, beneath
the lofty ruins of Heidelberg, or skimming the placid surface of the
Rhine, while, “mellowed by distance,” came the rich chorus of a
student’s melody, filling the air with its flood of song. How
delightful, I thought, to be reading the lyrics of Uhland, or Buerger,
with one so capable of appreciating them, with all the hallowed
associations of the “Vaterland” about us! Yes, said I aloud, repeating
the well-known line of a German “Lied”—
“Bakranzt mit Laub, den lieben vollen Becher.”
“Upon my conscience,” said Mr. Daly, who had for some time past been in
silent admiration of my stage-struck appearance—“upon my conscience,
Mr. Lorrequer, I had no conception you knew Irish.”
The mighty talisman of the Counsellor’s voice brought me back in a
moment to a consciousness of where I was then standing, and the still
more fortunate fact that I was only a subaltern in his majesty’s —th—.
“Why, my dear Counsellor, that was German I was quoting, not Irish.”
“With all my heart,” said Mr. Daly, breaking the top off his third
egg—“with all my heart; I’d rather you’d talk it than me. Much
conversation in that tongue, I’m thinking, would be mighty apt to
loosen one’s teeth.”
“Not at all, it is the most beautiful language in Europe, and the most
musical too. Why, even for your own peculiar taste in such matters,
where can you find any language so rich in Bacchanalian songs as
German?”
“I’d rather hear the “Cruiskeen Lawn” or the “Jug of Punch” as my old
friend Pat. Samson could sing them, than a score of your high Dutch
jawbreakers.”
“Shame upon ye, Mr. Daly; and for pathos, for true feeling, where is
there anything equal to Schiller’s ballads?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of his; but if you will talk of
ballads,” said the Counsellor, “give me old Mosey M’Garry’s: what’s
finer than”—and here began, with a most nasal twang and dolorous
emphasis, to sing—
“‘And I stepp’d up unto her,
An’ I made a congee—
And I ax’d her, her pardon
For the making so free.’
“And then the next verse, she says—
“‘Are you goin’ to undo me,
In this desert alone?’—
“There’s a shake there.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” I cried, “stop; when I spoke of ballads, I never
meant such infernal stuff as that.”
“I’ll not give up my knowledge of ballads to any man breathing,” said
Mr. Daly; “and, with God’s blessing, I’ll sing you one this evening,
after dinner, that will give you a cramp in the stomach.”
An animated discussion upon lyrical poetry was here interrupted by a
summons from our host to set out for the town. My party were, by the
desire of the magistracy, to be in readiness near the court-house, in
the event of any serious disturbance, which there existed but too much
reason to fear from the highly excited state of feeling on the subject
of the approaching trials. The soldiers were, under the guidance of Mr.
Larkins, safely ensconced in a tan-yard; and I myself, having consigned
them for the present to a non-commissioned officer, was left at perfect
liberty to dispose of my time and person as it might please me.
While these arrangements were taking place, I had entirely lost sight
of Mr. Daly, under whose guidance and protection I trusted to obtain a
place within the bar to hear the trials; so that I was now perfectly
alone, for my host’s numerous avocations entirely precluded any thought
of my putting myself under his care.
My first object was to reach the court-house, and there could be little
difficulty in finding it, for the throng of persons in the street were
all eagerly bending their way thither. I accordingly followed with the
stream, and soon found myself among an enormous multitude of
frize-coated and red-cloaked people, of both sexes, in a large open
square, which formed the market-place, one side of which was flanked by
the court-house—for as such I immediately recognized a massive-looking
grey stone building—in which the numerous windows, all open and filled
with people, exhaled a continued steam from the crowded atmosphere
within. To approach it was perfectly impossible: for the square was
packed so closely, that as the people approached, by the various
streets, they were obliged to stand in the avenues leading to it, and
regard what was going on from a distance. Of this large multitude I
soon became one, hoping that at length some fortunate opportunity might
enable me to obtain admission through some of my legal acquaintances.
That the fate of those who were then upon their trial for their lives
absorbed the entire feelings of those without, a momentary glance at
the hundreds of anxious and care-worn faces in the crowd, would
completely satisfy. Motionless and silent they stood: they felt no
fatigue—no want of food or refreshment—their interest was one and
undivided—all their hopes and fears were centered in the events then
passing at a short distance from them, but to which their ignorance
imparted an additional and more painful excitement—the only information
of how matters were going on being by an occasional word, sometimes a
mere gesture from some one stationed in the windows to a friend in the
crowd.
When the contemplation of this singularly impressive scene was
beginning to weary from the irksomeness of my position, I thought of
retiring: but soon discovered how impossible was such a step. The crowd
had blocked up so completely all the avenues of approach, that even had
I succeeded in getting from the market-place, it would be only to
remain firmly impacted among the mob in the street.
It now also occurred to me, that although I had been assured by Larkins
no call could possibly be made upon my services or those of my party,
till after the trial, yet, were that to conclude at any moment, I
should be perfectly unable to regain the place where I had stationed
them, and the most serious consequences might ensue from the absence of
their officer, if the men were required to act.
From the time this thought took possession of me, I became excessively
uncomfortable. Every expression of the people that denoted the progress
of the trial, only alarmed me for the conclusion, which I supposed,
might not be distant, and I began, with all my ingenuity, to attempt my
retreat, which, after half an hour’s severe struggle, I completely
abandoned, finding myself scarcely ten yards from where I started.
At length, the counsel for the crown, who had been speaking to
evidence, ceased; and an indistinct murmur was heard through the
court-house, which was soon repressed by the voice of the crier calling
“silence.” All now seemed still and silent as the grave—yet, on
listening attentively, for some time, you could catch the low tones of
a voice speaking, as it appeared, with great deliberation and slowness.
This was the judge addressing the jury. In a short time this also
ceased; and, for about half an hour, the silence was perfectly
unbroken, and both within and without there reigned one intense and
aching sense of anxiety that absorbed every feeling, and imparted to
every face an expression of almost agonizing uncertainty. It was,
indeed, a space well calculated to excite such emotions. The jury had
retired to deliberate upon their verdict. At length a door was heard to
open, and the footsteps of the jury, as they resumed their places,
sounded through the court, and were heard by those without. How heavily
upon many a stout heart those footsteps fell! They had taken their
seats—then came another pause—after which the monotonous tones of the
clerk of the court were heard, addressing the jury for their verdict.
As the foreman rises every ear is bent—every eye strained—every
heart-string vibrates: his lips move, but he is not heard; he is
desired by the judge to speak louder; the colour mounts to his before
bloodless face; he appears to labour for a few seconds with a mighty
effort, and, at last, pronounces the words, “Guilty, my Lord—all
guilty!”
I have heard the wild war-whoop of the red Indian, as, in his own pine
forest, he has unexpectedly come upon the track of his foe, and the
almost extinguished hope of vengeance has been kindled again in his
cruel heart—I have listened to the scarcely less savage hurra of a
storming party, as they have surmounted the crumbling ruins of a
breach, and devoted to fire and sword, with that one yell, all who
await them—and once in my life it has been my fortune to have heard the
last yell of defiance from a pirate crew, as they sunk beneath the
raking fire of a frigate, rather than surrender, and went down with a
cheer of defiance that rose even above the red artillery that destroyed
but could not subdue them;—but never, in any or all of these awful
moments, did my heart vibrate to such sounds as rent the air when the
fatal “Guilty” was heard by those within, and repeated to those
without. It was not grief—it was not despair—neither was it the cry of
sharp and irrepressible anguish, from a suddenly blighted hope—but it
was the long pent-up and carefully-concealed burst of feeling which
called aloud for vengeance—red and reeking revenge upon all who had
been instrumental in the sentence then delivered. It ceased, and I
looked towards the court-house, expecting that an immediate and
desperate attack upon the building and those whom it contained would at
once take place. But nothing of the kind ensued; the mob were already
beginning to disperse, and before I recovered perfectly from the
excitement of these few and terrible moments, the square was nearly
empty, and I almost felt as if the wild and frantic denunciation that
still rang through my ears, had been conjured up by a heated and
fevered imagination.
When I again met our party at the dinner table, I could not help
feeling surprised on perceiving how little they sympathized in my
feeling for the events of the day; which, indeed, they only alluded to
in a professional point of view—criticising the speeches of the counsel
on both sides, and the character of the different witnesses who were
examined.
“Well,” said Mr. Daly, addressing our host, “you never could have had a
conviction to-day if it wasn’t for Mike. He’s the best evidence I ever
heard. I’d like to know very much how you ever got so clever a fellow
completely in your clutches?”
“By a mere accident, and very simply,” replied the justice. “It was
upon one of our most crowded fair days—half the county was in town,
when the information arrived that the Walshes were murdered the night
before, at the cross-roads above Telenamuck mills. The news reached me
as I was signing some tithe warrants, one of which was against Mickey.
I sent for him into the office, knowing that as he was in the secret of
all the evil doings, I might as well pretend to do him a service, and
offer to stop the warrant, out of kindness as it were. Well, one way or
another, he was kept waiting for several hours while I was engaged in
writing, and all the country people, as they passed the window, could
look in and see Mickey Sheehan standing before me, while I was employed
busily writing letters. It was just at this time, that a mounted
policeman rode in with the account of the murder; upon which I
immediately issued a warrant to arrest the two MacNeills and Owen
Shirley upon suspicion. I thought I saw Mike turn pale, as I said the
names over to the serjeant of police, and I at once determined to turn
it to account; so I immediately began talking to Mickey about his own
affairs, breaking off, every now and then, to give some directions
about the men to be captured. The crowd outside was increasing every
instant, and you need not have looked at their faces twice, to perceive
that they had regarded Mickey as an approver; and the same night that
saw the MacNeills in custody, witnessed the burning of Sheehan’s house
and haggart, and he only escaped by a miracle over to Curryglass,
where, once under my protection, with the imputation upon his character
of having turned King’s evidence, I had little trouble in persuading
him that he might as well benefit by the report as enjoy the name
without the gain. He soon complied, and the convictions of this day are
partly the result.”
When the applause which greeted this clever stroke of our host had
subsided, I enquired what results might, in all likelihood, follow the
proceedings of which I had that day been a witness?
“Nothing will be done immediately,” replied the justice, “because we
have a large force of police and military about us; but let either, or
unhappily both, be withdrawn, and the cry you heard given in the
market-place to-day will be the death-wail for more than one of those
who are well and hearty at this moment.”
The train of thought inevitably forced upon me by all I had been a
spectator of during the day, but little disposed me to be a partaker in
the mirth and conviviality which, as usual, formed the staple of the
assize dinners of Mr. Larkins; and I accordingly took an early
opportunity to quit the company and retire for the night.