Willy Reilly, by William Carleton

*By no means an uncommon proceeding in revenue cases,
even at the present day.

The said John Dickson was at the time indulging them with a comic song, which was encored with roars of laughter.

“Hallo!” shouted one of those at the cards, “here's Jack Brereton has prigged the ace of hearts.”

“Oh, gentlemen,” said Jack, who was a greater knave at the cards than any in the pack, “upon, my honor, gentlemen, you wrong me.”

The search was made, and up was lugged the redoubtable ace of hearts from under one of Jack's feet, who had hoped, by covering it, to escape detection. Detected, however, he was, and, as they all knew him well, the laughter was loud accordingly, and none of them laughed louder than Jack himself.

“Gentlemen, attention,” said Jack. “Will any of you lend me a halfpenny?”

This was immediately supplied to him, and the first thing he did was to stick it on his forehead—although there had been brass enough there before—to which it appeared to have been glued; after a space he took it off and placed it in the palm of his right hand, which he closed, and then, extending both his hands, shut, asked those about him in which hand it was. Of course they all said in the right; but, upon Jack's opening the said hand, there was no halfpenny there.

In this way they discussed a case of life or death, until another knock came, which “knock” received the same answer as before.

“Faith,” said a powerful-looking farmer from near the town of Boyle—the very picture of health, “if they don't soon let us out I'll get sick. It's I that always does the sickness for the jury when we're kept in too long.”

“Why, then, Billy Bradley,” asked one of them, “how could you, of all men living, sham sickness on a doctor?”

“Because,” said Billy, with a grin, “I'm beginning to feel a divarsion of blood to the head, for want of a beefsteak and a pot o' porther. My father and grandfather both died of a divarsion of blood to the head.”

“I rather think,” observed another, “that they died by taking their divarsion at the beefsteak and the pot of porter.”

“No matther,” said Billy, “they died at all events, and so will we all, plaise God.”

“Gome,” said one of them, “there is Jack Brereton and his cane—let us come to business. What do you say, Jack, as to the prisoner?”

Jack at the time had the aforesaid cane between his legs, over which he was bent like a bow, with the head of it in his mouth.

“All for a verdict of guilty, with the exception of this fellow and his shoes.”

Jack Brereton was a handsome old fellow, with a red face and a pair of watery eyes; he was a little lame, and crippled as he walked, in consequence of a hip complaint, which he got by a fall from a jaunting-car; but he was now steady enough, except the grog.

“Jack, what do you say?” asked the foreman; “it's time to do something.”

“Why,” replied Jack, “the scoundrel engaged me to put down a pump for him, and I did it in such a manner as was a credit to his establishment. To be sure, he wanted the water to come whenever it was asked; but I told him that that wasn't my system; that I didn't want to make a good thing too cheap; but that the water would come in genteel time—that is to say, whenever they didn't want it; and faith the water bore me out.” And here Jack laughed heartily. “But no matter,” proceeded Jack, “he's only a bujeen; sure it was his mother nursed me. Where's that fellow that's going to eat his shoes? Here, Ned Wilson, you flaming Protestant, I have neither been a grand juror nor a petty juror of the county of Sligo for nothing. Where are you? Take my cane, place it between your knees as you saw me do, put your mouth down to the head of it, suck up with all your strength, and you'll find that God will give you sense afterwards.”

Wilson, who had taken such a fancy for eating his shoes, in order to show his loyalty, was what is called a hard-goer, and besides a great friend of Jack's. At all events, he followed his advice—put the head of the huge cane into his mouth, and drew up accordingly. The cane, in fact, was hollow all through, and contained about three half-pints of strong whiskey. There was some wrangling with the man for a little time after this; but at length he approached Jack, and handing him the empty cane, said:

“Why, we must hang him,” replied Jack. “He defrauded me in the pump; and I ask you did you ever put your nose to a better pump than that?” *

     * We have been taken to task about this description of the
     jury-room; but we believe, and have good reason to believe,
     that every circumstance mentioned in it is a fact Do our
     readers remember the history of Orr's trial, where three-
     fourths of the jurors who convicted him were drunk—a fact
     to which they themselves confirmed upon oath afterwards?

At this moment an officer came to ask the same question, when, in reply, the twelve jurymen came out, and, amidst the most profound silence, the foreman handed down the issue paper to the Clerk of the Crown.

“Gentlemen,” said that officer, after having cast his eye over it, “have you agreed in your verdict?”

Let us pause here a moment, and reflect upon the precarious tenure of life, as it is frequently affected by such scenes as the above, in the administration of justice. Here was a criminal of the deepest dye, shivering in the dock with the natural apprehension of his fate, but supported, notwithstanding, by the delay of the jury in coming to a verdict. He argued reasonably enough, that in consequence of that very delay he must necessarily have friends among them who would hold out to the last. The state of suspense, however, in which he was held must have been, and was, dreadful. His lips and throat became parched by excitement, and he was obliged to drink three or four glasses of water. Being unable to stand, he was accommodated with a chair, on which, while he sat, the perspiration flowed from his pallid face. Yet, with the exception of his own clique, there was scarcely an individual present who did not hope that this trial would put an end to his career of blood. After all, there was something of the retributive justice of Providence even in the conduct and feelings of the jury; for, in point of fact, it was more on account of his private crimes and private infamy that they, however wrongly, brought in their verdict. Here was he, encircled by their knowledge of his own iniquities, apart from his public acts; and there, standing in that dock, from which he might have gone out free, so far as regarded his political exploits, he found, although he did not know it, the black weight of his private vices fall upon his head in the shape of the verdict just delivered. It would be impossible to describe his appearance on hearing it; his head fell down upon his breast listless, helpless, and with a character of despair that was painful to contemplate.

When the verdict was handed down, the judge immediately put on the black-cap; but Whitecraft's head was resting on his breast, and he did not for some time see it. At length, stirred into something like life by the accents of the judge, he raised his head with an effort. The latter addressed him as thus: “Sir Robert Whitecraft, you have been convicted this day by as enlightened a jury as ever sat in a jury-box. You must be aware yourself, by the length of time, and consequently the deep and serious investigation which they bestowed—and, it is evident, painfully bestowed—upon your unhappy case, that your conviction is the deliberate result of their conscientious opinion. It is obvious, as I said, from the length of time occupied in the jury-room, that the evidence in your case was sifted closely, and canvassed with the ability and experience of able and honest men. In the verdict they have returned the Court perfectly concurs; and it now only remains for me to pass upon you that awful sentence of the law which is due to your cruel life and flagitious crimes. Were you a man without education, nurtured in ignorance, and the slave of its debasing consequences, some shade of compassion might be felt for you on that account. But you cannot plead this; you cannot plead poverty, or that necessity which urges many a political adventurer to come out as a tyrant and oppressor upon his fellow-subjects, under the shield of the law, and in the corrupt expectation of reward or promotion. You were not only independent in your own circumstances, but you possessed great wealth; and why you should shape yourself such an awful course of crime can only be attributed to a heart naturally fond of persecution and blood. I cannot, any more than the learned Attorney-General, suffer the privileges of rank, wealth, or position to sway me from the firm dictates of justice. You imagined that the law would connive at you—and it did so too long, but, believe me, the sooner or later it will abandon the individual that has been provoking it, and, like a tiger when goaded beyond patience, will turn and tear its victim to pieces. It remains for me now to pronounce the awful sentence of the law upon you; but before I do so, let me entreat you to turn your heart to that Being who will never refuse mercy to a repentant sinner; and I press this upon you the more because you need not entertain the slightest expectation of finding it in this world. In order, therefore, that you may collect and compose your mind for the great event that is before you, I will allow you four days, in order that you may make a Christian use of your time, and prepare your spirit for a greater tribunal than this. The sentence of the Court is that, on the fifth day after this, you be, etc., etc., etc.; and may God have mercy on your soul!”

At first there was a dead silence in the Court, and a portion of the audience was taken completely by surprise on hearing both the verdict' and the sentence. At length a deep, condensed murmur, which arose by degrees into a yell of execration, burst forth from his friends, whilst, on the other hand, a peal of cheers and acclamations rang so loudly through the court that they completely drowned the indignant vociferations of the others. In the meantime silence was restored, and it was found that the convict had been removed during the confusion to one of the condemned cells. What now were his friends to do? Was it possible to take any steps by which he might yet be saved from such a disgraceful death? Pressed as they were for time, they came to the conclusion that the only chance existing in his favor was for a deputation of as many of the leading Protestants of the county, as could be prevailed upon to join in the measure, to proceed to Dublin without delay. Immediately, therefore, after the trial, a meeting of the baronet's friends was held in the head inn of Sligo, where the matter was earnestly discussed. Whitecraft had been a man of private and solitary enjoyments—in social and domestic life, as cold, selfish, inhospitable, and repulsive as he was cruel and unscrupulous in his public career.

The consequence was that he had few personal friends of either rank or influence, and if the matter had rested upon his own personal character and merits alone, he would have been left, without an effort, to the fate which had that day been pronounced upon him. The consideration of the matter, however, was not confined to himself as an individual, but to the Protestant party at large, and his conviction was looked upon as a Popish triumph. On this account many persons of rank and influence, who would not otherwise have taken any interest in his fate, came forward for the purpose, if possible, of defeating the Popish party—who, by the way, had nothing whatsoever to do in promoting his conviction—and of preventing the stigma and deep disgrace which his execution would attach to their own. A very respectable deputation was consequently formed, and in the course of the next day proceeded to Dublin, to urge their claims in his favor with the Lord Lieutenant. This nobleman, though apparently favorable to the Catholic people, was nevertheless personally and secretly a bitter enemy to them. The state policy which he was instructed and called upon to exercise in their favor differed toto coelo from his own impressions. He spoke to them, however, sweetly and softly, praised them for their forbearance, and made large promises in their favor, whilst, at the same time, he entertained no intention of complying with their request. The deputation, on arriving at the castle, ascertained, to their mortification, that the viceroy would not be at home until the following day, having spent the last week with a nobleman in the neighborhood; they were consequently obliged to await his arrival. After his return they were admitted to an audience, in which they stated their object in waiting upon him, and urged with great earnestness the necessity of arresting the fate of such a distinguished Protestant as Sir Robert Whitecraft; after which they entered into a long statement of the necessity that existed for such active and energetic men in the then peculiar and dangerous state of the country.

To all this, however, he replied with great suavity, assuring them that no man felt more anxious to promote Protestant interests than he did, and added that the relaxation of the laws against the Catholics was not so much the result of his own personal policy or feeling as the consequence of the instructions he had received from the English Cabinet. He would be very glad to comply with the wishes of the deputation if he could, but at present it was impossible. This man's conduct was indefensible; for, not content in carrying out the laws against the Catholics with unnecessary rigor, he committed a monstrous outrage against a French subject of distinction, in consequence of which the French Court, through their Ambassador in London, insisted upon his punishment.

“Very well, my lord,” replied the spokesman of the deputation, “I beg to assure you, that if a hair of this man's head is injured there will be a massacre of the Popish population before two months; and I beg also to let you know, for the satisfaction of the English Cabinet, that they may embroil themselves with France, or get into whatever political embarrassment they please, but an Irish Protestant will never hoist a musket, or draw a sword, in their defence. Gentlemen, let us bid his Excellency a good-morning.”

This was startling language, as the effect proved, for it startled the viceroy into a compliance with their wishes, and they went home post-haste, in order that the pardon might arrive in time.

CHAPTER XXV.—Reilly stands his Trial

Rumor of Cooleen Bawn's Treachery—How it appears—Conclusion.

Life, they say, is a life of trials, and so may it be said of this tale—at least of the conclusion of it; for we feel that it devolves upon us once more to solicit the presence of our readers to the same prison in which the Red Rapparee and Sir Robert Whitecraft received their sentence of doom.

As it is impossible to close the mouth or to silence the tongue of fame, so we may assure our readers, as we have before, that the: history of the loves of those two celebrated individuals, to wit, Willy Reilly and the far-famed Cooleen Bawn, had given an interest to the coming trial such as was never known within the memory of man, at that period, nor perhaps equalled since. The Red Rapparee, Sir Robert Whitecraft, and all the other celebrated “villains of that time, have nearly perished out of tradition itself, whilst those of our hero and heroine are still fresh in the feelings of the Connaught and Northern peasantry, at whose hearths, during the winter evenings, the rude but fine old ballad that commemorated that love is still sung with sympathy, and sometimes, as we can I testify, with tears. This is fame. One circumstance, however, which deepened the interest felt by the people, told powerfully against the consistency of the Cooleen Bawn, which was, that she had resolved to come forward that day to bear evidence against; her lover. Such was the general impression received from her father, and the attorney Doldrum, who conducted the trial against Reilly, although our readers are well aware that on this point they spoke without authority. The governor of the prison, on going that morning to conduct him to the bar, said:

“I am sorry, Mr. Reilly, to be the bearer of bad news; but as the knowledge of it may be serviceable to you or your lawyers, I think I ought to mention it to you.”

“Why, sir, it is said to be a fact that the Cooleen Bawn has proved false and treacherous, and is coming this day to bear her testimony against you.”

Reilly replied with a smile of confidence, which the darkness of the room prevented the other from seeing, “Well, Mr. O'Shaugh-nessy, even if she does, it cannot be helped; have you heard what the nature of her evidence is likely to be?”

“No; it seems her father and Doldrum the attorney asked her, and she would not tell them; but she said she had made her mind up to attend the trial and see justice done. Don't be cast down, Mr. Reilly, though, upon my soul, I think she ought to have stood it out in your favor to the last.”

“Come,” said Reilly, “I am ready; time will tell, Mr. O'Shaughnessy, and a short time too; a few hours now, and all will know the result.”

The jail was crowded even to suffocation; but this was not all. The street opposite the jail was nearly as much crowded as the jail itself, a moving, a crushing mass of thousands having been collected to abide and hear the issue. It was with great difficulty, and not without the aid of a strong military force, that a way could be cleared for the judge as he approached the prison. The crowd was silent and passive, but in consequence of the report that the Cooleen Bawn was to appear against Reilly, a profound melancholy and an expression of deep sorrow seemed to brood over it. Immediately after the judge's carriage came that of the squire, who was accompanied by his daughter, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, for Helen had insisted that her father should procure their attendance. A private room in the prison had, by previous arrangement, been prepared for them, and to this they were conducted by a back way, so as to avoid the crushing of the crowd. It was by this way also that the judge and lawyers entered the body of the court-house, without passing through the congregated mass.

At length the judge, having robed himself, took his seat on the bench, and, on casting his eye over the court-house, was astonished at the dense multitude that stood before him. On looking at the galleries, he saw that they were crowded with ladies of rank and fashion. Every thing having been now ready, the lawyers, each with his brief before him, and each with a calm, but serious and meditative aspect, the Clerk of the Crown cried out, in a voice which the hum of the crowd rendered necessarily loud:

At that moment a stir, a murmur, especially among the ladies in the gallery, and a turning of faces in the direction of the bar, took place as Reilly came forward, and stood erect in front of the judge. The very moment he made his appearance all eyes were fastened on him, and whatever the prejudices may have been against the Cooleen Bawn for falling in love with a Papist, that moment of his appearance absolved her from all—from every thing. A more noble or majestic figure never stood at that or any other bar. In the very prime of manhood, scarcely out of youth, with a figure like that of Antinous, tall, muscular, yet elegant, brown hair of the richest shade, a lofty forehead, features of the most manly cast, but exquisitely formed, and eyes which, but for the mellow softness of their expression, an eagle might have envied for their transparent brilliancy. The fame of his love for the Cooleen Bawn had come before him. The judge surveyed him with deep interest; so did every eye that could catch a view of his countenance; but, above all, were those in the gallery riveted upon him with a degree of interest—and, now that they had seen him, of sympathy—which we shall not attempt to describe. Some of them were so deeply affected that they could not suppress their tears, which, by the aid of their handkerchiefs, they endeavored to conceal as well as they could. Government, in this case, as it was not one of political interest, did not prosecute. A powerful bar was retained against Reilly, but an equally powerful one was engaged for him, the leading lawyer being, as we have stated, the celebrated advocate Fox, the Curran of his day.

The charge against him consisted of only two counts—that of robbing Squire Folliard of family jewels of immense value, and that of running away with his daughter, a ward of Chancery, contrary to her consent and inclination, and to the laws in that case made and provided.

The first witness produced was the sheriff—and, indeed, to state the truth, a very reluctant one was that humane gentleman on the occasion. Having been sworn, the leading counsel proceeded:

“Are you aware that jewellery to a large amount was stolen recently from Mr. Folliard?”

“You are not? Now, is it not a fact, of which you were an eye-witness, that the jewellery in question was found upon the person of the prisoner at the bar, in Mr. Folliard's house?”

“I must confess that I saw him about to be searched, and that a very valuable case of jewellery was found upon his person.”

“Yes, found upon his person—a very valuable case of jewellery, the property of Mr. Folliard, found upon his person; mark that, gentlemen of the jury.”

“Pardon me,” said the sheriff, “I saw jewellery found upon him; but I cannot say on my oath whether it belonged to Mr. Folliard or not; all I can say is, that Mr. Folliard claimed the jewels as his.”

“As his—just so. Nobody had a better right to claim them than the person to whom they belonged. What took place on the occasion?”

“Why, Mr. Folliard, as I said, claimed them, and Mr. Reilly refused to give them up to him.”

“You hear that, gentlemen—refused to surrender him the property of which he had robbed him, even in his own house.”

“Refused to submit to a search! No wonder, I think! But, at the time he refused to submit to a search, had he the jewellery upon his person?”

“He had? You hear that gentlemen—at the time he refused to be searched he had the jewellery upon his person.”

“Mr. Sheriff, have you been acquainted, or are you acquainted, with the prisoner at the bar?”

“Yes; I have known him for about three years—almost ever since he settled in this county.”

“Yes—your opinion of him is very high,” with a significant glance at the jury—“I believe it is, and I believe it ought to be. Now, upon your oath, do you believe that the prisoner at the bar is capable of the theft or robbery imputed to him?”

“He refused to surrender them to Mr. Folliard as having no legal claim upon them, and refused, at first, to place them in any hands but Miss Folliard's own; but, on understanding that she was not in—a state to receive them from him, he placed them in mine.”

“Then he considered that they were Miss Folliard's personal property, and not her father's?”

“Alexander Folliard” and the father then made his appearance on the table; he looked about him, with a restless eye, and appeared in a state of great agitation, but it was the agitation of an enraged and revengeful man.

He turned his eyes upon Reilly, and exclaimed with bitterness: “There you are, Willy Reilly, who have stained the reputation of my child, and disgraced her family.”

“Mr. Folliard,” said his lawyer, “you have had in your possession very valuable family jewels.”

“I do; because I saw him take them out of his pocket in my own house after he had been made prisoner and detected.”

“Certainly—I consider them my property; who else's property could they be.”

“And you now identify them as the same jewels which you found in his possession?”

“Pray, Mr. Folliard, keep your temper, if you please, and answer me civilly and as a gentleman. Suffer me to ask you are there any other family jewels in your possession?”

“The Folliard jewels! And how do they differ in denomination from those found upon the prisoner?”

“Those found upon the prisoner are called the Bingham jewels, from the fact of my wife, who was a Bingham, having brought them into our family.”

“And pray, did not your wife always consider those jewels as her own private property?”

“And did she not, at her death-bed, bequeath those very jewels to her daughter, the present Miss Folliard, on the condition that she too should consider them as her private property?”

“Why, I believe she did; indeed, I am sure of it, because I was present at the time.”

“Do you think, then, that necessity was likely to tempt a man of independence like him to steal your daughter's jewels?”

“I'd advise you, Sergeant Fox, not to put me out of temper; I haven't much to spare just now. What the deuce are you at?”

“If the Bingham jewellery had been stolen by a thief, do you think that thief would have left the Folliard jewellery behind him?”

“I'll take my oath you wouldn't, if you had been in the place of the person that took them. You'd have put the Bingham jewellery in one pocket, and balanced it with the Folliard in the other. But,” he added, after a slight pause, “the villain stole from me a jewel more valuable and dearer to her father's heart than all the jewellery of the universal world put together. He stole my child, my only child,” and as he spoke the tears ran slowly down his cheeks. The court and spectators were touched by this, and Fox felt that it was a point against them. Even he himself was touched, and saw that, with respect to Reilly's safety, the sooner he got rid of the old man, for the present at least, the better.

“Mr. Folliard,” said he, “you may withdraw now. Your daughter loved, as what woman has not? There stands the object of her affections, and I appeal to your own feelings whether any living woman could be blamed for loving such a man. You may go down, sir, for the present.”

The prosecuting counsel then said: “My lord, we produce Miss Folliard herself to bear testimony against this man. Crier, let Helen Folliard be called.”

Now was the moment of intense and incredible interest. There was the far-famed beauty herself, to appear against her manly lover. The stir in the court, the expectation, the anxiety to see her, the stretching of necks, the pressure of one over another, the fervor of curiosity, was such as the reader may possibly conceive, but such certainly as we cannot attempt to describe. She advanced from a side door, deeply veiled; but the tall and majestic elegance of her figure not only struck all hearts with admiration, but prepared them for the inexpressible beauty with which the whole kingdom rang. She was assisted to the table, and helped into the witness's chair by her father, who seemed to triumph in her appearance there. On taking her seat, the buzz and murmur of the spectators became hushed into a silence like that of death, and, until she spoke, a feather might have been heard falling in the court.

“Miss Folliard,” said the judge, in a most respectful voice, “you are deeply veiled—but perhaps you are not aware that, in order to give evidence in a court of justice, your veil should be up; will you have the goodness to raise it?”

Deliberately and slowly she raised it, as the court had desired her—but, oh! what an effulgence of beauty, what wonderful brilliancy, what symmetry, what radiance, what tenderness, what expression!

But we feel that to attempt the description of that face, which almost had divinity stamped upon it, is beyond all our powers. The whole court, every spectator, man and woman, all for a time were mute, whilst their hearts drank in the delicious draught of admiration which such beauty created. After having raised her veil, she looked around the court with a kind of wonder, after which her eyes rested on Reilly, and immediately her lids dropped, for she feared that she had done wrong in looking upon him. This made many of those hearts who were interested in his fate sink, and wonder why such treachery should be associated with features that breathed only of angelic goodness and humanity.

“Miss Folliard,” said the leading counsel engaged against Reilly, “I am happy to hear that you regret some past occurrences that took place with respect to you and the prisoner at the bar.”

“Yes,” she replied, in a voice that was melody itself, “I do regret them.”

Fox kept his eye fixed upon her, after which he whispered something to one or two of his brother lawyers; they shook their heads, and immediately set themselves to hear and note her examination.

“Miss Folliard, you are aware of the charges which have placed the prisoner at the bar of justice and his country?”

“Not exactly; I have heard little of it beyond the fact of his incarceration.”

“He stands there charged with two very heinous crimes—one of them, the theft or robbery of a valuable packet of jewels, your father's property.”

“Oh, no,” she replied, “they are my own exclusive property—not my father's. They were the property of my dear mother, who, on her death-bed, bequeathed them to me, in the presence of my father himself; and I always considered them as mine.”

“Oh, yes; but that is very easily explained. It is no secret now, that, in order to avoid a marriage which my father was forcing on me with Sir Robert Whitecraft, I chose the less evil, and committed myself to the honor of Mr. Reilly. If I had not done so I should have committed suicide, I think, rather than marry Whitecraft—a man so utterly devoid of principle and delicacy that he sent an abandoned female into my father's house in the capacity of my maid and also as a spy upon my conduct.”

This astounding fact created an immense sensation throughout the court, and the lawyer who was examining her began to feel that her object in coming there was to give evidence in favor of Reilly, and not against him. He determined, however, to try her a little farther, and proceeded:

“But, Miss Folliard, how do you account for the fact of the Bingham jewels being found upon the person of the prisoner?”

“It is the simplest thing in the world,” she replied. “I brought my own jewels with me, and finding”, as we proceeded, that I was likely to lose them, having no pocket sufficiently safe in which to carry them, I asked Reilly to take charge of them, which he did. Our unexpected capture, and the consequent agitation, prevented him from returning them to me, and they were accordingly found upon his person; but, as for stealing them, he is just as guilty as his lordship on the bench.”

“Miss Folliard,” proceeded the lawyer, “you have taken us by surprise to-day. How does it happen that you volunteered your evidence against the prisoner, and, now that you have come forward, every word you utter is in his favor? Your mind must have recently changed—a fact which takes very much away from the force of that evidence.”

“I pray you, sir, to understand me, and not suffer yourself to be misled. I never stated that I was about to come here to give evidence against Mr. Reilly; but I said, when strongly pressed to come, that I would come, and see justice done. Had they asked me my meaning, I would have instantly told them; because, I trust, I am incapable of falsehood; and I will say now, that if my life could obtain that of William Reilly, I would lay it willingly down for him, as I am certain he would lay down his for the preservation of mine.”

There was a pause here, and a murmur of approbation ran through the court. The opposing counsel, too, found that they had been led astray, and that to examine her any further would be only a weakening of their own cause. They attached, however, no blame of insincerity to her, but visited with much bitterness the unexpected capsize which they had got, on the stupid head of Doldrum, their attorney. They consequently determined to ask her no more questions, and she was about to withdraw, when Fox rose up, and said:

“Miss Folliard, I am counsel for the prisoner at the bar, and I trust you will answer me a few questions. I perceive, madam, that you are fatigued of this scene; but the questions I shall put to you will be few and brief. An attachment has existed for some time between you and the prisoner at the bar? You need not be ashamed, madam, to reply to it.”

“That Reilly should abjure his creed, and then no further obstacles should stand in the way of our union, he said.”

“Yes, I mentioned it to him myself; but, well as he loved me, he would suffer to go into an early grave, he said, sooner than abandon his religion; and I loved him a thousand times better for his noble adherence to it.”

“He did, and the life of a faithful and attached old servant at the same time.”

Now, although this fact was generally known, yet the statement of it here occasioned a strong expression of indignation against the man who could come forward and prosecute the individual, to whose courage and gallantry he stood indebted for his escape from murder. The uncertainty of Folliard's character, however, was so well known, and his whimsical changes of opinion such a matter of proverb among the people, that many persons said to each other:

“The cracked old squire is in one of his tantrums now; he'll be a proud man if he can convict Reilly to-day; and perhaps to-morrow, or in a month hence, he'll be cursing; himself for what he did—for that's his way.”

“Well, Miss Folliard,” said Fox, “we will not detain you any longer; this to you must be a painful scene; you may retire, madam.”

She did not immediately withdraw, but taking a green silk purse out of her bosom, she opened it, and, after inserting her long, white, taper fingers into it, she brought out a valuable emerald ring, and placing it in the hands of the crier, she said:

“Give that ring to the prisoner: I know not, William,” she added, “whether I shall ever see you again or not. It may so happen that this is the last time my eyes can ever rest upon you with love and sorrow.” Here a few bright tears ran down her lovely cheeks. “If you should be sent to a far-off land, wear this for the sake of her who appreciated your virtues, your noble spirit, and your pure and disinterested love; look upon it when, perhaps, the Atlantic may roll between us, and when you do, think of your Cooleen Bawn, and the love she bore you; but if a still unhappier fate should be yours, let it be placed with you in your grave, and next that heart, that noble heart, that refused to sacrifice your honor and your religion even to your love for me. I will now go.”

There is nothing so brave and fearless as innocence. Her youth, the majesty of her beauty, and the pathos of her expressions, absolutely flooded the court with tears. The judge wept, and hardened old barristers, with hearts like the nether millstone, were forced to put their handkerchiefs to their eyes; but as they felt that it might be detrimental to! their professional characters to be caught weeping, they shaded off the pathos under the hypocritical pretence of blowing their noses. The sobs from the ladies in the gallery were loud and vehement, and Reilly himself was so deeply moved that he felt obliged to put his face upon his hands, as he bent over the bar, in order to conceal his emotion. He received the ring with moist eyes, kissed it, and placed it in a small locket which he put in his bosom.

She was then conducted to the room to which we have alluded, where she met Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, both of whom she found in tears—for they had been in the gallery, and witnessed all that had happened. They both embraced her tenderly, and attempted to console her as well as they could; but a weight like death, she said, pressed upon her heart, and she begged them not to distract her by their sympathy, kind and generous as she felt it to be, but to allow her to sit, and nurture her own thoughts until she could hear the verdict of the jury. Mrs. Hastings returned to the gallery, and arrived there in time to hear the touching and brilliant speech of Fox, which we are not presumptuous enough to imagine, much less to stultify ourselves by attempting to give. He dashed the charge of Reilly's theft of the jewels to pieces—not a difficult task, after the evidence that had been given; and then dwelt upon the loves of this celebrated pair with such force and eloquence and pathos that the court was once more melted into tears. The closing speech by the leading counsel against Reilly was bitter; but the gist of it turned upon the fact of his having eloped with a ward of Chancery, contrary to law; and he informed the jury that no affection—no consent upon the part of any young lady under age was either a justification of, or a protection against, such an abduction as that of which Reilly had been guilty. The state of the law at the present time, he assured them, rendered it a felony to marry a Catholic and a Protestant together; and he then left the case in the hands, he said, of an honest Protestant jury.

The judge's charge was brief. He told the jury that they could not convict the prisoner on the imputed felony of the jewels; but that the proof of his having taken away Miss Folliard from her father's house, with—as the law stood—her felonious abduction, for the purpose of inveigling her into an unlawful marriage with himself, was the subject for their consideration. Even had he been a Protestant, the law could afford him no protection in the eye of the Court of Chancery.

The jury retired; but their absence from their box was very brief. Unfortunately, their foreman was cursed with a dreadful hesitation in his speech, and, as he entered, the Clerk of the Crown said:

There was a solemn silence, during which nothing was heard but a convulsive working about the chest and glottis of the foreman, who at length said:

Here the internal but obstructed machinery of the chest and throat set to work again, and at last the foreman was able to get out—“Guilty—”

Mrs. Hastings had heard enough, and too much; and, as the sentence was pronounced, she instantly withdrew; but how to convey the melancholy tidings to the Cooleen Bawn she knew not. In the meantime the foreman, who had not fully delivered himself of the verdict, added, after two or three desperate hiccups—“on the second count.”

This, if the foreman had not labored under such an extraordinary hesitation, might have prevented much suffering, and many years of unconscious calamity to one of the unhappy parties of whom we are writing, inasmuch as the felony of the jewels would have been death, whilst the elopement with a ward of Chancery was only transportation.

When Mrs. Hastings entered the room where the Cooleen Bawn was awaiting the verdict with a dreadful intensity of feeling, the latter rose up, and, throwing her arms about her neck, looked into her face, with an expression of eagerness and wildness, which Mrs. Hastings thought might be best allayed by knowing the worst, as the heart, in such circumstances, generally collects itself, and falls back upon its own resources.

“Collect yourself, my child—be firm—be a woman. Collect yourself—for you will require it. The verdict—Guilty!”

The Cooleen Bawn did not faint—nor become weak—but she put her fair white hand to her forehead—then looked around the room, then upon Mrs. Brown, and lastly upon Mrs. Hastings. They also looked upon her. God help both her and them! Yes, they looked upon her countenance—that lovely countenance—and then into her eyes—those eyes! But, alas! where was their beauty now? Where their expression?

“Miss Folliard! my darling Helen!” exclaimed Mrs. Hastings, in tears—“great God, what is this, Mrs. Brown? Come here and look at her.”

Mrs. Brown, on looking at her, whispered, in choking accents, “Oh! my God, the child's reason is overturned; what is there now in those once glorious eyes but vacancy? Oh, that I had never lived to see this awful day! Helen, the treasure, the delight of all who ever knew you, what is wrong? Oh, speak to us—recognize us—your own two best friends—Helen—Helen! speak to us.”

She looked upon them certainly; but it was with a dead and vacant stare which wrung their hearts.

“Come,” said she, “tell me where is William Reilly? Oh, bring me to William Reilly; they have taken me from him, and I. know not where to find him.”

The two kind-hearted ladies looked at one another, each stupefied by the mystery of what they witnessed.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Hastings, “her father must be instantly sent for Mrs. Brown, go to the lobby—there is an officer there—desire him to go to Mr. Folliard and say that—but we had better not alarm him too much,” she added, “say that Miss Folliard wishes to see him immediately.”

The judge, we may observe here, had not yet pronounced sentence upon Reilly. The old man, who, under all possible circumstances, was so affectionately devoted and attentive to his daughter, immediately proceeded to the room, in a state of great triumph and exultation exclaiming, “Guilty, guilty; we have noosed him at last.” He even snapped his fingers, and danced about for a time, until rebuked by Mrs. Hastings.

“Unhappy and miserable old man,” she exclaimed, with tears, “what have you done? Look at the condition of your only child, whom you have murdered. She is now a maniac.”

CHAPTER XXV.—Reilly stands his Trial

Rumor of Cooleen Bawn's Treachery—How it appears—Conclusion.