The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 107, September, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
History
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 107, September, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
Her reply to this inquiry took the whole court by surprise, and made her
solicitor, Houseman, very miserable. "None, my Lord," said she.
"Half-justice is injustice; and I will lend it no color. I will not set
able men to fight for me with their hands tied, against men as able
whose hands be free. Counsel, on terms so partial, I will have none. My
counsel shall be three, and no more,--Yourself, my Lord, my Innocence,
and the Lord God Omniscient."
These words, grandly uttered, caused a dead silence in the court, but
only for a few moments. It was broken by the loud mechanical voice of
the crier, who proclaimed silence, and then called the names of the jury
that were to try this cause.
Mrs. Gaunt listened keenly to the names,--familiar and bourgeois names,
that now seemed regal; for they who owned them held her life in their
hands.
Each juryman was sworn in the grand old form, now slightly curtailed.
"Joseph King, look upon the prisoner.--You shall well and truly try, and
true deliverance make, between our Sovereign Lord the King and the
prisoner at the bar, whom you shall have in charge, and a true verdict
give, according to the evidence. So help you God."
Mr. Whitworth, for the crown, then opened the case, but did little more
than translate the indictment into more rational language.
He sat down, and Serjeant Wiltshire addressed the court somewhat after
this fashion:--
"May it please your Lordship, and you, gentlemen of the jury,
this is a case of great expectation and importance. The
prisoner at the bar, a gentlewoman by birth and education, and,
as you must have already perceived, by breeding also, stands
indicted for no less a crime than murder.
"I need not paint to you the heinousness of this crime: you
have but to consult your own breasts. Who ever saw the ghastly
corpse of the victim weltering in its blood, and did not feel
his own blood run cold through his veins? Has the murderer
fled? With what eagerness do we pursue! with what zeal
apprehend! with what joy do we bring him to justice! Even the
dreadful sentence of death does not shock us, when pronounced
upon him. We hear it with solemn satisfaction; and acknowledge
the justice of the Divine sentence, 'Whoso sheddeth man's
blood, by man shall his blood be shed.'
"But if this be the case in every common murder, what shall be
thought of her who has murdered her husband,--the man in whose
arms she has lain, and whom she has sworn at God's altar to
love and cherish? Such a murderer is a robber as well as an
assassin; for she robs her own children of their father, that
tender parent, who can never be replaced in this world.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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