A bustle in the court. Does O'Connell come? No; but a message from him, with the intimation that the trial may go on, and he will "drop in" in half an hour. The clerk of the peace reads the indictment--the murderer pleads "Not Guilty," stands in the dock with compressed lips, and bursting veins, and withering frown, and scowling eyes--a fit subject for the savage pencil of Spagnaletto.
While the indictment is reading, a very dandified "middle-aged young gentleman," attired in a blue coat, with enormous brass buttons, a crimson silk neckcloth, and a most glaring pair of buckskins, jumps on the table, makes way across it with a "hop, step and jump," and locates himself in a box directly under the judge. You inquire, who is that neophyte?--the answer is, Carew Standish O'Grady, the registrar[25] of the circuit, barrister-at-law, and nephew to the judge. You turn up your eyes in wonder--the prothonotary of an English court would scarcely sport such a fox-hunter's garb.
[25] It may be noticed that, in New York, the Registrar is called the _Register_--the name of the _book_ being applied to the man who has the _office_ of keeping it.
The trial commences. Serjeant Goold states the case--advantageously for the prisoner, for the learned Serjeant has so defective an utterance that he is scarcely audible even to the reporters below him. But his serjeantcy gives him that precedence at the bar, on account of which the chief conduct of Crown prosecutions devolves to him. Meanwhile the Chief Baron turns to the High Sheriff, and cracks jokes; his hopeful nephew, less ambitious, produces a bag and some salt, and merely--cracks nuts.
The opening is over--the chief witness (probably an approver or King's evidence) is brought on the table--he is sworn, and attempts to baffle justice by kissing his thumb instead of the book. There is a dead silence in the court; for it is felt that the moment is awful with the fate of a fellow-creature.
He has just been successful _for_ an Orangeman _against_ a Catholic; but what does that matter? The people do justice to his merit; so _he_ succeeds, what care they against whom?
Another pause--a buzz in the court--"quite a sensation," as a dandy might exquisitely exclaim--the prisoner's eyes brightens up with the gleam of hope--he sees O'Connell, at last, seated among the barristers. What! is that O'Connell? that stalwart, smiling, honest-looking man? The same. Never did a public man assume less pretension to personal appearance. Yet, if you look closely, you may observe that he does anything but neglect the graces. His clothes are remarkably well made, the tie of his cravat is elaborate, his handsome eye-glass is so disposed that it can be seen as well as used, and his "Brutus" (for 'twould be heinous to utter the word "wig") gives an air of juvenility which his hilarious manners fully confirm.