the many who do not offend may enjoy their liberty.  It takes the life of the murderer, that other murders may not be committed.  The law might open the jails, and at once set free all persons accused of offences, and it ought to do so if it could be made certain that no other offences would hereafter be committed, because it punishes, not to satisfy any desire to inflict pain, but simply to prevent the repetition of crimes.  When the guilty, therefore, are not punished, the law has so far failed of its purpose; the safety of the innocent is so far endangered.  Every unpunished murder takes away something from the security of every man’s life.  Whenever a jury, through whimsical and ill-founded scruples, suffer the guilty to escape, they make themselves answerable for the augmented danger of the innocent.

We wish nothing to be strained against this defendant.  Why, then, all this alarm?  Why all this complaint against the manner in which the crime is discovered?  The prisoner’s counsel catch at supposed flaws of evidence, or bad character of witnesses, without meeting the case.  Do they mean to deny the conspiracy?  Do they mean to deny that the two Crowninshields and the two Knapps were conspirators?  Why do they rail against Palmer, while they do not disprove, and hardly dispute, the truth of any one fact sworn to by him?  Instead of this, it is made matter of sentimentality that Palmer has been prevailed upon to betray his bosom companions and to violate the sanctity of friendship.  Again I ask, Why do they not meet the case?  If the fact is out, why not meet it?  Do they mean to deny that Captain White is dead?  One would have almost supposed even that, from some remarks that have been made.  Do they mean to deny the conspiracy?  Or, admitting a conspiracy, do they mean to deny only that Frank Knapp, the prisoner at the bar, was abetting in the murder, being present, and so deny that he was a principal?  If a conspiracy is proved, it bears closely upon every subsequent subject of inquiry.  Why do they not come to the fact?  Here the defence is wholly indistinct.  The counsel neither take the ground, nor abandon it.  They neither fly, nor light.  They hover.  But they must come to a closer mode of contest.  They must meet the facts, and either deny or admit them.  Had the prisoner at the bar, then, a knowledge of this conspiracy or not?  This is the question.  Instead of laying out their strength in complaining of the manner in which the deed is discovered, of the extraordinary pains taken to bring the prisoner’s guilt to light, would it not be better to show there was no guilt?  Would it not be better to show his innocence?  They say, and they complain, that the community feel a great desire that he should be punished for his crimes.  Would it not be better to convince you that he has committed no crime?