Sir Robert Whitecraft, in fact, had no defence, and could procure no witnesses to counteract the irresistible body of evidence that was produced against him.  Notwithstanding all this, his friends calculated upon the prejudices of a Protestant jury.  His leading counsel made as able a speech in his defence as could be made under the circumstances.  It consisted, however, of vague generalities, and dwelt upon the state of the country and the necessity that existed for men of great spirit and Protestant feeling to come out boldly, and, by courage and energy, carry the laws that had passed for the suppression of Popery into active and wholesome operation.  “Those laws were passed by the wisest and ablest assembly of legislators in the world, and to what purpose could legislative enactments for the preservation of Protestant interests be passed if men of true faith and loyalty could not be found to carry them into effect.  There were the laws; the prisoner at the bar did not make those laws, and if he was invested with authority to carry them into operation, what did he do but discharge a wholesome and important duty?  The country was admitted, on all sides, to be in a disturbed state; Popery was attempting for years most insidiously to undermine the Protestant Church, and to sap the foundation of all Protestant interests; and if, by a pardonable excess of zeal, of zeal in the right direction, and unconscious lapse in the discharge of what he would call, those noble but fearful duties had occurred, was it for those who had a sense of true liberty, and a manly detestation of Romish intrigue at heart, to visit that upon the head of a true and loyal man as a crime.  Forbid it, the spirit of the British Constitution—­forbid it, heaven—­forbid it, Protestantism.  No, gentlemen of the jury,” etc., etc.

We need not go further, because we have condensed in the few sentences given the gist of all he said.

When the case was closed, the jury retired to their room, and as Sir Robert Whitecraft’s fate depends upon their verdict, we will be kind enough to avail ourselves of the open sesame of our poor imagination to introduce our readers invisibly into the jury-room.

“Now,” said the foreman, “what’s to be done?  Are we to sacrifice a Protestant champion to Popery?”

“To Popery!  To the deuce,” replied another.  “It’s not Popery that is prosecuting him.  Put down Popery by argument, by fair argument, but don’t murder those that profess it, in cold blood.  As the Attorney* General said, let us make it our own case, and if the Papishes treated us as we have treated them, what would we say?  By jingo, I’ll hang that fellow.  He’s a Protestant champion, they say; but I say he’s a Protestant bloodhound, and a cowardly rascal to boot.”

“How is he a cowardly rascal, Bob?  Hasn’t’ he proved himself a brave man against the Papishes? eh?”

“A brave man! deuce thank him for being a brave man against poor devils that are allowed nothing stouter than a horse-rod to defend themselves with—­when he has a party of well-armed bloodhounds at his back.  He’s the worst landlord in Ireland, and, above all things, he’s a tyrant to his Protestant tenants, this champion of Protestantism.  Ay, and fierce as he is against Popery, there’s not a Papish tenant on his estate that he’s not like a father to.”