“Now what is the necessary consequence of this, but a mighty, a fearfully influential premium on crime?  And what is its radical cause, but the absurd indulgence wherewith our law greets the favoured, because the atrocious criminal?  Upon what principle of propriety, or of natural justice, should a seeming murderer not be—­we will not say sternly, but even kindly—­catechised, and for his very soul’s sake counselled to confess his guilt?  Why should the morale of evidence be so thoroughly lost sight of, and a malefactor, who is ready to acknowledge crime, or unable, when questioned, to conceal it, on no account be listened to, lest he may do his precious life irreparable harm?  It is not agonized repentance, or incidental disclosure, that makes the culprit his own executioner, but his crime that has preceded; it is not the weak, avowing tongue, but the bold and bloody hand.

“We are unwilling to allude specifically to the name of any recent malefactor in connexion with these plain remarks; for, in the absence alike of hindered voluntary confession and of incomplete legal evidence, we would not prejudge, that is, prejudice a case.  But we do desire to exclaim against any further exhibition of that morbid tenderness wherewith all persons are sure to be treated, if only they are accused of enormities more than usually disgusting; and we specially protest against that foolish, however ancient, rule in our criminal law, which discourages and rejects the slenderest approach to a confession, while it has sacrificed many an innocent victim to the uncertainty of evidence, supported by nothing more safe than outward circumstantials.”

At length, and after much gesticulation and protestation, Mr. Sharp has succeeded; he had apparently innoculated the miserable man with hopes; for the miscreant now said firmly, “I plead not guilty.”

* * * * *

The briefless one looked happy—­nay, triumphant:  Jennings was a wealthy man, all knew; and, any how, he should bag a bouncing fee.  How far such money was likely to do him any good, he never stopped to ask.  “Money is money,” said Philip Sharp and the Emperor Vespasian.

We need not trouble ourselves to print Mr. Sharp’s very flashy, flippant speech.  Suffice it to say, that, not content with asserting vehemently on his conscience as a Christian, on his honour as a man, that Simon Jennings was an innocent, maligned, persecuted individual; labouring, perhaps, under mono-mania, but pure and gentle as the babe new-born—­not satisfied with traducing honest Ben Burke as a most suspicious witness, probably a murderer—­ay, the murderer himself, a mere riotous ruffian [Ben here chucked his cap at him, and thereby countenanced the charge], a mere scoundrel, not to say scamp, whom no one should believe upon his oath; he again, with all the semblance of sincerity, accused, however vainly, Roger Acton:  and lastly, to the disgust and astonishment of the whole court, added, with all acted appearances of fervent zeal for justice, “And I charge his pious daughter, too, that far too pretty piece of goods, Grace Acton, with being accessory to this atrocious crime after the fact!”