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It is extremely questionable whether a trial ever yet gave unmixed satisfaction to either of the parties concerned. In civil cases, especially, there is sure to be, in the judgment of either the plaintiff or the defendant—and almost invariably in the view of both—something left undone which ought to have been done, or something done which ought not to have been done. Sometimes the attornies are censured, sometimes the counsel, sometimes the witnesses, sometimes the jury, and sometimes the judge; but, most certainly, a case in which they all escaped censure, is not be found on record.

It will not, therefore, be held to be extraordinary, that neither the plaintiff nor the defendant in this action was satisfied with the result. Sylvester could not have been expected to be; but, as it may have been expected that Sir Charles would be satisfied, it will be quite correct here to state that he was not. In his view, his own counsel made him appear to be most sordid. Money was not his object. His object was to establish legally the assumed guilt of Lady Julian with a view to a divorce. He was, therefore, not satisfied at all with his own counsel: nor was he satisfied with the counsel for the defendant: the remarks of both, in his judgment, tended to place him in a ridiculous and contemptible light; and he, consequently, after the trial, felt wretched.

Sylvester, however, had not the wretched feelings of Sir Charles. He saw, of course, the importance of the verdict: he feared that it might, in a professional sense, effect his ruin: still, being perfectly conscious of his innocence, and having the sympathy of all around him, it cannot—although he was dreadfully annoyed—it cannot be said that he felt wretched. Aunt Eleanor was far more deeply affected; and, as to the reverend gentleman, he absolutely swelled with indignation! He was indignant with the attorney, indignant with the counsel, indignant with the jury, indignant with the judge. They were all, in his view, lost to every sense of justice. And yet he felt strongly that, if he had been allowed to give his evidence in his own way, the jury would not have dared to return a verdict for the plaintiff.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Is it—can it be possible—that in a country like this—a Christian country—a country in which the principles of Christianity are professed and entertained more extensively, perhaps, than in any other country upon earth—is it possible that twelve men—twelve Christian men—can deliberately take a solemn oath to give a verdict according to the evidence, and then, having heard that evidence adduced, return such a verdict as this! Why, it really is