Philip at all, and that, up to the time when his lordship read the letter, they were as much in the dark as the Attorney-General where Sir Philip was to be found. But," he continued, "before this evidence was adduced, I meant to point out to the jury that the weak link in the chain of evidence against the prisoner was the want of sufficient proof that he was the gentleman the different witnesses had seen with the deceased. With one exception, the witnesses believed the prisoner to be the gentleman they had seen, from marks of the most ordinary description. He was in dress clothes, wore a white waistcoat and white tie, and was about the size of the prisoner. Now, all this would apply to the majority of gentlemen in London, who had been in society or at the theatre; and the Attorney-General had failed to prove-he would not say he had forgotten to prove, for his friend was too clever for that-that Darcy, on the morning in question had either worn a white waistcoat or a white tie. True, such habiliments were found in the prisoner's portmanteau, but, probably, the same discovery would be made in the wardrobe of any gentleman in London. Then, as to the IO U which was found in the prisoner's pocket, that might be there naturally enough, if the prisoner had gained back the money he had lost, or if, though written out, it had never been given to Count Grenville. But there is one witness who is more particular in her observation, and who alleges reasons, if not better, certainly more striking and interesting, to explain her identification of the prisoner. Now," said the orator, "I am not one of those who hold that the word of a woman such as Sarah is to be believed, still I do not think the same implicit credit should not be given to her as to a respectable witness, and that, not so much from her presumable depravity as from an excitability of temperament, the natural result of her course of life, and which in a manner incapacitates these unfortunates from being accurate, either in their observation or in their recollection; moreover the very circumstance which she alleges as the reason why she knew the prisoner is one which, to her morbid sensibility, the very slightest resemblance may have occasioned. I, therefore, say you had no adequate proof of the identity of the prisoner with this fugitive witness, who is supposed to have committed the murder before you heard the evidence of Sir Philip Warden and his servant. Take, now, that evidence into account, and not only is there no legal proof of identity, but a strong probability that the prisoner has been mistaken for another man; and, indeed, if you are to believe Sir Philip, a man hitherto of unblemished integrity and the highest character, there is a certainty that a grievous mistake has been committed. But I am prepared to go farther with my argument; admitting the prisoner to have been the last man seen with the deceased, and to be the missing witness,

In

there is no proof whatever that he committed the murder. That a murder was committed is, in the first place, taken somewhat too easily for granted; it may be improbable, it is not impossible, that the Count threw himself from the bridge; but let it be a murder, there is no proof it was committed by the prisoner at the bar. the first place, it is a question whether he is possessed of the requisite physical strength-I do not mean to commit the murder, but to throw the dead body over the parapet of the bridge. I, my. self, do not believe one man could accomplish such a feat-that is one element of improbability; the other element, and to me the decisive one, proving to my satisfaction that this unknown, unidentified man, this missing witness, did not commit the murder, is his own conduct. Do you think it a probable course for a man to take, after having engaged in a struggle for life and death with another, and after having thrown him over the bridge, to run immediately and tell a policeman the story the gentleman had told; and, if you believe that probable, do you think his conduct, going with the policemen to search for the body, accompanying them into the public-house and remaining quietly there until the police investigation was concluded, was like the conduct of a manand, keep in mind, a very young'man-who had murdered the body they were grouped round. I confess, for my own part, such conduct is the most unlikely which it is possible to suppose to have been followed. On the whole, I think I can rely on an acquittal, first, on the theory that the identity is not proved, putting aside altogether Sir Philip Warden's evidence and that of his servant; second, that giving the weight to that evidence that the high character of Sir Philip demands, the identity is distinctly disproved; third, that even supposing all this got over-suppose the identity admitted-there is no proof of a murder; and, admitting the identity of the prisoner with the missing witness, there is no proof that the missing witness was the murderer, but a strong probability that the story he told at the time was the true story, and that the murderers of Count Grenville have yet to be discovered."

It now remained for the judge to sum up, and it is only necessary to mention that he did so emphatically in the prisoner's favour. Putting most stress on what he thought there was no doubt about, namely, that the prisoner could not have been the man last seen with the deceased, as, said he, "At that very time and hour it is clearly proved he was in Sir Philip Warden's house." That being so clear to his lordship, he considered it unnecessary to enlarge on the other points of the case. He, accordingly, very briefly recapitulated them, observing that if he was not satisfied in his own mind that there had been a mistake in the identity, he would have been inclined to adopt the view of the case taken by

the Attorney-General, rather than that so well put by the counsel for the prisoner; "for," he continued, "suppose there was no doubt the prisoner was the party last seen with Count Grenville, then weight must be given to the fact that he did not appear before the coroner, and, that under a borrowed name, he had been found in so unfrequented a district of Scotland. These proceedings," his lordship said, "were barely consistent with the theory of the prisoner's innocence, if the prisoner was the missing witness: but if he were not, of course they had no connection with the crime; and, therefore, however strange and whimsical they might think the prisoner's conduct to have been, it was really no part of their duty to inquire into its reasons."

It was now for the jury to make up their minds. They could not do so at once, and were allowed to withdraw and consult, and another jury was impanelled and another case proceeded with.

To the surprise of most people in the court this new case went on for half an hour before the usher intimated that the former jury were ready to give a verdict.

The verdict, as anticipated by all, was Not Guilty, but it excited surprise that so long a time had been spent in deliberation, and that surprise was increased when it was known that the jury were not unanimous; that at least one-half were of opinion that Darcy was guilty, and, of course, by logical consequence, that Sir Philip Warden and his servant had been guilty of deliberate perjury.

It was only now that Darcy, who had not raised his head, which had rested on his folded arms since Sir Philip Warden gave his evidence, was discovered to be unconscious.

In that state he was removed from the court to Brian's hotel, and it was not till late in the day that he recovered.

NEVER, perhaps, were there, absolutely and relatively, so many candidates as now for literary distinction. Never was success more certain, more splendid than in these days, in those cases in which merit of the first order aids the young writer to force his way up the steep ladder leading to fame and influence. Never, in spite of the daily-increasing demand for articles, essays, poems, was the supply so far in advance of the demand. Never was second or third-rate literary ability more certain to be unrecognised and neglected as in this eager, pushing nineteenth century. It is no trifle now-a-days to make a mark in the crowded world of letters.

Every man of education tries, at some period of his life, to write. There is no hamlet, no moor, so remote from London that its inhabitants cannot send their precious manuscripts to some publisher or editor, whose name they probably know as well as do the editor's own friends. Publishers and editors have the pick of the talent of the age. It is only the smallness of a second-rate writer's remuneration which, in some degree, keeps down the immense number of literary workers. When money and fame can be reaped by so few, it is not everyone who has time or inclination to write what, though it may get into print, will be of no earthly value to himself or to anyone else. Yet never were the successful author's gains and triumphs greater.

What more natural than that Charles Kingsley, a well-educated and hard-working country clergyman, should try his youth. ful hand at writing, as hundreds of professional men, similarly circumstanced, do every year. In any earlier period it would have been difficult for him so soon to reap the well-earned reward of his labour-so soon to find his works read in ten thousand households, his name honoured in a million of homes. Without great abilities he could not so early have risen to eminence; but it is none the less true that but for railways, newspapers, steam printing-presses, magazines and reviews, Charles Kingsley would rot, in his own lifetime, have become known to every man and woman who made any pretension to education and intelligence. He owed a great deal to the restless age in which he lived, and never did caly fane reward a Lekler on worthier object.

With the history of his life I have nothing here to do. Surely its great outlines must be familiar to everyone who has taken up any one of the many admirable obituary notices of him which have gone the round of the periodicals lately. Born in Devonshire, the son of a distinguished and learned clergyman, well educateu, possessed of many advantages, influential friends, a splendid physique, a liberal mind, a generous, manly disposition, the great writer, whom all England is now mourning, entered life with great promise. So have many other gifted and conscientious men who have utterly failed to achieve distinction. Kingsley had talents and advantages, and, what is as rare, the tact to turn them to a profitable and good use.

He first thought of the bar; ultimately he preferred the church. Ordained at the age of three-and-twenty, he accepted the curacy of Eversley. A year later he was promoted to the living. There he lived his not very long life, and there he entered on his

rest.

Perhaps he was not ambitious. Perhaps his broad views stood. in the way of preferment. Perhaps he preferred to pass his days among those simple country people, and to die and to be buried near them. He was very happy at Eversley, in the old parsonage, with its low rooms and its beautiful, little-frequented neighbourhood. The great and vigorous mind, which had made for its owner a reputation which will never fade away from the history of the land, could stoop contentedly to the little cares and occupations of a country clergyman's career, and could find its chief enjoyment in attending to them. When he died, after a youth so full of promise, a manhood so crowned with golden fruit, his remains were not carried to the stately Abbey of Westminster, of which he had been one of the two brightest ornaments; but were laid to rest in his own churchyard, to mingle with the lowiy dust of farmers, paupers, peasants, poachers, of those people whom Kingsley loved as a brother, for whose trials and temptations he had felt as only a true-hearted man could feel for those of another.

When to the sacred keeping of Eversley churchyard Kingsley's body was entrusted, another humble village sanctuary became, henceforth, famous in the annals of England, for being the burialplace of one of the most illustrious of Englishmen. Better far that he should rest amid the scenes he had loved, among the humble villagers, whom he had gently guided, and over whom he had exercised no temporary influence for good, than that he should be borne to distant minsters far from his own quiet home.

To what did Kingsley owe his fame? Eloquent as a speaker certainly he was not, though all he said was full of sound common sense. There have been greater scholars than he. This century