The first witness called was Jeremiah Sullivan, who deposed that he was present in one of the Christmas Margamores [Big Market] in the year 1798, when an altercation took place between his late brother Bartle and the prisoner at the bar, respecting the price of some barley, which the prisoner had bought from his brother. The prisoner had bought it, he said, for the sum of thirty-five pounds fifteen shillings, whilst his brother affirmed that it was only thirty-five pounds thirteen shillings--upon which they came to blows; his brother, when struck by the prisoner, having returned the blow, and knocked the prisoner down.

They were then separated by their friends, who interposed, and, as the cause of the dispute was so trifling, it was proposed that it should be spent in drink, each contributing one-half. To this both a.s.sented, and the parties having commenced drinking, did not confine themselves to the amount disputed, but drank on until they became somewhat tipsy, and were, with difficulty, kept from quarrelling again. The last words he heard from them that night were, as far as he can remember--"Dalton,"

said his brother, "you have no more brains than the pillar of a gate."

Upon which the other attempted to strike him, and, on being prevented, he shook his stick at him, and swore that "before he slept he'd know whether he had brains or not." Their friends then took them different ways, he was separated from them, and knows nothing further about what happened. He never saw his brother alive afterwards. He then deposed to the finding of his coat and hat, each in a crushed and torn state. The footmarks in the corner of the field were proved to have been those of his brother and the prisoner, as the shoes of each exactly fitted them when tried. He was then asked how it could be possible, as his brother had altogether disappeared, to know whether his shoes fitted the foot-prints or not, to which he replied, that one of his shoes was found on the spot the next morning, and that a second pair, which he had at home, were also tried, and fitted precisely.

The next witness was Rody Duncan, who deposed that on the night in question, he was pa.s.sing on a car, after having sold a load of oats in the market. On coming to the corner of the field, he saw a man drag or carry something heavy like a sack, which, on seeing him, Rody, he (the man,) left hastily inside the ditch, and stooped, as if to avoid being known. He asked the person what he was about, who replied that, "he hoped he was no gauger;" by which he understood that he was concerned in private distillation, and that it might have been malt; an opinion in which he was confirmed, on hearing the man's voice, which he knew to be that of the prisoner, who had been engaged in the poteen work for some years. One thing struck him, which he remembered afterwards, that the prisoner had a hat in his hand; and when it was observed in the cross-examination that the hat might have been his own, he replied that he did not think it could, as he had his own on his head at the time.

He then asked was that Condy Dalton, and the reply was, "it is, unfortunately;" upon which he wished him good-night, and drove homewards. He remembers the night well, as he lived at that time down at the Long Ridge, and caught a severe illness on his way home, by reason of a heavy shower that wet him to the skin. He wasn't able to leave the house for three months afterwards. It was an unlucky night any way.

Next came the Prophet. It was near daybreak on the morning of the same night, and he was on his way through Glendhu. He was then desired to state what it was that brought him through Glendhu at such an hour. He would tell the truth, as it was safe to do so now--he had been making United Irishmen that night, and, at all events, he was on his keeping, for the truth was, he had been reported to government, and there was a warrant out for him. He was then desired to proceed in his evidence, and he did so. On his way through Glendhu he came to a very lonely spot, where he had been obliged to hide, at that time, more than once or twice, himself. Here, to his surprise, he found the body of a man lying dead, and he knew it at once to be that of the late Bartholomew Sullivan; beside it was a grave dug, about two feet deep. He was astonished and shocked, and knew not what to say; but he felt that murder had been committed, and he became dreadfully afraid. In his confusion and alarm he looked about to try if he could see any person near, when he caught a glimpse of the prisoner, Condy Dalton, crouched among a clump of black-thorn bushes, with a spade in his hands. It instantly came into his head that he, the prisoner, on finding himself discovered, might murder him also; and, in order to prevent the other from supposing that he had seen him, he shouted out and asked is there any body near? and hearing no answer, he was glad to get off safe. In less than an hour he was on his way out of the country, for on coming within sight of his own house, he saw it surrounded with soldiers, and he lost no time in going to England, where, in about a month afterwards, he heard that the prisoner had been hanged for the murder, which was an untrue account of the affair, as he, the prisoner, had only been imprisoned for a time, which he supposed led to the report.

When asked why he did not communicate an account of what he had seen to some one in the neighborhood before he went, he replied, that "at that hour the whole country was in bed, and when a man is flying for his life, he is not very anxious to hould conversations with any body."

On the cross-examination he said, that the reason why he let the matter rest until now was, that he did not wish to be the means of bringin'

a fellow-creature to an untimely death, especially such a man as the prisoner, nor to be the means of drawing down disgrace upon his decent and respectable family. His conscience, however, always kept him uneasy, and to tell the truth, he had neither peace nor rest for many a long year, in consequence of concealing his knowledge of the murder, and he now came forward to free his own mind from what he had suffered by it.

He wished both parties well, and he hoped no one would blame him for what he was doing, for, indeed, of late, he could not rest in his bed at night. Many a time the murdhered man appeared to him, and threatened him, he thought for not disclosing what he knew.

At this moment, there was a slight bustle at that side of the court where the counsel for the defense sat, which, after a little time, subsided, and the evidence was about to close, when the latter gentleman, after having closely cross-examined him to very little purpose, said:

"So you tell us, that in consequence of your very tender conscience, you have not, of late, been able to rest in your bed at night?"

"I do."

"And you say the murdered man appeared to you and threatened you?"

"I do."

"Which of them?"

"Peter Magennis--what am I sayin'? I mean Bartle Sullivan."

"Gentlemen of the jury, you will please take down the name of Peter Magennis--will your lordship also take a note of that? Well," he proceeded, "will you tell us what kind of a man this Bartle or Bartholomew Sullivan was?"

"He was a very remarkable man in appearance; very stout, with a long face, a slight scar on his chin, and a cast in his eye."

"Do you remember which of them?"

"Indeed I don't, an' it wouldn't be raison able that I should, afther sich a distance of time."

"And, you saw that man murdered?"

"I seen him dead, afther having been murdhered."

"Very right--I stand corrected. Well, you saw him buried?"

"I didn't see him buried, but I saw him dead, as I said, an' the grave ready for him."

"Do you think now if he were to rise again from that grave, that you would know him?"

"Well I'm sure I can't say. By all accounts the grave makes great changes, but if it didn't change him very much entirely, it wouldn't be hard to know him again--for, as I said, he was a remarkable man."

"Well, then, we shall give you an opportunity of refreshing your memory--here," he said, addressing himself to some person behind him; "come forward--get up on the table, and stand face to face with that man."

The stranger advanced--pushed over to the corner of the table, and, mounting it, stood, as he had been directed, confronting the Black Prophet.

"Whether you seen me dead," said the stranger, "or whether you seen me buried, is best known to yourself; all I can say is, that here I am--by name Bartle Sullivan, alive an' well, thanks be to the Almighty for it!"

"What is this?" asked the judge, addressing Dalton's counsel; "who is this man?"

"My lord," replied that gentleman, "this is the individual for the murder of whom, upon the evidence of these two villains, the prisoner at the bar stands charged. It is a conspiracy as singular as it is diabolical; but one which, I trust, we shall clear up, by and by."

"I must confess, I do not see my way through it at present," returned the judge; "did not the prisoner at the bar acknowledge his guilt?--had you not some difficulty in getting him to plead not guilty? Are you sure, Mr. O'Hagan, that this stranger is not a counterfeit?"

The reply of counsel could not now be heard--hundreds in the court house, on hearing his name, and seeing him alive and well before them, at once recognized his person, and testified their recognition by the usual manifestations of wonder, satisfaction and delight. The murmur, in fact, gradually gained strength, and deepened until it fairly burst forth in one loud and astounding cheer, and it was not, as usual, until the judge had threatened to commit the first person who should again disturb the court, that it subsided. There were two persons present, however, to whom we must direct the special attention of our readers--we mean Condy Dalton and the Prophet, on both of whom Sullivan's unexpected appearance produced very opposite effects. When old Dalton first noticed the strange man getting upon the table, the appearance of Sullivan, a.s.sociated, as it had been, by the language of his counsel, with some vague notion of his resurrection from the grave, filled his mind with such a morbid and uncertain feeling of everything about him that he began to imagine himself in a dream, and that his reason must soon awaken to the terrible reality of his situation. A dimness of perception, in fact, came ever all his faculties, and for some minutes he could not understand the nature of the proceedings around him. The reaction was too sudden for a mind that had been broken down so long, and harra.s.sed so painfully, by impressions of remorse and guilt. The consequence was, that he had forgot, for a time, the nature of his situation--all appeared unintelligible confusion about him,--he could see a mult.i.tude of faces, and the people, all agitated by some great cause of commotion, and that was, then, all he could understand about it.

"What is this," said he to himself;--"am I on my trial?--or is it some dhrame that I'm dhramin' at home in my own poor place among my heart-broken family?"

A little time, however, soon undeceived him, and awoke his honest heart to a true perception of his happiness.

"My lord," said the strange man, in reply to the judge's last observation, "I am no counterfeit--an' I thank my good an' gracious G.o.d that I have been able to come in time to save this worthy and honest man's life. Condy Dalton," said he, "I can explain all; but in the mane time let me shake hands wid you, and ax your pardon for the bad tratement and provocation I gave you on that unlucky day--well may I say so, so far as you are concerned--for, as I hear, an' as I see, indeed, it has caused you and your family bitter trouble and sorrow."

"Bartle Sullivan! Merciful Father, is this all right? is it real? No dhrame, then! an' I have my ould friend by the hand--let me see--let me feel you!--it is--it's truth--but, there now--I don't care who sees me--I must offer one short prayer of thanksgivin' to my marciful G.o.d, who has released me from the snares of my enemies, an' taken this great weight off o' my heart!" As he-spoke, he elapsed his hands, looked up with an expression of deep and heartfelt grat.i.tude to heaven, then knelt down in a corner of the dock, and returned thanks to G.o.d.

The Prophet, on beholding the man, stood more in surprise than astonishment, and seemed evidently filled more with mortification rather than wonder. He looked around the court with great calmness, and then fastening his eyes upon Sullivan, studied, or I appeared to study, his features for a considerable time. A shadow so dark or we should rather say, so fearfully black settled upon his countenance, that it gave him an almost supernatural aspect; it looked in fact, as if the gloom of his fate had fallen upon him in the midst of his plans and iniquities. He seemed, for a moment, to feel this himself; for while the confusion and murmurs were spreading through the court, he muttered to himself--

"I am doomed; I did this, as if something drove me to it; however, if I could only be sure that the cursed box was really lost, I might laugh at the world still."

He then looked around him with singular composure, and ultimately at the judge, as if to ascertain whether he might depart or not. At this moment, a pale, sickly-looking female, aided, or rather supported, by the Pedlar and Hanlon, was in the act of approaching the place where Dalton's attorney stood, as if to make some communication to him, when a scream was heard, followed by the exclamation--

"Blessed Heaven! it's himself!--it's himself!"

Order and silence were immediately called by the crier, but the Prophet's eyes had been already attracted to the woman, who was no other than Hanlon's aunt, and for some time he looked at her with an apparent sensation of absolute terror. Gradually, however, his usual indomitable hardness of manner returned to him; he still kept his gaze fixed upon her, as if to make certain that there could be no mistake, after which his countenance a.s.sumed an expression of rage and malignity that no language could describe; his teeth became absolutely locked, as if he could have ground her between them, and his eyes literally blazed with fury, that resembled that of a rabid beast of prey. The shock was evidently more than the woman could bear, who, still supported by the Pedlar and Planlon, withdrew in a state almost bordering on insensibility.

A very brief s.p.a.ce now determined the trial. Sullivan's brother and several of the jurors themselves clearly established his ident.i.ty, and as a matter of course, Condy Dalton was instantly discharged. His appearance in the street was hailed by the cheers and acclamations of the people, who are in general delighted with the acquittal of a fellow-creature, unless under circ.u.mstances of very atrocious criminality.

"I suppose I may go down," said the Prophet,--"you have done with me?"

"Not exactly," replied Dalton's counsel.

"Let these two men be taken into custody," said the judge, "and let an indictment for perjury be prepared against them, and sent to the grand jury forthwith."

"My lord," proceeded the counsel, "we are, we think, in a capacity to establish a much graver charge against M'Gowan--a charge of murder, my lord, discovered, under circ.u.mstances little short of providential."

In short, not to trouble the reader with, the dry details of the courts, after some discussion, it was arranged that two bills should be prepared and sent up--one for perjury, and the other for the murder of a carman, named Peter Magennis, almost at the very spot where it had, until then, been supposed that poor Dalton had murdered Bartholomew Sullivan. The consequence was, that Donnel, or Donald M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, found himself in the very dock where Dalton had stood the preceding day.

His case, whether as regarded the perjury or the murder, was ent.i.tled to no clemency, beyond that which the letter of the law strictly allowed. The judge a.s.signed him counsel, with whom he was permitted to communicate; and he himself, probably supposing that his chance of escape was then greater than if more time were allowed to procure and arrange evidence against him, said he was ready and willing, without further notice, to be brought to trial.

We beg to observe here, that we do not strictly confine ourselves to the statements made during the trial, inasmuch as we deem it necessary to mention circ.u.mstances to the reader, which the rules of legitimate evidence would render inadmissable in a court of justice. We are not reporting the case, and consequently hold ourselves warranted in adding whatever may be necessary to making it perfectly clear, or in withholding circ.u.mstances that did not bear upon our narrative. With this proviso, we now proceed to detail the denouement.

The first evidence against him, was that of our female friend, whom we have called the Widow Hanlon, but who, in fact, was no other than the Prophet's wife, and sister to the man Magennis, whom he had murdered.

The Prophet's real name, she stated, was M'Ivor, but why he changed it, she knew not. He had been a man, in the early part of his life, of rather a kind and placid disposition, unless when highly provoked, and then his resentments were terrible. He was all his life, however, the slave of a dark and ever-wakeful jealousy, that destroyed his peace, and rendered his life painful both to himself and others. It happened that her brother, the murdered man, had prosecuted M'Ivor for taking forcible possession of a house, for which he, M'Ivor, received twelve months'

imprisonment. It happened also about that time, that is, a little before the murder, that he had become jealous of her and a neighbor, who had paid his addresses to her before marriage. M'Ivor, at this period, acted in the capacity of a plain Land Surveyor among the farmers and cottiers of the barony, and had much reputation for his exactness and accuracy.