“Sweetheart, if I could surely choose
The aptest word in passion’s speech”—
“That,” said the counsel, “indicates that he would steal his poetry if he could.”
“And all its subtlest meaning use,
With eloquence your soul to teach;
Still, forced by its intensity,
Sweetheart, my love would voiceless be!”
(Laughter.)
“And heartless, as well as voiceless,” added the counsel.
“Sweetheart, though all the days and hours
Sped by, with love in sharpest stress,
To find some reach of human powers,
Its faintest impulse to express,
Till Time merged in Eternity,
Sweetheart, my love would voiceless be!”
(Roars of laughter.)
Mr. Shreek declared that he would read no more. It made his heart sick—professionally, of course—to peruse these revolting evidences of man’s inhumanity to lovely woman; of the amazing perfidy of the plaintiff, Weems. This voiceless lover, who was not only voiceless, but shameless, feelingless, and merciless as well, was now before them, arraigned by that law whose foremost function was to protect the weak, and to punish those who assail the helpless. It rests with you, gentlemen, to say whether the cry for help made to that law by this desolate woman with the lacerated heart shall be made in vain. So far as Mr. Shreek was concerned, he felt perfectly certain that the jury would award to his client the full amount of damages—a miserable recompense, at the best—for which she sued.
The judge’s charge was very long, very dull, and full of the most formidable words, phrases, and references. Those who were able to follow it intelligently, however, perceived that it really amounted to nothing more than this: If you find the defendant guilty, it is your duty to bring in a verdict to that effect; while, upon the other hand, if you find him not guilty, you are required to acquit him.
At six o’clock in the evening the jury retired, and the court waited for the verdict. At six-thirty, the jury sent to ask that the love-letters might be given to them; and it was whispered about that one of the jurymen had obtained the impression, somehow, that they were written by Miss Cowdrick to Weems. At a quarter past seven, the jury wanted to know if they could have cigars; and Mr. Porter sent them a couple of bundles at his own expense. At eight, word came out that one of the jurymen, evidently the slumberer, wanted a question of fact cleared up: Was the man suing the woman, or the woman the man? This having been settled, the court waited until half past eight, when, amid much excitement, the jury came in, and disappointed everybody with the announcement that it was quite impossible for them to agree.