Personal sketches of his own times, Vol. 1 (of 3)

by Sir Jonah Barrington

The Irish House of Peers was considered one of the most beautiful and commodious chambers possible. It combined every appearance of dignity and comfort: the walls were covered with tapestry, representing the battle of the Boyne, and the entire coup-d’œil was grand and interesting; but being, as I have said, considered too small for all the purposes of the trial in question, the House of Commons was made ready in preference.

Whoever had seen the interior of the Irish House of Commons must have admired it as one of the most chaste and classic models of modern architecture. A perfect rotunda, with Ionic pilasters, enclosed a corridor which ran round the interior. The cupola, of immense height, bestowed a magnificence which could rarely be surpassed; whilst a gallery, supported by columns, divided into compartments, and accommodating nearly 700 spectators, commanded an uninterrupted view of the chamber.

This gallery, on every important debate, was filled, not by reporters, but by the superior orders of society—the first rows being generally occupied by ladies of fashion and rank, who diffused a brilliance over, and excited a polite order and chivalrous decorum in that assembly which the British House does not appear very sedulously to cultivate.

This fine chamber was now fitted up in such a way as to give it the most solemn aspect. One compartment of seats in the body of the House was covered with scarlet cloth, and appropriated to the peeresses and their daughters, who ranged themselves according to the table of precedence. The Commons, their families and friends, lined the galleries: the whole house was superbly carpeted, and the speaker’s chair newly adorned for the lord chancellor.—On the whole, it was by far the most impressive and majestic spectacle ever exhibited within the walls of the Irish Parliament.

At length the peers entered, according to their rank, in full dress, and richly robed. Each man took his seat in profound silence; and even the ladies (which was rather extraordinary) were likewise still. The chancellor, bearing a white wand, having taken his chair, the most interesting moment of all was at hand, and its approach really made me shudder.

Sir Chichester Fortescue, king-at-arms, in his party-coloured robe, entered first, carrying the armorial bearings of the accused nobleman emblazoned on his shield: he placed himself on the left of the bar. Next entered Lord Kingston himself, in deep mourning, moving with a slow and melancholy step. His eyes were fixed on the ground; and, walking up to the bar, he was placed next to the king-at-arms, who then held the armorial shield on a level with his lordship’s shoulder.

The supposed executioner then approached, bearing a large hatchet with an immense broad blade. It was painted black except within about two inches of the edge, which was of bright polished steel. Placing himself at the bar on the right of the prisoner, he raised the hatchet about as high as his lordship’s neck, but with the edge averted; and thus he remained during the whole of the trial. The forms, I understood, prescribed that the edge should continue averted until the pronouncing of judgment, when, if it were unfavourable, the blade was instantly to be turned by the executioner toward the prisoner, indicating at once his sentence and his fate. The whole scene was extremely affecting.

I could not reconcile my mind to the thought of such a consummation. I knew the accused party, and had a high regard for him; and hence I felt a very uneasy sensation, inasmuch as I was profoundly ignorant of what would be the termination of the awful scrutiny.

The usual legal ceremonies were now entered on:—the charge was read—the prisoner pleaded not guilty—and the trial proceeded. A proclamation was made (first generally, then name by name,) for the witnesses for the prosecution to come forward. It is not easy to describe the anxiety and suspense excited as each name was called over. The eyes of every body were directed to the bar where the witnesses must enter, and every little movement of the persons who thronged it was held to be intended to make room for some accuser. None, however, appeared—thrice they were called, but in vain: and it was then announced that “no witnesses appearing, to substantiate the charge of murder against Robert, Earl of Kingston, the trial should terminate in the accustomed manner.” The chancellor proceeded to put the question; and every peer, according to his rank, arose and deliberately walking by the chair in which the chancellor was seated, placed his hand as he passed solemnly on his heart, and repeated, “Not guilty, upon my honour!” (The bishops were, very properly, precluded from voting in these criminal cases.) After all had passed, which ceremony occupied an hour, the chancellor rose and declared the opinion of the Peers of Ireland,—“That Robert, Earl of Kingston, was not guilty of the charge against him.” His lordship then broke his wand, descended from his chair, and thus ended the trial—most interesting because it had at once a strong political and constitutional bearing, and affected a nobleman universally beloved. The result was highly satisfactory to every one who had learned the circumstances which led to the fatal event for which the Earl of Kingston was arraigned,—whose conduct, though strictly justifiable neither in law nor morality, might have been adopted by the best of men under similar provocation.

This was the first and last trial by the House of Peers in Ireland after the declaration of Irish independence: and, all other considerations apart, its record remains as a testimonial of the temporary emancipation of Ireland from British trammels.