* * * * *

I could have found it in my heart to kill that man--Oates, I mean--as he
stood there in his gown and bands and periwig, with his guards behind
him, swearing away those good men's lives; now standing upright, now
leaning on the rail before him, and now reposing himself on a stool that
was brought for him. His monstrous countenance was as the face of a
devil; he feigned now to weep, now to be merry. But most of all I hated
the man, when the piteous sight was seen of the entrance of Mrs. Ireland
and her daughter, who came to testify that Mr. Ireland was not in London
at all on those days in August when Oates had sworn that he had spoken
with him there. They stood there, as gallant women as might be, turning
their eyes now and again upon the priest who was all the world to them
by ties both of nature and grace; but all their testimony went for
nothing, since, first my Lord had told the jury that a Catholic's oath
was worth nothing, and next the prisoners had had no opportunity to know
what charges precisely they were that were to be brought against them,
and had had therefore no time to get their witnesses together. They
complained very sharply of this; but my Lord puffed it all away, and
would scarcely allow them to finish one sentence without interruption.

Mr. Ireland said upon one occasion that though he had no witnesses, for
he had had no time to get them, yet he could get witnesses that there
were witnesses.

"I know," said the Chief Justice, "what your way of arguing is; that is
very pretty. You have witnesses that can prove you have witnesses, and
those witnesses can prove that you have more witnesses, and so _in
infinitum_. And thus you argue in everything you do."