THE TRIAL.

(From the Amulet.) Ir is about forty years ago, since, in an idle moment, I went into the Old Bailey. The immense crowd already collected and the large number of those who were vainly struggling for admittance, the busy whispers, the anxious looks, showed that a scene of more than common interest was about to take place on this theatre of human misery and degradation. The prisoner at the bar was a young man about twentyfour years of age, tall, of a dignified and prepossessing air; his dark hair hanging disorderly on his shoulders and about his brow, gave a singularly wild and mournful expression, to features that seemed to indicate feelings such as felons possess.

The indictment was read: it contained an account of a most atrocious crime committed under circumstances of ingratitude that deepened its horror, He was, it appeared, a young Scotchman, the son of a venerable Cameronian minister: he had distinguished himself in the University of Glasgow, by his talents and acquirements, and had been ordained a preacher of the gospel. While at college he had formed an acquaintance with the son of a Highland Laird, of nearly the same age, of an amiable and cultivated mind. The father of this youth, a man of large property, had been so pleased with the friend his son had made, that he had obtained for him a church in the Highlands, on condition that he should previously accompany his son in his travels over the continent. They had accordingly gone to London; and having there received large remittances were for their proposed journey, just going to set off, when one night the youth was found murdered in his bed, and appearances seemed to point out the prisoner as the perpetrator of the deed. They were briefly these. Some days before, they had been heard talking in their room with a very The loud and angry tone of voice. subject of the dispute was, it was supposed, a lady, whose name was mentioned. The words jealousy, revenge, were distinctly heard, a visible coolness was observed for some days after, till the evening of the murder, when they

gave an entertainment at their lodgings,
to friends who had come to bid them
An evident change had
farewell.
taken place in the behaviour of the
prisoner, who affected to be obsequi-
ously attentive to his friend. But the
principal witness for the prosecution
was an old respectable looking servant
He stated
to the deceased, who seemed almost
overpowered with grief.
that on the fatal night, hearing a noise
in his master's room, as if two persons
were struggling, he alarmed the land-
lord, and entered the room, which was
open; a light was on the floor, and
still smoaking, and the prisoner was
found hanging over the bed, a bloody
knife which was known to belong to
him by his side, his hands bloody, his
face pale, and betraying all the marks
of a guilty and disturbed mind. The
prisoner was skilled in anatomy; he
had been heard to describe the quick-
est and surest way of destroying life,
and the place of the wound corres-
ponded with the description. Moreover
some notes paid by a banker to the
deceased were produced in court by
a woman, whom the prisoner had
been seen to visit; from all which
proofs it satisfactorily appeared that
this unhappy youth, corrupted by vici-
ous company, had, by feelings of
jealousy and the temptation of money,
been instigated to murder his friend.

Whilst this melancholy detail was given, the prisoner appeared almost sinking under contrition and shame. When the case had been closed for the prosecution, the Judge, in an impressive manner, called upon him for his defence. He stood up, and after a short but violent effort to conquer his inward feelings, he addressed the bench with a voice, first weak and tremulous, but afterward collected and full.

"My Lord and Jury.

"You call upon me for my defence: I have none to make, yet I am not guilty. God knows I am not; and if he will, he can deliver me from this deep affliction and humiliation, even in this seemingly hopeless state; and if he will not, I bow to his will. You have just heard a circumstantial account of an atrocious crime, supported by a weight, of evidence, which I fear

will leave upon your minds no doubt of my guilt, for indeed it is not in the power of human help to save me, and therefore I have not wished to use the sophistry of law, and the unavailing eloquence of hired defenders. Let God, if he will, defend me. I have nothing to say for myself, save that I am innocent, though, by what some would call fatality, but rather by the unfathomable designs of unerring wisdom every thing seems to conspire against me. The woman who has appeared in evidence never received the money from me; it was my fear of the dangerous influence which she had acquired over him, that was the cause of the temporary coldness of my friend, and which his better feelings, and his confidence of the purity of my intentions, enabled him to conquer. My visits to the woman, had no other objects but to prevail upon her, to break off her connexions with him. As to that horrible night, I will state all I know of it. I was awakened by a noise in my friend's room, which was next to mine. I listened, and all was still. Then I heard what must have been my poor friend's last dying cry, but which I thought was only the involuntary moan of disturbed sleep; still a vague but an irresistible feeling of alarm, impelled me to the roomby a light that was dimly burning, I descried my friend in the condition you have heard described." (Here his voice faultered.) "I have no recollection of what followed. I suppose I fell upon the body, that I overturned the light, and that the noise alarmed this faithful servant, whom I sincerely forgive for the part he has taken against me. When I came to myself, the room was full of people, but I saw no one; I saw only him who lay in that bed.

The Jury after half an hour's consultation, returned the verdictGuilty! He heard it respectfully, but unmoved. Sentence was pronounced in the most impressive manner by the Judge, in a long and pathetic address, often interrupted by his emotion. He expressed no doubt of his guilt; and lamented the abuse of talents, the corruption of a mind once innocent, and earnestly recommended the unfor tunate youth to confess his guilt, rather than rashly persist in protestations of innocence, which could no longer save his life, and which precluded all access of Divine mercy.

The prisoner then arose, and never did I see a more expressive and commanding countenance. It was no longer the despondency of fear and the gloom of hopelessness, but the triumphant, yet calm and modest look of one about to receive martydom.

"I bow with submission to the judgment of my country, and though I die innocent, I return my thanks to the venerable Judge, who has just pronounced the awful sentence, for the Christian tenderness with which he has treated one seemingly so deeply involved in guilt as I am. The Jury as men, could have returned no other verdict; far be it from me to murmur against them; my doom was sealed in Heaven. May the sacrifice of my life atone, if not for a crime of which I am innocent, at least for the many faults which I have committed. It is impossible not to recognize in this the hand of the Supreme Disposer of events. I did at first cling to life, and cherish fond hopes that I might yet be saved and restored to my beloved father and to the esteem of good men; but I think I am now resigned to die, with a firm hope, that if my days are cut short in their prime, if my hopes of "My Lord and Jury, you have happiness and honour have been blasthere a plain, unvarnished tale. I have ed, and an ignominious death is to be no hopes that it will bear down the my lot, it is wisely and mercifully mass of evidence against me. I know decreed, in order to redeem me from I am the only one that can be charged the errors into which I have fallen, to with the crime. Still I must say purify my soul from those feelings of pause-beware of shedding innocent self-applause and pride, which had blood! May the Lord, in his unerring made me seek human praise rather than wisdom, move your minds as seemeth peace with God." best to him, for on him is all my trust, -man cannot serve me."

During this affecting address the hall was hushed to perfect stillness, every

body hung forward with breathless eagerness to catch his words, all seemed painfully divided between horror for his supposed crime, and admiration for his talents, half won over, by his show of piety, to believe him innocent-But he had scarcely concluded, when the deep, solemn silence was broken by these words, "I thank thee, O God, This exclamation he is innocent!" which struck upon the heart of all, proceeded from an old man who sat not far from me, and who had fallen on his knees in the attitude of prayer, his hands convulsively grasped together, his lips were moving, but his eyes were shut -it was his father: a young and beautiful girl had thrown her arms round the old man's neck, and hung on his bosom, pale and motionless. The prisoner started at the well-known voice, and instinctively sprung forward toward them, but he recollected his chains, and a flood of tears came to his relief. It would be difficult to paint the effect which so melancholy a sight had on the assembly; tears The jailor flowed from every eye. who came to lead the youth to the condemned cell appeared affected. The execution was to take place the My late and following monday. respected uncle T., whose life's work it was to visit the gloomy dungeon, and to shed on the still deeper gloom of benighted souls the beams of Christian truth, was unremitting in his attentions to the young Cameronian. But he told me that he went there, not to administer, but to receive; and that the edifying behaviour, the simplicity and resignation of this interesting youth, left no doubts of his innocence, to all who visited him. Efforts were made, but too late, to save him. The day came. My uncle At took me with him to the prison. that period, I was young, and very thoughtless, but I received there an impression which neither years, nor sorrow, nor joy, have effaced, and which is now my consolation amidst the loss of friends and health in this lonely retreat. Our way lay through a cell where three convicts were, who were to be hung in a few days. One was poring stupidly over a tattered prayer-book that belonged to one of

Let me

the prisoners, and mechanically mut-
tered the responses and prayers of the
English service; but it was easy to
see that his mind was intensely fixed
upon other thoughts than that of
religion: the other two, with a mug
of porter beside them, were smoaking
and playing at chuck-farthing; all
seemed indifferent or hardened, and
formed a striking contrast with the
spectacle that offered itself in the
inner cell, which, though gloomy and
bare, showed, by the neat arrange-
ment of its scanty and coarse furni-
ture that a female had been at work
there, and had, by its nameless at-
tentions, made even the walls of a
prison assume a temporary cheerful-
ness. A fire burned clearly in a grate;
some flowers in a broken tumbler,
shed a faint perfume;-but why stop
to describe such trifles?
rather tell the tale of the pale and
worn, but cheerful countenance of the
youth; the delicate form of his sister,
for the last time clinging around her
brother, and bedewing his chains with
her tears; and the patriarchal dignity
of the father, who, with an earnest
voice, was pouring forth his soul in
prayer, his hoary head now reverentially
bent to the ground, now lifted up in
the fervency of supplication to receive
the flood of light which the summer sun
was pouring through the small grated
window, giving to his fine features an
air of almost celestial radiance. The
son then prayed and oh! how unearth-
ly did his voice sound, who, possessed
of youth, and vigour, and genius, was
ere an hour to be numbered with the
dead! How it reached the heart, the
humble confession and suffering of that
immortal spirit about to return to its
heavenly habitation, and devoting the
last flying moments of its pilgrimage in
worshipping Him who was now impar-
ting from on high, strength and holiness
to this outcast of society loaded with
chains and disgrace, and for whose last
agonies the gathered crowd was impa-
tiently waiting.

When his prayer was concluded, he rose up and said, "Now father, I am ready, give me thy blessing! dear sister, farewell!" and clasping his weeping sister to his bosom, he kneeled down with her at her father's feet, and both