"On the 22d, the day after the execution, I was informed some one wished to speak with me: it was Harrel, commandant of Vincennes. The following is word for word what he said. Harrel perhaps thought he owed me some gratitude, to be repaid by these particulars; but he was not my debtor; it was much against my will that he had kept up Ceracchi's conspiracy, and received the reward of a feigned accomplice. "The evening before last,' said he, when the Prince arrived, I was asked if I had the means of lodging a prisoner. I replied no, that there remained only my own apartment and the council chamber. I was then told to have a chamber immediately prepared, in which a prisoner, who would arrive in the course of the night, might sleep. I was also desired to cause a grave be made in the court. I replied, that would not be easy, the court being paved. What other place, it was asked, would answer? The ditch was fixed upon, and there, in fact, the grave was dug. "The Prince arrived about seven o'clock in the evening. He was dying of cold and hunger; he did not appear sad. He requested me for something to eat, and desired to be shown to bed after his repast. His chamber not being yet warmed, I received him in my own, and sent to the village for some food. The Prince placed himself at table, and invited me to be seated with him. Afterwards, he put a number of questions to me about Vincennes, what was passing, and a great many other things. He told me he had been brought up in the neighbourhood of the castle; and conversed with much affability and condescension. Among other enquiries, he asked, Why do they want me? What is their purpose with me? But these questions produced no alteration in his tranquillity, and evinced no uneasiness. My wife, who was sick, was in bed in an alcove of the same apartment, separated only by a grating: she heard, without being perceived, all this conversation, and experienced the most lively emotion; for she recognised the Prince, whose foster sister she had been; and the family had settled a pension upon her before the Revolution. hereditary monarchy. Scarcely had I laid it on his table, when he entered, and, seeming to run it over, asked, 'Have you read this?'- Yes, General.'- Well! what think you of it?'-That pamphlet, General, is of a nature to do much harm in public opinion: it appears to me ill-timed, for it reveals your designs prematurely.' The First Consul threw the brochure on the ground, as he had the habit of doing with all the absurdities of the day, after running rapidly through them. I was not the only one who judged thus; for next day arrived copies from the prefects nearest Paris, with complaints of the mischievous effects it was producing. I remember one of these representations stated, that such a tract was enough to unsheathe the daggers of fresh assas sins. He glanced over this correspondence:- Bourrienne, send for Fouché ; let him come hither with full speed, and render me an account.' In half an hour, Fouché formed thirdsman in our cabinet. What about this pamphlet ?' said the Consul, beginning and continuing the dialogue with the greatest warmth; what say they of it in Paris?" -General,' replied the minister, with coolness imperturbable, and slightly sardonic, all pronounce it to be extremely dangerous. Eh, well! why then have you allowed it to appear? It is an insult.'-' General, some delicacy was to be observed in regard to the author. Delicacy! what mean you? You ought to have clapped him into the Temple.' But, General, your brother Lucien has taken this said pamphlet under his especial protection; the printing and publishing were by his order; in short, it came from the ministry of the Interior. It is all one to me! Then, it was your duty, as minister of Police, to have arrested Lucien, and incarcerated him in the Temple. Blockhead that he is! he contrives always to compromise me." At these words, the Consul left the cabinet, pulling the door after him with violence. Put the author into the Temple!' exclaimed Fouché, who, from the half smile on his lips during Bonaparte's wrath, I clearly perceived had something in reserve; that would be difficult indeed! Do you know,' continued he, turning to me, that, alarmed at the effect certain to be produced by the Parallel,' so soon as I got notice of it, I hastened with all speed to Lucien, to make him aware of his imprudence: upon this, in place of answering me, he set about rummaging in a drawer, whence he drew forth a manuscript, and showed me: And what think you I saw there? Corrections and annotations in the handwriting of the First Consul!' "The Prince was in haste to retire to rest; he had need of some; but before he could have been well asleep, the judges caused him to be brought into the council chamber. I was not present at the examination. On its conclusion, the Duke again ascended to his chamber; and when they went to seek him, in order to read the sentence to him, he was in a profound sleep. A few moments after, they were leading him to execution. He had so little apprehension "Lucien, informed of the First Consul's displeasure, of this, that, while descending the stair which conducts into came also to the Tuileries, reproaching his brother with the moat, he asked where they were taking him; no one having placed him in advance, and afterwards abandoning made any reply. I walked before the Prince with a lan- him. It is your own fault,' said the First Consul; 'you tern; feeling the cold which came from below, he grasped have permitted yourself to be entrapped. Well! so much my arm, and said,- Will they throw me into a dungeon?' the worse for you! Fouché has been too dexterous-too able "Such was Harrel's simple narrative. The rest is too for you: you are but a d-d ass in comparison.' Lucien well known. I think I yet see him shudder when think-gave in his resignation, which was accepted, and set out for ing of this action of the unhappy Prince. Savary was not in the ditch at the moment of the execution, but, for a certainty, on the glacis above, whence he could easily overlook the whole. Much has been said of a lantern, reported to have been fixed to a button-hole on the Duke's breast. That circumstance is pure invention. Captain Dantancourt, having a weak sight, made the lantern carried by Harrel be brought close, in order to read to the unfortunate Prince the sentence and what a sentence !-by which he had been condemned, both unjustly, and without even the forms of justice. It was probably this use of the lautern which gave rise to the outcry spread abroad; besides, it was six o'clock in the morning when the fatal event took place, and on the 21st March it is light at that hour." As farther illustrative of Bonaparte's character, we subjoin the following interesting passage: THE HISTORY OF A PAMPHLET-BONAPARTE'S DUPLICITY. Spain." When the third volume of this translation makes its appearance, we shall probably offer our opinion more in detail on the general character of Bourrienne's work, and on the precise nature of the secretary's intellectual endowments. In the meantime, we can safely say that his Memoirs are full of interest and instruction. An Address to the De'il, by Robert Burns; with explanatory Notes. Illustrated by eleven engravings on wood, after designs by Thomas Landseer. London. William Kidd. WE are conscious of a pleasure in glancing over this brochure somewhat analogous to that which we experience in reading of the devout admiration and astonishment of the Lilliputians at the advent of Captain Gulliver. The corporeal bulk of the gallant navigator, far less transcended that of the gracious inhabitants of Lilliput, than does the mind of Burns that of his illustrator, Mr Landseer, or of his explainer, the anonymous gentleman who has here tagged foot-notes to his verses. These two amiable co-operatives, nestling among the Bard's relics, not forbids us to name them) sporting their little hour amid unaptly remind us of a pair of loving insects (delicacy the curls and buckles of a cast wig. We are sometimes angry-very angry indeed—when a man, that is, a hu man and masculine being, perpetrates absurd embellishments, or worse commentaries, on a favourite author; but far other emotions stir our breast on beholding the minikin strutting and cockney pretensions of Landseer and his coadjutor. Their grimace is neither more nor less than exquisitely contemptible. The woodcuts (engravings we will not call them) are too low even for contempt. They evince neither knowledge of character, humour, nor even feeling of art. The commentator's object is not to explain the poem, for, in the first place, the poem is intelligible to every one who has a tithe of human intellect; in the second place, the commentator does not possess that small modicum, and consequently cannot understand it. He is a dwarf-witted retainer of a small artist, whose office it is to stand behind his master's chair, laugh at his jokes, applaud every word he utters, and confirm every fact he asserts. His duty is not to comment on Burns, but to praise Landseer. Exempli gratia,"Burns, like Orpheus or Theseus of old, must have evidently penetrated" (evidently penetrated! is there any meaning in the phrase?)" into the very recesses of his (Auld Hornie's) infernal kingdom; and to the fortunate event of our Poet's (OUR POET! the impertinent scribbler!) returning alive into the cool air of Ayrshire, we owe those touches of occupation and character which Mr Landseer has worked up into the preceding sketch." Which being interpreted out of the jargon of Cockaigne into plain English, means:-It is as well Burns wrote his Address to the De'il, as he has thus had the honour of suggesting a few thoughts to the master-mind of Landseer. We believe our readers will think they have enough of Mr Landseer and his "Back,"—of Master Slender and his waiting-man. Select Views of the Lakes of Scotland, from original Paintings, by John Fleming, E.M.G.D. S. Engraved by Joseph Swan, M. G.D. S.; with Historical and Descriptive Illustrations, by John M. Leighton, Esq., Author of Descriptive Illustrations of Views on the Clyde, &c. Glasgow. Joseph Swan. 1830. THIS is the first number of a work full of interest to such as have it not in their power to visit our lake scenery, and also to such as, having revelled through its charms, wish at times to re-awaken the feelings they then experienced. Mr Swan has established his character among scientific men, as an accurate and elegant engraver; and every new work he publishes in that higher department of his art to which the present belongs, shows more matured taste and power. His workmanship is clean and fine; there is much softness in his distances; and the general effect is good. What we chiefly desiderate, is a less painful attention to the details of form-a bolder reliance on general effect; and his figures, too, might be executed with more elegance. The present part is confined to the illustration of Loch Lomond, and contains four highly picturesque views of that beautiful expanse of water, with its islands and surrounding mountains. The letter-press appears to be sensible, and not uninstructive. The work is to be completed in 12 or 14 parts, and there is good reason to believe that it will be the best collection extant of the Lake Scenery of Scotland. Forty Illustrations to the Plays and Poems of Shakspeare ; after Designs by Wilkie, Smirke, Wright, Stephanoff, and Corbould. London. J. F. Dove, and Jennings and Chaplin. 1830. FOR the name of Wilkie introduced into the title-page of this work, that of Westall must be substituted, as Wilkie has contributed nothing to it, and Westall has given two illustrations. The labour among the five artists has been divided thus ;—Westall, 2 illustrations; Stephanoff, 3; Smirke, 5; Corbould, 14; and Wright, 16. Corbould has, on the whole, indicated least genius. He seems but little capable of coping with the high poetical concep tions of Shakspeare. Several of his illustrations are quite hideous,-mean in design, and totally out of drawing. His best effort is a humorous subject from the "Taming of the Shrew." Westall is, in the present instance, not much better than Corbould, though we know he can do better things when he exerts himself. The subjects he has chosen are, Ophelia drowning herself, and Imogen in boy's clothes-both quite out of drawing. Wright is very unequal: some of his groups are excellent; others vulgar and unpoetical. We are most pleased with his Malvolio, and his quarrel between Pistol and Bardolph. Stephanoff is always elegant, but too frequently not much more. His scene from "Much ado about Nothing," Benedict sent to bid Beatrice come in to dinner, is spirited; only Benedict is a little too much after the model of Charles Kemble rather too stout for our liking. Smirke, in his five illustrations, appears to much greater advantage thau any of the other artists. All his pieces are good, and full of rich Shakspearian humour. His Anne Page and Justice Shallow could not be easily surpassed. His scene with Falstaff and his merry crew, from "Henry IV.," is not inferior. On the whole, this is a creditable work, and many of the engravings are beautifully executed by Heath, Rolls, and others. The Natural History of Selborne; Observations on various Parts of Nature; and the Naturalist's Calendar. By the late Rev. Gilbert White. M. A. &c. With Additions, by Sir William Jardine, Bart. &c. &c. A New Edition. Edinburgh. Constable and Co. 1830. 18mo. Pp. 430. WE noticed the edition of this excellent and popular work which appeared in Constable's Miscellany, with the To the present edition is subjoined, praise it deserved. White's "Observations on various Parts of Nature," "Naturalist's Calendar," and the original alphabetical index, which were excluded formerly from the space have hitherto been published in two parts, because adbeing too limited. The author's letters, too, which dressed to two different persons, have been arranged in chronological order; and thus the same subjects are treated consecutively, which we look upon as a great improvement. It is but right to add, that we have nowhere seen a more elegantly-printed volume. It issues from the press of Mr Andrew Shortreed, who has but recently commenced business, but who bids fair speedily to distinguish himself in the useful profession he has chosen. A Synopsis of Roman Antiquities; or a comprehensive Account of the City, Religion, Politics, and Customs of the Ancient Romans: with a Catechetical Appendix. By John Lanktree. Second Edition. Dublin. William Curry, Jun. and Co. 1830. 24mo. Pp. 217. THIS is an excellent little book, and admirably adapted for the use of all the younger students at public and private seminaries. It will not supersede the more laborious work of Adams, but it forms a very appropriate introduction to it; and at the same time, whilst it is written in a more popular and easy style, it contains some pieces of information which Adams wants. MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE. Tried and Acquitted. My story is short. Mine is the triumph of a just vengeance. Betrayed and dishonoured by a false friend, I punished his perfidy with death, and yet live to tell the melancholy tale. The hand that now traces these lines is crimsoned o'er with the blood of the guilty one: it is the same that presented the deadly weapon to his heart, and, in the twinkling of an eye, hurried him into the presence of his Judge, with all his full-blown, unrepented sins upon his head! I am a murderer! with my own lips I have proclaimed myself such: the mark of Cain is upon me, and, like the first homicide, I am now a wanderer upon the face of the earth, without house or home, shed or shelter; an object of terror to my fellow-men, who fly my approach as if it were that of some dreadful thing, and scarcely daring to hope even for the mercy of Heaven at last. Yet I feel no remorse for the deed which has thus driven me from the society of mankind, and condemned me to drag out the remainder of a wretched existence, an exile and an outlaw, in a foreign land. The wild shriek of my victim when the bullet pierced his heart, and the expiring groan which instantly followed, still resound in my ears; I see him stretched upon the ground, the blood welling from his death-wound, and the last faint, convulsive struggle, quivering through his fine, muscular frame. The dreadful scene is ever present to my mind's eye, in the waking dreams of the day, or in the visions of the night: yet I shed no tears, I feel no remorse, and, like one stupified by a blow, continue to gaze, as it were, on the scene so deeply pictured on my imagination, in a state of uncertain and wavering consciousness, from which no effort can rouse me. My revenge was satisfied: an act of wild justice was done: the guilty one suffered my wrongs were expiated in his blood; and the laws of man pursued me in vain but I think not of these things. My brain is compressed; a sort of haze overshadows my faculties; my sensibility is seared: the past I regard without horror; to the future I look forward with indifference. I am now alone in the world, and my chief consolation is, that I am the last of my race. Melford had long been my friend. Our tastes were the same, our pursuits similar, our intercourse daily. He lived in the immediate vicinity of my residence, and as he was an unmarried man, my house was his home. He came at all times and at all hours, and was ever welcome. From the first his society was agreeable to my wife, and it gave me pleasure that my friend was also hers. Melford seemed to repay the notice with which she honoured him by a thousand little attentions and services, which more and more recommended him to her favour, and which I thought perfectly natural, in the relation in which all parties stood to one another. It sometimes, indeed, struck me that the praises she lavished on my friend were unnecessarily warm, and I occasionally rallied her, in a good-humoured way, about her partiality for Melford, threatening to grow jealous, if she did not moderate her commendations and eulogies; but not so much as a shadow of suspicion had crossed my mind of the purity of her conduct, or the honour of the man whom I trusted and loved. My confidence in both parties was unbounded; and being naturally of a cheerful and joyous temperament, which generally disposes men to view things in the most favourable light, I never so much as imagined the possibility of treachery on the one hand, or infidelity on the other. Indeed, I would have loathed myself had I been capable, for a single instant, of harbouring such an idea in my mind. read as follows:-" Hilton, look to yourself: You are It I read this dreadful letter over, and over, and over again, till my brain actually began to burn. I threw myself on a couch, and for a moment gave way to the agony of my feelings. Returning reflection, however, speedily conjured up a thousand reasons for disbelieving the horrible tale which it told. It was anonymous. might be the production of some malignant fiend, who sought this method of poisoning my happiness, and wreaking his vengeance on my friend. Besides, could I doubt the purity and fidelity of one who had given me so many proofs of the strongest affection, and who seemed to live only for the purpose of making me happy? Such treachery and hypocrisy were not in human nature. The experience of life revealed nothing either of that super-celestial virtue or ultra-diabolical vice, which fabulists feign, and silly maidens give credit to. The whole was evidently an exaggeration of the most Satanic malignity, which attempted, by one act, to involve three persons in misery and ruin. In this mood of mind I tore the letter to atoms, and threw it into the fire. But I had scarcely done so when a multitude of recollections rushed upon my mind, and gave a totally different direction to the current of my thoughts. The circumstances which I had before considered as merely indications of esteem and regard, I now interpreted into proofs, strong as holy writ, of criminality, and I felt confounded at thinking of my own stupidity. Besides, the letter had called upon me to be watchful, and observe for myself. There could be no harm in that at any rate. It had also repeated thrice the injunction, "Look to yourself." "This," thought I," is not the language of one who seeks only the gratification of malice or revenge. I will be watchful; I will look to myself." With this determination I descended to the breakfastparlour, where my wife was waiting to receive me. She seemed startled at my appearance, and asked, in a flurried manner, if I was ill. I looked her steadfastly in her face; a hectic flush overspread her cheek; she shrunk from my gaze, and, trembling, sunk down upon a chair. All the demons of passion suddenly entered my heart, and took possession of my whole soul, while dreadful thoughts presented themselves to my mind, and I was on the very verge of giving way to the blind fury which was burning within me. But fortunately I had selfcommand enough to suppress these dreadful tendencies, and, after a mental struggle of a few moments, to recover some degree of composure. I then said, in a subdued tone, that I had received some very ill news that mornThings continued for some time in this state, when, ing, touching the state of my affairs, which had discomone morning, walking in my garden, a letter was thrown posed me very much, and, I feared much, had caused me over the wall, and fell at my feet. I instantly picked it to behave oddly, but that the first tidings of misfortune up, and, looking at the envelope, found it was directed to were always worse to bear than the evil itself, when the myself. I then ran to the postern-door of the garden, full extent of it was known, and that I trusted matters which, in my hurry, I burst open, without waiting to were not so bad as some had thought fit to represent turn the bolt; but there was no one to be seen. I pur- them. My wife seemed greatly relieved by this statesued my reconnoissance round and round, with no better ment, which she of course interpreted literally, and resuccess. An indescribable and overwhelming presenti- suming her wonted manner, gently reproached me for ment of some approaching calamity came over me; I giving way to such feelings, and particularly for alarm. trembled from head to foot, and my legs had scarcelying her so much as I had done. "What signified the loss strength sufficient to support me: for some moments I of a little money, when we felt so happy in each other's remained fixed to the spot, in a sort of epileptic stupor love? Industry might repair it, or economy might com. and immobility, like a man who had been fascinated by pensate it; and, at all events, nothing could be gained by the glare of a basilisk. Fearful of being observed, how-making oneself miserable." I nodded assent to these obever, I roused myself-returned to my own chamber servations, which she followed up by exerting herself in bolted the door-tore open the envelope of the letter, and every way she could think of to soothe and compose the evident excitement under which I was labouring. But, notwithstanding every effort on my part to appear to yield to her influence, I could not help shrinking from her caresses, as from contact with a venomous thing, and betraying an uneasiness and irritation, which I felt it vain to repress or conceal. In truth, my whole nature had been suddenly changed, and the devil sat by my heart, like the serpent at the ear of Eve, whispering the most dreadful temptations. But my resolution was taken. I had seen enough in the conduct of my wife to convince me there was something which she dreaded more than misfortune; the horrid suspicions excited by the anonymous letter, had been, to a certain degree, confirmed; but, as my brain was heated and agitated, and as nothing short of absolute certainty could warrant my taking any decisive step, I determined to wait and watch. It was necessary for my purpose to dissemble; and, hard as it is for an open, candid, and generous nature to descend to the meanness of dissimulation, I could devise no other means which appeared at all likely to promote the object I had in view. Accordingly, I gradually resumed, though not without an effort, my usual manner; saw Melford as before; received him with even more than my wonted kindness; took frequent occasions of leaving my wife and him alone together; went out and came into the place where they happened to be for the time, with an air of the utmost indifference and nonchalance; affected gaiety and good spirits; and, in short, did every thing in my power to lull to sleep any suspicions which might have been excited in the mind of my wife by my hurried and agitated behaviour on the morning when the fatal letter was flung, with such precision, at my feet. I was resolved to be lieve no other evidence than those of my own eyes; and feeling assured that if a guilty intercourse had ever existed, it would be renewed as soon as the parties thought themselves perfectly safe from risk or suspicion, I pursued my scheme with a systematic perseverance, the retrospect of which even now fills my own mind with astonishment, that I should have been able to carry it through. When I had succeeded, as I thought, in lulling all suspicion, and throwing the parties completely off their guard, I suddenly announced to my wife my intention of setting out immediately for the metropolis; alleging as the cause, some urgent business connected with the misfortune I had previously mentioned, which rendered my presence quite indispensable. She received the announcement without any apparent emotion, only expressing her regret that she should be separated from one she so tenderly loved, even for the short period during which I proposed being absent; and when all things were ready for my departure, she embraced me with an affectionate earnestness and fervour, which touched me so much, that my purpose, hitherto so steadily pursued, was almost shaken. At length, however, I set out, consoling myself with the reflection, that, if she was innocent, no possible harm could come by my design, and, if guilty, the sooner detection followed the better. There is nothing so dreadful as uncertainty; in any case it is better to know the worst. I set out, I say, but not for London. Concealing myself till nightfall in a hedge alehouse at some distance, I returned, under cover of the darkness, to the neighbourhood of my own residence, and cautiously reconnoitred the premises, without, however, making any discovery. Still I dodged about, wrapt up in my cloak, and as the night advanced, I began to grow weary of watching, and was about to go back to my wretched quarters, where I proposed to remain for several days, when suddenly a light flashed upon my eyes, appearing to emanate from my wife's bedroom window. I instantly drew near, and approaching as closely as the garden-wall would permit, I observed the window occasionally darkened with the shadow of two persons. This occurred several times in the course of about a minute and a half, during which my mind was torn by the most violent and conflicting passions that ever agitated the humau breast. At first I was inclined to think that the second figure might be that of the maid who attended on my wife, but closer inspection convinced me that could not be the case; for, from the frequency with which the shadows at last crossed the windows, it seemed evident that persons within were toying and dallying; and one of these shadows was too tall to render it possible that it could be cast either by my wife or by any one of the servants. The time for action was come; I cleared the gardenwall at a single bound, and in an instant was at one of the lower windows, which I promptly proceeded to force. This alarmed the servants, and a cry of " Robbers!" was raised, as I had calculated it would. I made good my entrance with some difficulty, and had just regained my feet, when the door of the room burst open, and-Melford stood before me. God only knows what my feelings were at beholding an apparition which but too well confirmed my worst suspicions. Melford was partially undressed, and I could have no doubt whatever that the villain had completed his own infamy and my dishonour. I remained for a moment riveted to the spot, and ere I recovered my senses, the traitor had vanished. Brave as a lion on all lawful occasions, guilt had made him fly, although no one pursued. I went up leisurely to my own private apartment-loaded, and double-shotted my pistols-stowed them carefully into the inside pockets of my coat-and left the house, by the principal door, without ostensibly indicating hurry or agitation. But when I had fairly cleared the house, and got beyond the reach of observation, I flew on the wings of revenge, and with the speed of lightning, after the ruffian whose death I had already sworn. He had some distance to go, and a considerable detour to make, before he could reach his home. I cut across the fields like an arrow, in order to intercept him in his retreat, and I had barely time to clear the last dyke, when the traitor once more stood before me. He was now completely at bay. The race had chafed his blood, and he was become a desperate man. He sprung at me like a tiger, with a determination to overpower me, which his superior strength would have easily enabled him to do, had he been fortunate enough to lay hold of me; but I recoiled from his grasp, and ere he could recover himself, a brace of bullets had pierced his heart. He uttered a wild shriek as he fell-exclaimed, "I am guilty, and undone !” and heaving a deep, hollow, convulsive moan, instantly expired. Vengeance had done its work, and I was satisfied. Enough of blood had been shed. I returned quietly to my own home, which I found my wife had quitted about half an hour previously. This, to me, in the state I then was, proved a source of great satisfaction; for when an injured and a frantic man has once embrued his hands in blood, the devil may easily tempt him to add to the load of guilt which already overburdens his soul. I was prepared for every thing ; even death, in its most ignominious form, had no horrors in prospect for me. But the first overmastering impulse of passion was past, and I resolved not to endanger my life by any act of mine. In fact, I was unnaturally calm; so much so, that I coolly unshotted the pistol which had not been fired, cleaned the other, and replaced both in the exact situation from which I had taken them an hour before, when about to proceed on my murderous errand. I then retired to my couch, but not to rest, for although the man on the rack may sleep in the intervals of the torture, no such boon awaits the murderer, whose hands are still red with the blood of his victim. With the earliest dawn of day the body of Melford was found, and ere noon the story of my dishonour was in every mouth. It was natural to connect these two things together, and I was universally believed to be the slayer. The authorities came to the same conclusion; for, after a short investigation, a warrant issued for my apprehension, upon which I was seized and conveyed to prison, there to remain till liberated in due course of law. From some cause unknown to me, an early day was fixed for my trial; and I was put to the bar to answer to an indictment charging me with the murder of Thomas Melford, at the time and place therein set forth. When the usual question was put to me from the bench, of, "Are you guilty or not guilty of this charge?" I answered, bowing respectfully to the judge, that I declined to plead. He seemed surprised, and reiterated the question; but I adhered firmly to my resolution; and a plea of "Not guilty" was at length put in by my counsel, in my name, and with some hesitation accepted by the court. The trial then proceeded, and a vast body of evidence was adduced on the part of the prosecution, much of it calculated to rouse the strongest suspicions of my guilt, but not one particle which had the least tendency to connect me with the commission. I saw clearly that it would not support a verdict of "guilty;" and the charge of the presiding judge confirmed me in this opinion. Every moral presumption he said was against me; but he felt bound to tell the jury candidly that there was not a particle of legal evidence to warrant the conviction of the prisoner. In consequence I was ACQUITTED. When the verdict had been recorded, and the judgment of the court, dismissing me from the bar, pronounced, I rose and addressed the court and the jury nearly as follows: "My Lords and Gentlemen of the Jury,-You see before you a man, who, although acquitted by the highest tribunal of this country of the crime charged against him, is nevertheless guilty. I am the murderer of Melford. He died by this arm, at the time and place mentioned in the indictment; and, as I hope for mercy at last, I declare my firm conviction that he merited his fate. The viper I had warmed in my bosom stung me to the heart, and infused a deadly venom into the wound. He dishonoured me, and I slew him. He died confessing his crime. Mingled with his expiring groans, came forth the words, I am guilty, and undone ! Gentlemen of the Jury, had your verdict been different, I would have submitted to my fate with due resignation; but I saw no reason to incur, by my own act, the certainty of an ignominious fate; and as I had resolved not to plead guilty, I could not, consistently with the confession I had determined to make, should the verdict prove an acquittal, begin by uttering a judicial lie. This is my sole reason for refusing to plead, which, I understand, is a very unusual occurrence in this court. I meant no disrespect by this proceeding, as I take no other benefit from the acquittal which bas just been recorded than the prolongation, for a short space, of a weary and miserable life. If any should regret the result of this day's procedure, let them be consoled with the reflection, that I carry my own punishment along with me, that I cannot fly from myself, and that I carry in this bosom a heart, seared, blasted, and rendered for ever incapable of again experiencing any pulse of joy or gladness. But perhaps there are some generous spirits who will temper the severity of their censure in the remembrance of the wrongs I have suffered, and who, while they condemn my prompt and sanguinary revenge, will not withhold their commiseration from an unhappy man, whom the greatest of human injuries drove to frenzy and despair.-My Lords and Gentlemen, I respectfully bid you farewell." The above confession, I have been told, made a strong impression upon all who heard it. Some stared with astonishment, others whispered that I must be mad, not a few were moved even to tears, and the stern impersonation of justice itself showed that the ermine does not exclude human feelings and sympathies. I left the court under the influence of emotions which it would be vain to attempt to describe; and it is only now, after the lapse of years, that I am able to tell you the short and melancholy story of Hilton the TRIED AND Acquitted. Q. F. F. Q. S. ORIGINAL POETRY. DRAMATIC SKETCH. SCENE, A Churchyard. TIME,-Sunset. THE day is dying, and the heavy air There, on that grassy mound of mortal dust, Which once, as you do, breathed, felt, lived, and suffer'd, Sit, whilst some wholesome doctrine I expound Anent this same frail quality of flesh : But in my method I will nought resemble Those grave and priestly men, who coolly take All things for granted which they can't explain, Baiting their lines with honied words of heaven, And dusting well the eyes of those they hook ; Knowledge and sin are one, they sagely say, Enjoining ignorance and slavish loveLove!-and for what?-For being made to drink The bitterness of death, and, bitterer still, An immortality of pain. The woes Of life, too, have their galling sting, though short; For they are vulgar, grovelling, petty things, Which pin the soul to earth, and make it feel Its marriage with the clod, as do its joys, All scanty, gross, enervating, and false;Spirit and clay!-a pretty unison,― By Heaven! the workmanship is wondrous strange! What's here?-A skull!-there's life within it yet: See, where a venomous and pursy toad Hath crept within the jaw's distorted grin, And, squatting in the empty house of thought, Peers, with his evil eyes of reddish rheum, Through what were once the windows of the soul : Look! from the corners of the yellow jaws, How oozeth out the sable toadish slime, Whence issued once a stream of honied sound; And yet this bony cell of foul corruption Was once the nursery of celestial thought, The home of fancy, genius, and wit: In worthless bottles who good wine would put ? Who in a dunghill would conceal a pearl? Who but the cruel, Inconsistent One, A portion of himself would thus inhume? FAUST. Methinks your fiendship 's turn'd philosopher; I thirst,-philosophy is dry and stale. MEPHISTOPHEles. |