Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 54, No. 335, September 1843. Various

vestige of human joy long since removed from it, and every indication of real misery too deeply marked to admit a thought of simulation or pretence. The eye of the man was vacant. He obeyed the turnkey listlessly, when that functionary, with a patronizing air, directed him to the situation in the dock in which he was required to stand, and did not raise his head to look around him. A sadder picture of the subdued, crushed heart, had never been. Punishment! alack, what punishment could be inflicted now on him, who, in the school of suffering, had grown insensible to torture? Notwithstanding his rags, and the prejudice arising from his degraded condition, there was something in his look and movements which struck me, and secured my pity. He was very ill, and had not been placed many minutes before the judge, when he tottered and grew faint. The turnkey assisted the poor fellow to a chair, and placed in his hands, with a rough but natural kindness, which I shall not easily forget, a bunch of sweet-smelling marjoram. The acknowledgement which the miserable creature attempted to make for the seasonable aid, convinced me that he was something better than he seemed. A shy and half-formed bow—the impulse of a heart and mind once cultivated, though covered now with weeds and noxious growths—redeemed him from the common herd of thieves. In the calendar his age was stated to be thirty-five. Double it, and that face will warrant you in your belief. Desirous as I was to know the circumstances which had led the man to the commission of his offence, it was not without intense satisfaction that I heard him, at the commencement of the proceedings, in his thin tremulous voice, plead guilty to the charge. There was such rage painted on the broad face of the prosecutor, such disappointment written in the thinner visage of the counsellor, such indignation and astonishment in those of the witnesses, that you might have supposed those gentlemen were interested only in the establishment of the prisoner's innocence, and were anxious only for his acquittal. For their sakes was gratified at what I hoped would prove the abrupt conclusion of the case. The prisoner had spoken; his head again hung down despondingly—his eyes, gazing at nothing, were fixed upon the ground; the turnkey whispered to him that it was time to retire—he was about to obey, when the judge's voice was heard, and it detained him.

      "Is the prisoner known?" enquired his lordship.

      The counsellor rose instanter.

      "Oh, very well, my lud—an old hand, my lud—one of the pests of his parish."

      "Is this his first offence?"

      The barrister poked his ear close to the mouth of the prosecutor before he answered.

      "By no means, my lud—he has been frequently convicted."

      "For the like offence?" enquired the Judge.

      Again the ear and mouth were in juxtaposition.

      "We believe so, my lud—we believe so," replied the smart barrister; "but we cannot speak positively."

      The culprit raised his leaden eye, and turned his sad look towards the judge, his best friend there.

      "For BEGGARY, my lord," he uttered, almost solemnly.

      "Does any body know you, prisoner?" asked my lord. "Can any one speak to your previous character?"

      The deserted one looked around the court languidly enough, and shook his head, but, at the same instant there was a rustling amongst the crowd of auditors, and a general movement, such as follows the breaking up of a compact mass of men when one is striving to pass through it.

      "Si-lence!" exclaimed a sonorous voice, belonging to a punchy body, a tall wand, and a black bombasin gown; and immediately afterwards, "a friend of the prisoner's, my lord. Get into that box—speak loud—look at his lordship. Si-lence!"

      The individual who caused this little excitement, and who now ascended the witness's tribune, was a labouring man. He held a paper cap in his hand, and wore a jacket of flannel. The prisoner glanced at him without seeming to recognize his friend, whilst the eyes of the young lawyer actually glistened at the opportunity which had come at last for the display of his skill.

      "What are you, my man?" said the judge in a tone of kindness.

      "A journeyman carpenter, please your worship."

      "You must say my lord—say my lord," interposed the bombasin gown.

      "Speak out. Si-lence!"

      "Where do you live?"

      "Friar's Place—please you, my lord." The bombasin smiled pitifully at the ignorance of the witness, and said no more.

      "Do you know the prisoner at the bar?"

      "About ten weeks ago—please you, my lord, I was hired by the landlord—"

      "Answer his lordship, sir," exclaimed the counsel for the prosecution in a tone of thunder. "Never mind the landlord. Do you know the prisoner?"

      "Why, I was a saying, please you, my lord, about ten weeks ago I was hired by the landlord—"

      "Answer directly, sir," continued the animated barrister—"or take the consequences. Do you know the prisoner?"

      "Let him tell his story his own way, Mr Nailhim," interposed his lordship blandly. "We shall sooner get to the end of it."

      Mr Nailhim bowed to the opinion of the court, and sat down.

      "Now, my man," said his lordship, "as quickly as you can, tell me whatever you know of the prisoner."

      "About ten weeks ago—please you, my lord," began the journey-man de novo, "I was hired by the landlord of them houses as is sitiwated where Mr Warton lives—" (The bombasin looked at the witness with profound contempt, and well he might! The idea of calling a prisoner at the bar Mr—stupendous ignorance!) "and I see'd him day arter day, and nobody was put to it as bad as he was. He has got a wife and three children, and I know he worked as hard as he could whilst he was able; but when he got ill he couldn't, and he was druv to it. I have often taken a loaf of bread to him, and all I wish is, he had stolen one of mine behind my back instead of the baker's. I shouldn't have come agin him, poor fellow! and I am sure he wouldn't have done it if his young uns hadn't been starving. I never see'd him before that time, but I could take my affidavy he's an industrious and honest man, and as sober, please you, my lord, as a judge."

      At this last piece of irreverence, the man with the staff stood perfectly still, lost as it seemed, in wonder at the hardihood of him who could so speak.

      "Have you any thing more to say?" asked his lordship.

      The carpenter hesitated for a second or two, and then acknowledged that he had not; and, such being the case, it seemed hardly necessary for Mr Nailhim to prolong his examination. But that gentleman thought otherwise. He rose, adjusted his gown, and looked not only at the witness, but through and through him.

      "Now, young man," said he, "what is your name?"

      "John Mallett, sir," replied the carpenter.

      "John Mallett. Very well. Now, John Mallett, who advised you to come here to-day? Take care what you are about, John Mallett."

      The carpenter, without a moment's hesitation, answered that his "old woman had advised him; and very good advice it was, he thought."

      "Never mind your thoughts, sir. You don't come here to think. Where do you live?"

      The witness answered.

      "You have not lived long there, I believe?"

      "Not quite a fortnight, sir."

      "You left your last lodging in a hurry too, I think, John Mallett?"

      "Rather so, sir," answered Innocence itself, little dreaming of effects and consequences.

      "A little trouble, eh, John Mallett?"

      "Mighty deal your lordship, ah, ah, ah!" replied the witness quite jocosely, and beginning to enjoy the sport.

      "Don't laugh here, sir, but can you tell us what