"Let me speak, judge, an't please your honor, and take you notice, Master Horsehair. You want ewidence, do you, beyond the man's confession: here, I'll give it to you. Look at this here wice" and he stretched forth his well-known huge and horny hand:

"When I caught that dridful little reptil by the arm, he wriggled like a sniggled eel, so I was forced, you see, to grasp him something tighter, and could feel his little arm-bones crack like any chicken's; now, then, if his left elbow an't black and blue, though it's a month agone and more, I'll eat it. Strip him and see."

No need to struggle with the man, or tear his coat off. Jennings appeared only too glad to find that there was other evidence than his own foul tongue, and that he might be hung at last without sacking-rope or gimlet; so he quietly bared his arm, and the elbow looked all manner of colors-a mass of old bruises.

The whole court trembled with excitement: it was deep, still silence; and the judge said,

"Prisoner at the bar, there is now no evidence against you: gentlemen of the jury, of course you will acquit him."

The foreman: "All agreed, my lord; not guilty."

"Roger Acton," said the judge, "to God alone you owe this marvellous, almost miraculous interposition: you have had many wrongs innocently to endure, and I trust that the right feelings of society will requite you for them in this world, as, if you serve him, God will in the next. You are honorably acquitted, and may

leave this bar."

In vain the crier shouted,-in vain the javelin-men helped the crier, the court was in a tumult of joy; Grace sprang to her father's neck, and Sir John Vincent, who had been in attendance sitting near the judge all the trial through, came down to him, and shook his hand warmly.

Roger's eyes ran over, and he could only utter,

"Thank God! thank God! He does better for me than I deserved." But the court was hushed at last: the jury re-sworn ; certain legal forms and technicalities speedily attended to, as counts of indictment, and so forth and the judge then quietly said, "Simon Jennings, stand at that bar."

He stood there like an image.

"My lurd, I claim to be prisoner's counsel."

"Mr. Sharp-the prisoner shall have proper assistance by all means; but I do not see how it will help your case, if you cannot get your client to plead not guilty."

* * * *

Lawyers abhor any short cut to the truth. The pursuit is the thing for their pleasure and profit, and all their rules are framed for making the most of it.

Crime is to them precisely what the fox is to the sportsman; and the object is not to pounce on it and capture it at once, but to have a good run for it, and to exhibit skill and address in the chase. Whether the culprit or the fox escape or not, is a matter of indifference, the run ting the main thing.-TUPPER.

"Silence, silence!" shouted the indignant crier, and the eyes of all now concentred on the miserable criminal; for the time, every thing else seemed forgotten. The judge broke the awful silence, saying:

you,

if

"Prisoner at the bar, you are convicted, on your own confession, as well as upon other evidence, of crimes too horrible to speak of. The deliberate repetition of that fearful murder classes you among the worst of wretches whom it has been my duty to condemn; and when to this is added your perjured accusation of an innocent man, whom nothing but a miracle has rescued, your guilt becomes appalling, too hideous for human contemplation. Miserable man, prepare for death, and after that the judgment; yet even for you repent, there may be pardon: it is my privilege to tell even you that life and hope are never to be separated, so long as God is merciful, or man may be contrite. The sacrifice of Him who died for us all, for you, poor fellow-creature, [here the good judge wept for a minute like a child,] for you, no less than for me, is available even to the chief of sinners. It is my duty and my comfort to direct your blood-stained but immortal soul eagerly to fly to that only refuge from eternal misery. As to this world, your career of wickedness is at an end: covetousness has conceived and generated murder; and murder has even overstept its common bounds, to repeat the terrible crime, and then to throw its guilt upon the innocent. Entertain no hope whatever of a respite; mercy in your case would be sin.

"The sentence of the court is that you, Simon Jennings, be taken from that bar to the county jail, and thence on this day fortnight be conveyed to the place of execution within the prison, and there by the hands of the common hangman be hanged by the neck—"

At the word "neck," in the slow and solemn enunciation of the judge, issued a terrific scream from the mouth of Simon Jennings: was he mad after all-mad indeed? or was he being strangled by some unseen executioner? Look at him, convulsively doing battle with an invisible foe! his eyes start, his face gets bluer and bluer, his hands, fixed like griffin's talons, clutch at vacancy-he wrestles, struggles, falls!

All was now confusion: even the grave judge, who had necessarily stopped at that frightful interruption, leaned eagerly over his desk, while barristers and sergeants learned in the law crowded round the prisoner: "He is dying! air, there, air! a glass of water, some one !"

About a thimbleful of water, after fifty spillings, arrived safely in a tumbler; but as for air, no one in that court had breathed any thing but nitrogen for four hours.

He was dying and three several doctors, hoisted over the heads

of an admiring multitude, rushed to his relief with thirsty lancets: apoplexy, oh, of course, apoplexy: and they nodded to each other confidentially.

Yes, he was dying: they might not move him now: he must die in his sins, at that dread season, upon that dread spot. Perjury, robbery, and murder, all had fastened on his soul, and were feeding there like harpies at a Strophadian feast, or vultures ravening on the liver of Prometheus. Guilt, vengeance, death, had got hold of him and rent him, as wild horses tearing him asunder different ways; he lay there gurgling, strangling, gasping, panting: none could help him, none could give him ease: he was going on the dark dull path in the bottom of that awful valley, where Death's cold shadow overclouds it like a canopy; he was sinking in that deep black water, that must some day drown us all-pray Heaven, with hope to cheer us then, and comfort in the fierce extremity!-His eye filmed, his lower jaw relaxed, his head dropped back, he was dying, dying, dying

On a sudden he rallied! his blood had rushed back again from head to heart, and all the doctors were deceived; again he battled and fought, and wrestled, and flung them from him; again he howled, and his eyes glared lightning:-mad?-Yes-mad! stark mad! quick, quick, we cannot hold him; save yourselves, there! But he only broke away from them to stand up free; then he gave one scream, leaped high into the air, and fell down dead in the dock, with a crimson stream of blood issuing from his mouth. From the "Crock of Gold.”

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES was born in Yorkshire about the year 1806. After graduating at Cambridge he travelled for some time on the continent, and, on his return to England, was elected a member of Parliament for the borough of Pontefract. His poetical works consist of "Poems, Legendary and Historical," "Poems of Many Years," "Memorials of Many Scenes," "Memorials of a Tour in Greece," "Poetry for the People," and "Palm Leaves," (1844.) The last of these was written during a tour through Egypt and the Levant, and is "an attempt to introduce to the people of England the manners of thought and the habits of the East."

As a poet, Mr. Milnes possesses very considerable elegance and taste: about all his productions there is an artist-like finish, and his ear is finely attuned to the melodies of verse.

YOUTH AND MANHOOD.

Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace
Thy even way,

Thou pantest on to win a mournful race:
Then stay! oh, stay!

Pause and luxuriate in thy sunny plain;
Loiter,-enjoy:

Once past, thou never wilt come back again
A second boy.

The hills of manhood wear a noble face,
When seen from far;

The mist of light from which they take their grace
Hides what they are.

The dark and weary path those cliffs between
Thou canst not know,

And how it leads to regions never-green,
Dead fields of snow.

Pause, while thou mayst, nor deem that fate thy gain,
Which, all too fast,

Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain,
A man at last!

LABOR.

Heart of the People! Working men!
Marrow and nerve of human powers;

Who on your sturdy backs sustain

Through streaming time this world of ours;

Hold by that title,-which proclaims

That ye are undismay'd and strong,

Accomplishing whatever aims

May to the sons of earth belong.

Yet not on ye alone depend
These offices, or burdens fall;

Labor, for some or other end,

Is lord and master of us all.

The high-born youth from downy bed

Must meet the morn with horse and hound,

While industry for daily bread

Pursues afresh his wonted round.

With all his pomp of pleasure, he

Is but your working comrade now,
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye
Might whistle by the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use
Of warm repose and careless joy,-
When, as ye labor to produce,

He strives, as active, to destroy.

But who is this with wasted frame,
Sad sign of vigor overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim?
Pleasure, for pleasure's sake besought.
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do!

And he who still and silent sits
In closed room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits
With folded arms or open book:
To things now working in that mind
Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that hope has ne'er defined,

Till from his busy thoughts they flow.
Thus all must work: with head or hand,
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordain'd to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will:
Evil has force itself to sow

Where we deny the healthy seed,-
And all our choice is this,-to grow
Pasture and grain, or noisome weed.
Then in content possess your hearts,
Unenvious of each other's lot,
For those which seem the easiest parts,
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And he is bravest, happiest, best,
Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest,
And an increase of good for man.

RICH AND POOR.

When God built up the dome of blue,
And portion'd earth's prolific floor,
The measure of his wisdom drew

A line between the rich and poor;
And till that vault of glory fall,

Or beauteous earth be scarr'd with flame,

Or saving love be all in all,

That rule of life will rest the same.

We know not why, we know not how
Mankind are framed for weal or wo-

But to the eternal law we bow;

If such things are, they must be so.
Yet, let no cloudy dreams destroy

One truth outshining bright and clear,
That wealth is only hope and joy,
And poverty but pain and fear.