Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine | Page 9

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 you were doing, sir, last Christmas four years?"
Of course he could not--and Mr Nailhim knew it, or he never would have put the question; and the unlucky witness grew so confused in his attempt to find the matter out, and, in his guesses, so confounded one Christmas with another, that first he blushed, and then he spoke, and then he checked himself, and spoke again, just contradicting what he said before, and looked at length as like a guilty man as any in the jail. Lest the effect upon the court might still be incomplete, the wily Nailhim, in the height of Mallett's trouble, threw, furtively and knowingly, a glance towards the jury, and smiled upon them so familiarly, that any lingering doubt must instantly have given way. They agreed unanimously with Nailhim. A greater scoundrel never lived than this John Mallett. The counsellor perceived his victory, and spoke.
"Go down, sir, instantly," said he, "and take care how you show your face up there again. I have nothing more to say, my lud."
And down John Mallett went, his friend and he much worse for his intentions.
"And now this mighty case is closed!" thought I. "What will they do to such a wretch!" I was disappointed. The good judge was determined not to forsake the man, and he once more addressed him.
"Prisoner," said he, "what induced you to commit this act?"
The prisoner again turned his desponding eye upwards, and answered, as before--
"Beggary, my lord."
"What are you?"
"Nothing, my lord--any thing."
"Have you no trade?"
"No, my lord."
"What do your wife and children do?"
"They are helpless, my lord, and they starve with me."
"Does no one know you in your neighbourhood?"
"No one, my lord. I am a stranger there. _We are all low people there_, my lord."
There was something so truly humble and plaintive in the tone with which these words were spoken, and the eyes of the afflicted man filled so suddenly with tears as he uttered them, that I became affected in a manner which I now find it difficult to describe. My blood seemed to chill, and my heart to rush into my throat. I am ashamed to say that my own eyes were as moist as the prisoner's. I resolved from that moment to become his friend, and to enquire into his circumstances and character, as soon as the present proceedings were at an end.
"How long has the prisoner been confined already?"
"Something like three months, my lud," answered the barrister cavalierly as if months were minutes.
"It is punishment enough," said the judge--"let him be discharged now. Prisoner, you are discharged--you must endeavour to get employment. If you are ill, apply to your parish; there is no excuse for stealing--none whatever. You are at liberty now."
The information did not seem to carry much delight to the heart of him whom it was intended to benefit. He rose from his chair, bowed to his lordship, and then followed the turnkey, in whose expression of countenance and attentions there was certainly a marked alteration since the wind had set in favourably from the bench. The man departed. Moved by a natural impulse, I likewise quitted the court the instant afterwards, enquired of one of the officials the way of egress for discharged prisoners, and betook myself there without delay. What my object was I cannot now, as I could not then, define. I certainly did not intend to accost the poor fellow, or to commit myself in any way with him, for the present, at all events. Yet there I was, and I could not move from the spot, however useless or absurd my presence there might be. It was a small low door, with broad nails beaten into it, through which the liberated passed, as they stepped from gloom and despair, into freedom and the unshackled light of heaven. I was not then in a mood to trust myself to the consideration of the various and mingled feelings with which men from time to time, and after months of hopelessness and