or a beloved husband, perishes on the scaffold. I know the laws cannot afford to make these distinctions, nor descend to the detail of private suffering; but, as an individual, before I have recourse to the law, I think it my duty to weigh all these considerations.—I don't know, Sir, how far your views on the subject may accord with mine—" here Mr. Simpson, who had been hitherto bending forward, with his eyes directed to the letter in his hand, raised them to Mr. Wetherall's face. What he saw there, it would be vain to attempt to describe. Whatever it was, it occasioned him, for a moment to draw himself up erect—se redresser, as the French would say—and then to stoop forward again and bend his eyes on the letter more perseveringly than before—"What I mean to say, Sir, is," continued he, "that I—I—should be sorry—I wouldn't for the world be the occasion of—of any thing—" and he stammered, and got red in the face, and finally broke down in his oration altogether; whilst the unfortunate culprit before him laid his head upon the table and wept like a child.
Mr. Simpson arose and walked to the window—took out his handkerchief and blew his nose—and cleared his throat—and wiped away the
