sion was over, and rushing to the room where the dying man was laid, "a sorry sight!" in Macbeth's words, surrounded by his frantic wife and infant family, the homicide knelt at his bed-side, implored forgiveness, and wrung from him a qualified admission that "all was fair." No attempt was made to arrest him, and that night Campbell left the town and remained at Chelsea with his lady and family for several months, under an assumed name. When the summer assizes were approaching, he determined to surrender and stand his trial; and although his legal advisers warned him that the step was most perilous, he would not be dissuaded, and unhappily persevered. He was, on the 13th of August, 1808, arraigned for "wilful murder," pleaded "not guilty" in the usual form-the fact of the homicide was admitted-and a number of officers, high in rank, attended, and gave the prisoner the highest character for humanity. I did not hear the evidence, and when I came into the court-house the jury for some time had been considering their verdict. The trial had been tedious; twilight had fallen, and the hall of justice, dull at best, was rendered gloomier still from the partial glare of a few candles placed upon the bench, where Judge Fletcher was presiding. A breathless anxiety pervaded the assembly, and the ominous silence that reigned throughout the court was unbroken by a single whisper. I felt an unusual dread-a sinking of the heart-a difficulty of respiration, and as I looked round the melancholy crowd, my eye rested on the judge. Fletcher was a thin, bilious looking being, and his cold and marble features had caught an unearthly expression from the shading produced by the accidental disposition of the candles. I shuddered as I gazed upon him, for the fate of a fellow creature was hanging upon the first words that would issue from the lips of that stern and inflexible old man. From the judge my eyes turned to the criminal, and what a subject the contrast offered to the artist's pencil! In the front of the bar, habited in deep mourning, his arms folded and crossed upon his breast, the homicide was awaiting the word that should seal his destiny. His noble and commanding figure thrown into an attitude of calm determination, was graceful and dignified; and while on every countenance besides a sickening anxiety was visible, neither the quivering of an eyelash, nor a motion of the lip, betrayed on the prisoner's face the appearance of discomposure or alarm. Just then a slight noise was heard-a door was slowly and softly opened-one by one the jury returned to their box-the customary question was asked by the clerk of the crown-and-" Guilty" was faintly answered, accompanied with a recommendation to mercy. An agonizing pause succeeded-the court was as silent as the grave-the prisoner bowed respectfully to the jury, then planting his foot firmly on the floor, he drew himself up to his full height and calmly listened to his doom. Slowly Judge Fletcher assumed the fatal cap, and all unmoved, he pronounced, and Campbell listened to, his sentence. While the short address which sealed the prisoner's fate was being delivered, the silence of the court was only broken by smothered sobs; but when the sounds ceased, and, "Lord have mercy on your soul!" issued from the ashy lips of the stern old man, a groan of horror burst from the auditory, and the Highland soldiers, who thronged the court, ejaculated a wild "Amen," while their flashing eyes betrayed how powerfully the fate of their unhappy countryman had affected them. He was removed from the bar-a doomed man -but no harsh restrictions were imposed upon him, nor was he conducted to the gloomy apartment to which condemned criminals after sentence were then consigned. From the moment the unfortunate duellist had entered the prison gates, his mild and gentlemanly demeanour had won the commiseration of all within; and the governor, confident in the honour of his prisoner, subjected him to no restraint. He occupied the apartments of the keeper, went over the building as he pleased-received his friends held unrestricted communication with all that sought him—and, in fact, was a captive but in name. No man impersonated the grandeur of Byron's beautiful couplet so happily as Campbell: when the hour of trial came, "He died as sinful man should die Without parade-without display," while, during the painful interval when the seat of mercy was appealed to, and when, as it was generally considered, mercy would have been extended, the most unmoved of all, as post after post brought not the welcome tidings, was Campbell. One anecdote is too characteristic to be omitted. The commiseration of all classes was painfully increased by the length of time that elapsed between the trial and death of Major Campbell. In prison, he received from his friends the most constant and delicate attention; and one lady, the wife of Captain seldom left him. She read to him, prepared his meals, cheered his spirits when he drooped, and performed those gentle offices of kindness, so peculiarly the province of a woman. When intelligence arrived that mercy could not be extended, and the law must take its course, she boldly planned an escape from prison; but Campbell, when she mentioned it, recoiled from a proposition that must compromise his honour with the keeper. "What," he exclaimed, when assured that otherwise his case was hopeless, "shall I break my faith with him who trusted it? I know my fate, and am prepared to meet it manfully; but never will I deceive the person who confided in my honour." Two evenings before he suffered, Mrs. was earnestly urging him to escape. The clock struck twelve, and Campbell hinted that it was time she should retire. As usual, he accompanied her to the gate; and on entering the keeper's room, they found him fast asleep. Campbell placed his finger on his lip. "Poor fellow," he said in a whisper, to his fair companion, "would it not be a pity to disturb him?" then taking the keys softly from the table, he unlocked the outer wicket. Campbell," said the lady, "this is the crisis of your fate; this is the moment for your deliverance! Horses are in readiness, and-" The convict put his hand upon her mouth. "Hush," he replied, as he gently forced her out. Would you have me violate my Bidding her "good night," he locked the wicket carefully, replaced the keys, and retired to his chamber without awakening the sleeping jailor! His last hour was passed in prayer, and at noon he was summoned to pass the grand ordeal which concludes the history of the hero and the herdsman. The drop, as it was called, was, in the Irish jails, attached to the upper story of the building, a large iron-studded door, which hung against the wall, and was only raised to a parallel position with the door from which the criminal made his last exit, when that concluding ceremony of the law was to be performed. Attended by the jail chaplain,-one who, in the last bitter trial, clave to the condemned soldier closer than a brother, he steadily mounted the stairs, and entered the execution room. The preliminaries of death were undergone composedly; he bade a long farewell to those around, and stepped firmly on the board. Twenty thousand lookers-on filled the green in front of the prison; and, strange accident! the Highland regiment with whom, shoulder to shoulder, he had charged "the Invincibles" in Egypt, formed a semicircle round the prison. In the north of Ireland, all is decorously conducted. When he appeared, a deep and solemn silence awed the multitude; and until he addressed the Highlanders in Gaelic, a whisper might have been heard in the crowd. To the simple request of "Pray for me!" a low deep groan responded, and every bonnet was removed. He dropped a cambric handkerchief,-down came the iron-bound door-it sounded over the heads of the silent concourse like a thunder-clap; and, in one minute, as brave a heart as ever beat upon a battle-field, had ceased to throb. Peace to the ashes of the brave! If a soldier's life, a Christian's end, can atone for the sad consequences of unreining an ungovernable temper, both can be honestly pleaded in extenuating poor Campbell's crime. VOL. XXX. ODE TO BEAUTY. WHEN Nature's bounteous hand provides Charms to bestow on each loved fair, With care her favour she divides, Nor gives to one an undue share. The Nightingale's melodious lays Charm all who such sweet strains have heard, But there her power of pleasing stays Who ever saw a plainer bird! The Peacock's beauty wins all eyes; But eyes alone the work must do, Her voice that with the screech-owl vies, But, Lady, when your charms appear M. A. B. M THE TWO PAINTERS. "THEN you received the lad, Brackenbury, safe to hand, as they say in the city?" inquired old Mr. Thornton of a gentleman on the right side of middle age. "I did, yesterday, and he is now with my wife." "And d'ye think something may be made of him?" "We shall see. A short time will show. He appears clever." "And the terms I offered when I saw you last? "Not a word more. I thank you. Very handsome." "Now then," said Thornton, "let me tell you how this boy, Henry Algar, came under my patronage. Some years since, on my return from Italy, I lodged in Newman-street. The rooms were commodious and well-furnished, but it was not long before I discovered that the woman of the house-a widow-was as poor as winter. She had but this child, then a little toddling passage-haunting thing. Well, the fellow would get a coal or a burnt stick, or anything that would leave its mark, and effect delineations on floor and wainscot, that showed a will at all events, if not an ability, to represent God's creatures." "Ha!" said Brackenbury with interest. "Yes. Why, sir, at something over two we had a cat from his hand which was not altogether unlike a griffin. He was so clever that his mother almost despaired of him. I went abroad. On my return, four years afterwards, I found him plying the camel's hair with all the perseverance and much of the gravity of an R.A.; so, having a mind to try an experiment, I sent him to school; and now that he has learned as much as is needful, I bring him to you, that you may make him a second Raffaello Sanzio." "Ah, sir!" replied Brackenbury, "such a genius is the creation of centuries." At this moment the wife of the painter, accompanied by the boy, entered the room. He was a lad of about fifteen, of an ingenuous and modest appearance; but there was little to distinguish him from the general run of our English youth of a like age, except a certain thoughtfulness of aspect somewhat in advance of his years. "This boy, Henry, with whom you are about to be troubled, is an orphan," observed Thornton, addressing Mrs. Brackenbury. "Now, it will not do to ask so young a lady as yourself to be a mother to him.” "We shall be very good friends, I am sure," returned the lady with a smile. "I am sure you will," said Thornton, who had remarked the answering look of Henry. The old gentleman now took his leave, shaking Brackenbury cordially by the hand, and calling him Pietro Perugino. The painter laughed, and then shrugged his shoulders, and then smiled; but the smile had died away before Thornton turned to descend the stairs. The friendship of the two gentlemen to whom we have introduced the reader had not been of long standing, but a great intimacy had sprung up between them. They had met at the mansion of a nobleman distinguished for his love of the fine arts, and, to use a common expression, had taken a fancy to each other. Brackenbury admired the conversational powers of Thornton, and the old man regarded the painter because he was not only a patient but an intelligent listener. Thornton was the son of a London merchant, but had not himself pursued commerce. Having received an excellent education, and possessed of a large fortune, he had travelled a great deal, and seen men and manners in many parts of the world. A man of powerful understanding and an original turn of mind, he had read much, and reflected not a little, so that there were few subjects which engaged the attention of society in which he could not take part, and to which he did not seem to communicate a novelty by his mode of treating them. Not the least of his accomplishments, in the estimation of his friend, was his exquisite knowledge of pictures; and Brackenbury was certain, when he had wrought some happy effect, that there was one man in the world who could discover and who would commend it. Brackenbury was a very good, but he was not a great painter. He had studied his art and was gifted with a sensitive and delicate taste; and by patience and labour had enabled himself to produce works which none could condemn, nay, more,-which all must approve. It was only the best judges who would hesitate to pronounce them admirable. While there was no man who held the rules of the great masters in higher veneration than himself, who could more readily point out their beauties or more warmly eulogize them, it is observable that his productions, although he was not an imitator, had no marked peculiarity that distinguished them from the works of other meritorious artists. He had been successful. A man of talent, what he did was sought and prized because there were no new-fangled notions in it,-no seeing things after an uncommon fashion. By nature and from habit a gentleman, his manners recommended him wherever he went. He was just and generous in his appreciation of other men's performances; and though he flattered no man for his abilities, it could not be said that he flattered himself upon his own, for it would have been indeed ungracious to assert that a man must needs have a high opinion of himself, because he appeared to be so happy and on the best terms with all mankind. When our story opens, he was verging upon forty; but his wife was many years younger. They had not long been married. Thornton frequently came to ascertain the progress made by the lad he had taken under his protection, and showed such a warmth of delight when Brackenbury reported his rapid and extraordinary improvement, that the painter could not help suspecting that the story the old gentleman had told him of the widow in Newman-street was a piece of pardonable fiction, and that a nearer connexion subsisted between his pupil and the patron than the latter had cared to acknowledge. There was nothing in the boy's manner towards his benefactor which could lead to the supposition that he was aware of a relationship; and the most subtle physiognomist or the most acute detector of similitudes would hardly venture to assert the slightest likeness between them. In less than a year the opinion of Brackenbury was suddenly dispelled. Old Mr. Thornton died, bequeathing him the sum of one thousand pounds, but leaving Henry Algar only twenty guineas. A reason for this singular bequest was alleged in the will, which drew a sad and almost bitter smile from Brackenbury. The testator avowed his belief that a man of genius was never so likely to acquire enduring |