the occasion is not related. Certainly, Lord Hailes-a man reputed for his acute historical researches - had much reason to blush for the part he had played in the transaction; and in point of fact, on his head rests the great crime that had been committed, for it was chiefly owing to his summing up that the jury were led to decide against the accused.

It is impossible to read the case of Falconer and Bruce in the present day, without an indignant sense of the mercilessness with which the laws were administered sixty years ago in Scotland. Here, upon manifestly bad and insufficient evidence, two men of good repute were put to an ignominious death, for a crime which, even had they been guilty of it, would have been far too dearly expiated by the sacrifice of two lives. It was atrocious, in the first place, to condemn on such evidence, and doubly atrocious, in the second place, to execute two men for such a crime. Judges sincerely anxious to do justice might have been expected to take some pains to sift and test the evidence, particularly by the obvious expedient of ascertaining if it was possible, from the Guildhall door, to have seen the robbers descend into the bank. None of the ordinary records of such events hint at such an inquiry having been made. And, considering the dubiety of the case, the supreme authority might have been expected to commute the punishment. But all persons in those days intrusted with the administration of the laws, from royalty itself downwards, were hurried away by an insane anxiety to punish. Life was held as light in the balance against the most trifling article of property; and servile juries were found to yield to the dictates of judges, in whatever they were pleased to command. We may surely congratulate ourselves on the better spirit which has since dawned on all these parties, and the superior value which is now put on human life-invariably one of the clearest marks of an advanced civilisation.

THE SONG OF THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT.

FROM GOETHE.

It was a knight, a captive knight,
He climbed at eve his prison-tower,
And mourned, amid the lingering light,
For a far-off lovely flower:

'My flower,' he said, 'so wondrous fair,
How fain on thee I'd bend mine eye!
How fain I'd seek thee everywhere,
If these stern walls did not deny!
O heavy change to love and me!
O heavy change! when I was free
I saw thee blooming ever nigh!
Beyond my prison's steepy bound

Far, far my glances wander free;
But e'en this airiest turret's round

Can yield my soul no glance of thee!
Here whosoe'er could bid thee bloom,
Or knight or page, or squire or groom,
Loved in my heart of heart should be!'

THE ROSE.

Then rose a voice to the captive knight,
The lonely knight in his prison-tower;
A regal voice of proud delight,

To him who mourned his far-off flower-
Saying: 'I hear thee-I, the ROSE,

Beneath thy lattice blooming near!
And, well my fragrant spirit knows,
It is for me thou pinest here:
Thou hast a heart like these high towers,
And I, the sceptred queen of flowers,
To thee am dearest of the dear!'

Thus rose the fragrant voice on high,
And thus the captive made reply:

"O loved and praised on every shore,

Thy bloom that through its green veil shines, The loveliest maidens covet more

Than richest gems from richest mines;
Thy garland is their loveliest dower!
Yet thou art not the little flower

For which my captive spirit pines!'

THE LILY.

Then rose a voice to the captive knight,
The lonely knight in his prison-tower;
A gentler voice of mild delight,

To him who mourned his far-off flower:
'Still, with her wonted pride, the Rose
Each gentler flow'ret queens it o'er;
Yet oft the meek pale LILY shews

A lovelier tint than e'er she wore: And they who bid deep love endure Pure to the last, as I am pure,

Will prize and love me more and more!' 'Twas thus the gentle lily sighed,

And thus the captive knight replied:

'Pure as thy purest leaf am I:
From ribald passion chastely free;
Yet here a fettered thrall I lie,
A lonely captive doomed to be.
O type of many a virgin heart!
Dear to my listening soul thou art-
But one is dearer far to me!'

THE PINK.

Then rose a voice to the captive knight,
The lonely knight in his prison-tower,
A laughing voice of gay delight;

To him who mourned his far-off flower: 'TO ME the palm! Thy tower below

I bloom, the warder's floral prize!
Else, would the old man tend me so,
Morning and eve, with loving eyes?
My form thick-clustering leaflets wreathe,
And loveliest odours still I breathe,
'Mid thousand, thousand loveliest dyes!'
-Thus rose the laughing voice on high,
And thus the captive made reply:

'Thee to neglect no eye will doom,
The glory of the warder's bower;
Now to the sun he spreads thy bloom,
And now he shields thee from its power.
Yet that which might bring joy to me
Is not a glittering thing like thee-
It is a little gentle flower!'

THE VIOLET.

Then rose a voice to the captive knight,
The lonely knight in his prison-tower;
A low, sweet voice of calm delight,

To him who mourned his far-off flower: ""Half-hidden by a mossy stone,"

I droop, and seldom answer make;
Yet ere the fitting hour be flown,
My dreamy stillness thus I break :
Dost thou for me, poor captive, sigh!
O gladly would I waft on high

My sweetest perfumes for thy sake!' 'Twas thus the gentle violet sighed, And thus the captive knight replied:

Flower of the gentle! well I love

Thy balmy breath, thy modest grace; But something e'en those charms above My yearning heart would here embraceA heart that owns, to each and all, On this bleak, arid, craggy wall,

Sweet love can find no dwelling-place!

'Far down, yon distant river past,

The TRUEST WIFE the wide earth shews
Sigh upon sigh is pouring fast,

Till these, my prison-gates, unclose;
And when a flower, in some lone spot,
She culls, and names "FORGET-ME-NOT,"
E'en distant thus, my spirit knows!

'Yes! e'en in distance, Love's sweet might
Is felt in mutual bosoms pure,
And I the long and bitter night

Of dungeon-silence thus endure;
Thus wrestling with my captive lot,
Three little words-FORGET-ME-NOT!-
My sinking soul can reassure!'

[The above beautiful piece is by James Gregor Grant, the author of Madonna Pia-a fine poem (1848) which we fear has been suffered to pass almost unnoticed in the deluge of minor verses with which the world is now inundated.]

RECOLLECTIONS OF A SOLDIER IN THE BOMBAY ARTILLERY.

THE following account of a soldier's recollections in the East India Company's service, appeared about twenty years ago in a literary paper in Calcutta, and may be presumed to offer a fair specimen of what occurs in a life spent in the ranks while on foreign duty. The reasons given for enlisting are naturally those which would be advanced by a lad ignorant of the world, and indisposed to battle manfully with circumstances. The narrative is certainly to be commended for its candour, and may be read with advantage by young' scapegraces.'

It is now fifteen years since I descended from the sphere of gentility in which I was born and educated, and became a soldier in the Bombay artillery. The death of