however, which every visitor must decide for himself. The contents of the rotunda also may be regarded as pertaining to three classes-the artistic, the scientific, and the industrial. The artistic or fine-art productions are chiefly sculptures and copies of sculptures, some of them placed under crimson and gold canopies in somewhat theatrical style. The scientific productions comprise enormous electrical and galvanic apparatus, electric-telegraphs, optical apparatus, diving-bell apparatus, and-in the uppermost gallery-a photographic collection. The industrial productions and specimens are represented by a series of Whitworth's metalworking machines, an ascending room worked by steampower, a subaqueous balloon, a carbonic acid apparatus, a freezing apparatus, pin-making and needle-making machines, sewing and weaving machines, parquetry, ornamental turning and fret-cutting, hat-making, bead-purse making, fringe-making, papier-maché, &c. Except Whitworth's machines, and some agricultural implements, most of these workmen's and tradesmen's stalls and counters are in the galleries.

As it is not in mortals to achieve perfection, it may not be wondered at if there be some little drawbacks in this splendid rotunda. Its very rotund form-a source of so much beauty, is also a source of some defects, both to the ear and the eye. First, in respect to the ear: Every one who has been in the Whispering Gallery at St Paul's, knows that sound is conducted and augmented in an extraordinary manner by the circular form of the building. Now, at the Panopticon the same thing is observable, in a smaller degree: all the sounds, pleasant or not, become very audible. It was our fortune to hear, on one occasion, while Mr Best was playing Mozart's magnificent Qui s'degno on the magnificent organ, a clacking accompaniment of weavers' shuttles, in a stall some ten or twelve yards from the organ. In a building of different shape, the sound of the shuttle might be buried in a little receptacle of its own; but in this rotunda no sound can be buried. It is possible that some mode of obviating this defect may be adopted when the institution gets into complete working-order. In respect to the eye, the circular form of the rotunda renders it | difficult so to separate the articles exhibited that the artistic, the scientific, and the industrial may be viewed separately all these may be interesting and valuable, but they do not suit well when mingled up together. From one point of view, an electric-telegraph, a sculptured group, an iron-planing machine, an optical instrument, a statue under a crimson canopy, and an assemblage of pitchforks, and rakes, and shovels-all meet the eye at once; nor do we well see how this incongruity is to be avoided, if all three classes of objects are illustrated in one circular room. All this may, however, be susceptible of improved arrangement when the plans of the institution are more fully carried

out.

the light and graceful with the solid and useful on equal terms-it must be regarded as a welcome addition to our metropolitan pleasure-spots. No disrespect to an old acquaintance, the Polytechnic, however: there is room for both.

THE THIRTEENTH JUROR. WHEN the criminal, Pierre Granger, escorted by four gendarmes, was placed in the dock of the court of assize, there was a general stir amongst the crowd, which had assembled from every quarter to be present at his trial.

Pierre Granger was not an ordinary culprit, not one of those poor wretches whom the court, as a matter of form, furnishes with an advocate, judges in the presence of a heedless auditory, and sends to oblivion in the convict prisons of the state. He had figured at length in the columns of the newspapers; and while M. Lépervier had undertaken his defence, M. Tourangin, the attorney-general, was to conduct the prosecution. Now, at the time of which I write, these two men stood at the head of their profession. Whenever it was known that they were to be pitted against each other in any cause, crowds immediately flocked to enjoy their eloquent sentences, sonorous periods, and phrases as round and as polished as so many billiard-balls. It was a perfect riot of tropes and figures, a delicious confusion of periphrases and metaphors. All the figures of rhetoric defiled before the charmed auditory, and sported, jested, and struggled with each other, like Virgil's playful shepherds. There was a luxury of epithets, passing even that of the Abbé Delille. Every individual substantive was as regularly followed by its attendant adjective, as the great lady of the last century by her train-bearing page. In this pompous diction-a man became a mortal; a horse, a courser; the moon was styled pale Dian. My father and my mother were never called so, but invariably the authors of my being; a dream was a vision; a glass, a crystal vase; a knife, a sword; a car, a chariot; and a breeze became a whirlwind; all which, no doubt, tended to produce a style of exceeding sublimity and beauty. Pierre Granger was a clumsily-built fellow, five feet ten in height, thirty-eight years old, with foxy hair, a high colour, and small cunning gray eyes. He was accused of having strangled his wife, cut up the body into pieces, and then, in order to conceal his crime, set fire to the house, where his three children perished. Such an accumulation of horrors had shed quite a romantic halo round their perpetrator. Ladies of rank and fashion flocked to the jail to look at him; and his autograph was in wonderful request, as soon as it became known that Madame Césarine Langelot, the lioness of the district, possessed some words of his writing in her album, placed between a ballad by a professor of rhetoric and a problem by the engineer-inchief of the department; neither gentlemen, to say the truth, being much flattered by such close juxtaposition with the interesting pet-prisoner.

When Pierre Granger, with his lowering brow and air of stolid cunning, was placed in the dock, the names of twelve jurors were drawn by lot, and the pre

Whether we regard the Panopticon as a scientific institution, with a little music and sculpture thrown in to lighten it; or as a graceful artistic exhibition, with a little science and manufactures thrown in to give it serious and solid import; or as an attempt to combine

they wished to exercise their right of challenge. Both declined offering any objection to twelve such honourable names; but the attorney-general added, that he would require the drawing of a supplementary juror. It was done, and on the paper appeared the name of Major Vernor. At the sound, a slight murmur was heard amongst the spectators, while MM. Tourangin and Lépervier exchanged a rapid glance, which seemed to say: Will not you challenge him?' But neither of them did so; an officer conducted Major Vernor into his appointed place, and amid profound silence the indictment was read.

Major Vernor had lived in the town during the last two years. Every one gave him the military title, yet none could tell when, or where, or whom he had served. He seemed to have neither family nor friends; and when any of his acquaintances ventured to sound him on the subject, he always replied in a manner by no means calculated to encourage curiosity. Do I trouble my head about your affairs?' he would say. Your shabby old town suits me well enough as a residence, but if you don't think I have a right to live in it, I shall be most happy to convince you of the fact at daybreak to-morrow morning with gun, sword, or pistol.' Major Vernor was precisely the very man to keep his word: the few persons who had entered his lodgings, reported that his bedroom resembled an armoury, so fully was it furnished with all sorts of murderous weapons. Notwithstanding this, he seemed a very respectable sort of man, regular in his habits, punctual in his payments, and fond of smoking excellent cigars, sent him, he used to say, by a friend in Havannah. He was tall, excessively thin, bald, and always dressed in black; his moustaches curled to a point; and he invariably wore his hat cocked over his right ear. In the evenings, he used to frequent the public readingroom of the town; but he never played at any game, or conversed with the company, remaining absorbed in his newspaper until the clock struck ten, when he lit his cigar, twisted his moustaches, and with a stiff, silent bow took his departure. It sometimes happened that one of the company, bolder than the others, said: 'Goodnight, major!' Then the major would stop, fix his gray eye on the speaker, and reply: Good-night, monsieur;' but in so rude and angry a tone, that the words sounded more like a malediction than a polite salutation.

It was remarked, that whoever thus ventured to address the major, was, during the remainder of the evening, the victim of some strange ill-luck. He regularly lost at play, was sure to knock his elbow through a handsome lamp or vase, or in some way to get entangled in a misadventure. So firmly were the good townsfolk persuaded that the major possessed an 'evil eye,' that their common expression, when any one met with a misfortune, was: He must have said "good-night" to the major!'

This mysterious character dined every day at the ordinary of the Crown Hotel, and although habitually silent, seemed usually contented with the fare. One day, however, after having eaten some bread-soup, he cast his eye along the table, frowned, and calling the host, said: 'How comes it that the dinner to-day is entirely meagre ?'

Monsieur, no doubt, forgets that this is GoodFriday.'

'Send me up two mutton chops.'

'Sacrebleu!' cried he, picking them up; 'I'm regularly sold-they're quite lean!'

He returned to the hotel, and, according to his express orders, one moiety of his ill-omened booty was dressed in a savoury stew, and the other simply roasted. Of both dishes he partook so heartily, that not a vestige of either remained, and he declared that he had never eaten more relishing food.

From that day the major became an object of uneasiness to some, of terror to others, of curiosity to all. Whenever he appeared on the public promenade, every one avoided him; at the theatre, his box was generally occupied by himself alone; and each old woman that met him in the street, invariably stopped to cross herself. Major Vernor was never known to enter a church, or accept an invitation: at first, he used to receive a good many of these, and the,perfumed billets served him to light his cigars.

Such, then, was the thirteenth juror drawn in the cause of Pierre Granger, and it may easily be understood why the audience were moved at hearing the name of Major Vernor.

The paper of accusation, notwithstanding, drawn up by the attorney-general with a force and particularity of description which horrified the ladies present, was read amid profound silence, broken only by the snoring of the prisoner, who had deliberately settled himself to sleep. The gendarmes tried to rouse him from his unnatural slumber, but they merely succeeded in making him now and then half-open his dull brutish eyes.

When the clerk had ceased to read, Pierre Granger was with difficulty thoroughly awakened, and the president proceeded to question him. The interrogatory fully revealed, in all its horror, the thoroughly stupid fiendishness of the wretch. He had killed his wife, he said, because they couldn't agree; he had set his house on fire, because it was a cold night, and he wanted to make a good blaze to warm himself: as to his children, they were dirty squalling little things--no loss to him or to any one else.

It would be tedious to pursue all the details of this disgusting trial. M. Tourangin and M. Lépervier both made marvellously eloquent speeches, but the latter deserved peculiar credit, having so very bad a cause to sustain. Although he well knew that his client was as thorough a scoundrel as ever breathed, and that his condemnation would be a blessing to society, yet he pleaded his cause with all a lawyer's conscientiousness. When he got to the peroration, he managed to squeeze from his lachrymal glands a few rare tears, the last and most precious, I imagine, which he carefully reserved for an especially solemn occasion-just as some families preserve a few bottles of fine old wine, to be drunk at

'Let me have some fowl.'

"That is not to be had either.'

'What a set of fools!' exclaimed the major, striking his clenched hand on the table with such force that the bottles reeled and rocked, just as if all the wine in their bodies had got into their heads. Then he called the waiter, and said: 'Baptiste, go to my lodging, and bring me the inlaid carabine which hangs over my pillow.'

The poor host trembled, and grew very pale, when Baptiste returned with a double-barrelled gun, beautifully inlaid with silver. The major coolly examined the locks, put on fresh caps, cocked both barrels, and walked out, followed at a respectful distance by the guests and inmates of the hotel. Not far off stood an old ivy-mantled church, whose angular projections were haunted by many ravens: two large ones flew out of a turret just as the major came up and took aim for a double shot. Down tumbled both the unclean birds at his feet.

a son.

At length the case closed, and the president was going to sum up; but as the heat in court was excessive, and every one present stood in need of refreshment, leave was given to the jury to retire for half an hour, and the hall was cleared for the same space of time, in order that it might undergo a thorough ventilation. During this interval, while twelve of the jurors were cooling themselves with ices and sherbet, the Thirteenth lighted a cigar, and reclining in an arm-chair, smoked away with the gravity of a Turk.

'What a capital cigar!' sighed one of the jurors, as he watched with an envious eye the odoriferous little clouds escaping from the smoker's lips.

'Would you like to try one?' asked the major, politely offering his cigar-case.

'If it would not trespass too much on your kindness." 'By no means. You are heartily welcome.' The juror took a cigar, and lighted it at that of his obliging neighbour.

'Well! how do you like it?' asked the major.

'Delicious! It has an uncommonly pleasant aroma. From whence are you supplied?' 'From the Havannah.'

Several jurors now approached, casting longing glances on Major Vernor's cigar-case.

'As how?' 'With my sword. I shall do you the honour to meet you to-morrow.'

At that moment, an official came in to announce that the court had resumed its sitting; the jury hastened to their box, and the president began his charge. Scarcely had he commenced, however, when the juror who had smoked the cigar rose, and in a trembling voice begged permission to retire, as he felt very ill. Indeed, while in the act of speaking, he fell backwards, and lay senseless on the floor.

The president, of course, directed that he should be carefully conveyed to his home, and desired Major Vernor to take his place. Six strokes sounded from the old clock of the Town-hall as the jury retired to deliberate on their verdict in the case of Pierre Granger.

Eleven gentlemen exclaimed with one voice, that the wretched assassin's guilt was perfectly clear, and that they could not hesitate for a moment as to their decision. Major Vernor, however, stood up, placed his back against the door, and regarding his colleagues with a peculiarly sinister expression, said slowly: 'I shall acquit Pierre Granger, and you shall all do the same!'

'Sir,' replied the foreman in a severe tone, 'you are answerable to your conscience for your own actions, but I do not see what right you have to offer us a gratuitous insult.'

'Am I, then, so unfortunate as to offend you?' asked the major meekly.

'Certainly; in supposing us capable of breaking the solemn oath which we have taken to do impartial justice. I am a man of honour'

'Bah!' interrupted the major; 'are you quite sure of that?'

A general murmur of indignation arose.

'Do you know, sir, that such a question is a fresh insult?

'You are quite mistaken,' said Major Vernor. 'What I said was drawn forth by a feeling of the solemn responsibility which rests on us. Before I can resolve to make a dead corpse of a living moving being, I must feel satisfied that both you and I are less guilty than Pierre Granger, which, after all, is not so certain.'

An ominous silence ensued; the major's words seemed to strike home to every breast; and at length one of the gentlemen said: "You seem, sir, to regard the question in a philosophical point of view.' 'Just so, Monsieur Cerneau.'

'You know me then?' said the juror in a trembling voice.

'Not very intimately, my dear sir, but just sufficiently to appreciate your fondness for discounting bills at what your enemies might call usurious interest. I think it was about four years ago that an honest, poor man, the father of a large family, blew out his brains, in despair at being refused by you a short renewal which he had implored on his knees.'

Without replying, M. Cerneau retired to the furthest corner of the room, and wiped off the large drops of sweat which started from his brow.

'What does this mean?' asked another juror impatiently. Have we come hither to act a scene from the Memoirs of the Devil?'

'I don't know that work,' replied the major; but may I advise you, Monsieur de Bardine, to calm your nerves? 'Sir, you are impertinent, and I shall certainly do myself the pleasure to chastise you.'

off his guard, you treacherously struck him through the heart. The prospect of a similar catastrophe is certainly by no means enticing.'

With an instinctive movement, M. de Bardine's neighbours drew off.

I admire such virtuous indignation,' sneered the major. It especially becomes you, Monsieur Darin ''What infamy are you going to cast in my teeth?' exclaimed the gentleman addressed.

'Oh, very little-a mere trifle-simply, that while Monsieur de Bardine kills his friends, you only dishonour yours. Monsieur Simon, whose house, table, and purse are yours, has a pretty wife'——

'Major,' cried another juror, you are a villain!' 'Pardon me, my dear Monsieur Calfat, let us call things by their proper names. The only villain amongst us, I believe, is the man who himself set fire to his house, six months after having insured it at treble its value, in four offices, whose directors were foolish enough to pay the money without making sufficient inquiry.'

A stifled groan escaped from M. Calfat's lips as he covered his face with his hands.

'Who are you that you thus dare to constitute yourself our judge?' asked another, looking fiercely at Vernor.

'Who am I, Monsieur Pérou? simply one who can appreciate your very rare dexterity in holding courtcards in your hand, and making the dice turn up as you please.'

M. Pérou gave an involuntary start, and thenceforward held his peace. The scene, aided by the darkness of approaching night, had now assumed a terrific aspect. The voice of the major rang in the ears of eleven pale, trembling men, with a cold metallic distinctness, as if each word inflicted a blow.

At length Vernor burst into a strange sharp hissing laugh. Well, my honourable colleagues,' he exclaimed, does this poor Pierre Granger still appear to you unworthy of the slightest pity? I grant you he has committed a fault, and a fault which you would not have committed in his place. He has not had your cleverness in masking his turpitude with a show of virtue: that was his real crime. Now, if after having killed his wife, he had paid handsomely for masses to be said for her repose-if he had purchased a burial-ground, and caused to be raised to her memory a beautiful square white marble monument, with a flowery epitaph on it in gold letters-why, then, we should all have shed tears of sympathy, and eulogised Pierre Granger as the model of a tender husband. Don't you agree with me, Monsieur Norbec?'

M. Norbec started as if he had received an electric shock. It is false!' he murmured. I did not poison Eliza: she died of pulmonary consumption.'

'True,' said the major; 'you remind me of a circumstance which I had nearly forgotten. Madame Norbec, who possessed a large fortune in her own right, died without issue, five months after she had made you her sole legatee.' Then the major was silent. They were now in total darkness, and the throbbing of many agitated hearts might be heard in the room. Suddenly came the sharp click of a pistol, and the obscurity was for a moment brightened by a flash; but there was no report-the weapon had missed fire. The major burst into a long and loud fit of laughter. 'Charming! delightful! Ah, my dear sir,' he exclaimed, addressing the foreman, you were the only honest man of the

Ten minutes afterwards, the foreman handed in the issue paper a verdict of not guilty; and Pierre Granger was discharged amid the hisses and execrations of the crowd, who, indeed, were prevented only by a strong military force from assaulting both judge and jury. Major Vernor coolly walked up to the dock, and passing his arm under that of Pierre Granger, went out with him through a side-door.

From that hour neither the one nor the other was ever seen again in the country. That night there was a terrific thunder-storm; the ripe harvest was beaten down by hailstones as large as pigeons' eggs, and a flash of lightning striking the steeple of the old ivy-covered church, tore down its gilded cross.

This strange story was related to me one day last year by a convict in the infirmary of the prison at Toulon. I have given it verbatim from his lips; and as I was leaving the building, the sergeant who accompanied me said: 'So, sir, you have been listening to the wonderful rhodomontades of Number 19,788 ?'

'What do you mean?-This history'

'Is false from beginning to end. Number 19,788 is an atrocious criminal, who was sent to the galleys for life, and who, during the last few months, has given evident proofs of mental alienation. His monomania consists chiefly in telling stories to prove that all judges and jurors are rogues and villains. He was himself found guilty, by a most respectable and upright jury, of having robbed and tried to murder Major Vernor. He is now about to be placed in a lunatic asylum, so that you will probably be the last visitor who will hear his curious inventions.'

'And who is Major Vernor?'

'A brave old half-pay officer, who has lived at Toulon, beloved and respected, during the last twelve years. You will probably see him to-day, smoking his Havannah cigar, after the table-d'hôte dinner, at the Crown Hotel.'

A DAY ON THE WHITADER. A MORN of May-a valley on the south skirts of the Lammermuirs, in Berwickshire-two companions, one of them a country gentleman and my host, the other a friendly follower of science from the neighbouring town -the object of the party to have a ramble along the banks of the Whitader, and so on to the summit of Cockburn Law, a few miles distant. Such are the simple elements of the opening of my Day-a snatch of relaxation in the midst of busy city-life. The weather looks, on the whole, promising: at least, nobody is disposed to admit more than that there may be a shower-oh, of course-but nothing to speak of.' And some ladies are, by and by, to ride and to drive by a different way to meet us near the summit of the hill, though only on a strict promise from us gentlemen that there is to be no thunder. With the ladies are to come some solid comforts, to enable us to maintain existence till dinner-time.

At first, our course is over shingly haughs (plains skirting a river are so called in the north), memorials of havoc committed by the stream in the days of a late proprietor of the district, who, an old bachelor, used to say: Other men have wives to keep them in constant trouble through life; I have a water!' And most valiant was the fight he kept up through many years |

|

Picts; at another time, attempting to give it a more direct checkmate, by building jetties of piles and blocks half-way across its channel; of all of which structures it was sure to make ducks and drakes the first flood or speat next winter. A most troublesome set of neighbours are those mountain-streams, and so hypocritical too! You see, on a summer day, a tiny rill creeping among the pebbles, looking as if butter would not melt in its mouth; and yet this is the same entity which will come sweeping down at another time, a raging torrent, carrying off hay and corn, and sheep and cattle, cradles and old wives, and covering whole acre-breadths of rich land with stones and rubbish.

I wonder that men do not more readily see in such valleys as that I was threading, the record of an enormous space of time. It is of a very common formnamely, a trench cut by the water in a sandstone district. The walls, which everywhere rise up steeply on one side or the other, are sections of that kind of rock, from forty to eighty feet high, the space between varying from a quarter of a mile to half a mile wide. All this hollow is the work of the water. If we consider that it only works on those rare occasions of very high flood when it reaches these cliffs, and then makes an impression imperceptibly small, we must see that the time required for the whole operation must be truly vast— something in comparison with which the whole reach of our historical ages is but a mere trifle. And yet the time so chronicled is only one of many such spaces. Verily, it is a very old world this we live in!

It is the festival-day of the Ellem-ford Angling Club, and many of the members are to be seen wading in the stream in pursuit of their amusement. It is an unsocial amusement at all times; but even anglers lose reserve under the influence of success. We remark them to-day to be generally unconversational, from which we become very sure that the trout are not taking well. In fact, the long continuance of dry weather-a whole April without a shower-has put the water into a bad state; and, besides, there is a blue sky, a hot sun, and no wind. None but simple fish will bite. Tam Hamilton himself would be at his wits' end on such a day. We feel a sly satisfaction, under these circumstances, in reflecting that the fish we seek for are not forbidden to us by any such accidents. And just now, we are passing under a cliff of the Old Red Sandstone formation, where the water leaves scarcely room for a rough path, strewed with fallen blocks; and, behold! in some of these masses are curious markings, which our scientific associate points out as scales of the holoptychi-fishes of the earliest type of their class, which lived when as yet there were no higher animals in the different fishing was this from that of the wading sea, and no land-animals of any kind at all. What a gentlemen aforesaid—and how little did they in general reflect, as they stumbled over these stones, what a rich mine of ideas lies entombed in them! This was the first spot in the south of Scotland where Devonian fossils, as they are comprehensively called, were found. The place is also interesting from what has happened to it in the dynamics of geology. It presents between the carboniferous formation of the lower part of the valley and the Silurian rocks of the neighbouring hills, a band of the Old Red, which has undergone some tremendous movement, there being a great fault between it and the former rocks, marked by a dense vein or dike of trap. On the other hand, there is a spot where the upturned edges of the Silurian or grawacke rocks are seen in the bed of the stream, with patches of the Old Red upon them at a different angle, the remains of the first deposits of the next formation, shewing how a change of inclination had taken place in the elder rocks before the next in order were laid down. A similar junction at Siccar Point on the coast is classic ground