serves, experienced poacher in the country; and though he had always been adroit enough to escape detection, was looked upon as a most desperate character by the more respectable portion of the little community. Under these circumstances, it may naturally be supposed, that the 'Squires were hostile to the young poacher, and that he was the object of the hatred of the gamekeepers, whose well-laid plans for entrapping him he had always succeeded in frustrating, and whose threats and attempts at conciliation were alike disregarded by the careless reprobate whose gun and wires were so rapidly thinning their well-stocked preBut of all John's enemies, and he had many, none were so bitter against him, and so bent on bringing him to justice as James Medley, one of the under-keepers. Westwood had succeeded in seducing the pretty daughter of a farmer in the neighbourhood, and this girl had played Medley false, who was very much attached to her, which circumstances, of course, created a feud between the two men. Medley, however, was no favourite among his fellow-keepers, or the other villagers, his rude and overbearing manners precluded any attempts at intimacy; and all disliked the sullen, savage character of the man who had sworn to bring about the detection of the younger Westwood in his illegal pursuit. Numerous were the friendly admonitions and affectionate warnings with which William Westwood endeavoured to reclaim his younger brother, but the latter always laughed at him; and William, seeing all his efforts fruitless, was forced to desist; but, as John, however late he might come in, usually slept at home, and, with the single exception of poaching, was not a thoroughly hardened character, he was content to wait, and hope that a few more years might effect his reformation. Adjoining the Westwoods' cottage lived a man holding a farm nearly as large as their own, named Thomas Mahoney, who was a great favourite among the neighbours, and was more especially the friend of William Westwood; he had exerted himself for his sake to induce John to give over his nightly occupations, but with as little success as his highminded brother. One October morning, William became rather alarmed about his brother, who, contrary to his usual custom, had not returned home all night, and as noon approached without his making his appearance, he went out towards the village to see what had detained him. He had visited all his brother's usual haunts without obtaining any tidings of him, and was thinking of returning home, hoping to find John there before him, when he was attracted by a crowd at a little distance, who seemed in earnest expostulation with a man in the centre, who was apparently dragging some one forcibly along. As they approached he fancied he could hear his own name muttered; seriously alarmed, he forced his way through the mob, and beheld his unfortunate brother, hardly able to move, from a severe wound in the leg, caused by a man-trap, in the gripe of James Medley, the under-keeper, who, in spite of his feeble efforts and remonstrances, was brutally dragging him on towards the house of the magistrate. The best of us are but mortal, and William, though by nature one of the most kind-hearted and amiable of men, could not stand the inhumanity of this ruffian towards his only brother. Forcing his way towards him, with one blow he felled him to the earth, and when Medley-who was no craven-rose, the crowd, with that desire which is so innate in Englishmen to see a fair fight, formed themselves into a ring, and the two combatants attacked each other with the utmost fury. For a time, youth, and the consciousness of right, enabled Westwood, though by far the weaker man, to maintain his ground, but as he grew tired, Medley, who was an experienced pugilist, improved his advantage at every blow and the crowd seeing William's chance hopeless, threw themselves between them, and preventing Medley from interfering, by dint of numbers, allowed Westwood to assist his wounded brother home. That evening, at dusk, a labourer passing along the footpath that separated the farms of Westwood and Mahoney, nearly stumbled over the body of a man lying across the way. Although dreadfully shocked, he contrived to carry the body to the nearest public-house, where it was discovered to be the corpse of the ill-fated James Medley. Upon further examination, a pitchfork, covered with blood, was found close to the spot where the murdered man was lying, which was identified as the property of William Westwood. At the ensuing Exeter assizes, William Westwood was arraigned on the charge of "Wilful Murder," the testimony against him was clear and decisive, and at the conclusion of the evidence, when the judge called on him for his defence-for there were no counsel for the accused in those days-he rose, and invoking that God, on whom, alas! many forget to call, save in their utmost need, to witness that what he said was true, declared, that on the evening the body was found, when returning from his barn, he saw the corpse lying in his way, that he attempted to raise it, by which his clothes became stained with blood, and was about to call for assistance, when the maddening thought flashed across his mind that he was Medley's enemy, and would be accused of his murder. Half dead with fright, he dropped his pitchfork, and rushed home, but had not had time to conceal his clothes before he was arrested. At the conclusion of this improbable story, the spectators glanced at each other with an incredulous smile, and the learned judge mildly enquired "if that were all." Being answered in the affirmative, he briefly told the jury that the evidence against the prisoner was most conclusive, and that the story they had just heard could not be received as testimony. He further said, he thought there could be no doubt as to the prisoner's guilt, but if they entertained any, they would give him the benefit of it, and dismissed them to consider their verdict. Four hours rolled on, and the jury did not return: night came, and they were still in deliberation, nor was it till the end of the following day that they again entered the box, apparently quite worn out from want of sleep and nourishment. After being called over, the clerk of the arraigns demanded their verdict, and the foreman spoke "Not Guilty." The whole court was electrified, even the judge started, and asked if that were really their verdict; on hearing it repeated, he remarked in a tone of grave displeasure, that, in that case, there was nothing left for him to do, but to discharge the prisoner, who was conveyed back to prison at his own request, to avoid the fury of the friends of Medley. It afterwards transpired, that eleven of the jurymen had from the first been unanimous in their opinion of Westwood's guilt, but that Thomas Mahoney, his neighbour, who had been empanelled, and by an extraordinary oversight on the part of the crown, had not been challenged, was resolute in declaring his certainty that the man was innocent. All the arguments and remonstrances of his fellow-jurors failed to convince him, and as he continued unconquerably obstinate, the eleven were reluctantly forced to yield, from sheer hunger and want of sleep. Ten years rolled away, and the family of the Westwoods were wellnigh forgotten in their native village. The old soldier, already brokenhearted by the loss of his wife, gave way under this new affliction, and in a few months sunk into the grave. Shortly after his burial, John, who had become an altered man, unable to bear the finger of scorn which pointed at him as the murderer's brother, went, with his little sister, now his only burden, into a distant county, where he was unknown, to try to earn an honest livelihood. No one had heard of William since his acquittal-the gaoler said he had left the prison by night, and his brother could gain no further tidings of him. Thomas Mahoney annexed the Westwoods' farm to his own, and became what the world calls a prosperous man; but death, who lays his hand alike on the peer and the peasant, the innocent and the guilty, at last arrested the unprincipled career of the dissentient juror. On his deathbed, Mahoney, finding his last hour was come, confessed to the clergyman who attended his dying moments, that he was the murderer of James Medley. He stated that he had met his victim in the path where he was found, and upbraided him with his cruelty towards the younger Westwood; that Medley, in a transport of rage, attacked him furiously with a cudgel he carried, and that, not knowing what he did, and almost in self-defence, he had driven his pitchfork deep into the keeper's breast, who fell immediately. Horror-stricken at what he had done, he rau home in order to take every possible means to avoid discovery. Finding, however, that another was charged with his crime, he determined, although he had not courage to relate the real facts, to get placed upon the jury, and thus saved his friend's life, forgetting that he, at the same time, robbed him of that which most men esteem far more highly. Reader, were this little story fictitious, we ought, in the real spirit of poetical justice, to bring poor William Westwood back in triumph to his native village, and depict the universal joy and welcome which attended his return; but we have now to deal with simple truth. If ever you should visit the fair city of Exeter, among the many public edifices which attract the traveller's eye, is the picturesque asylum for the incurably insane. Should you deem the place not unworthy of a visit, you will probably notice an old man, who, sitting in a remote corner, rarely moves, and is apparently insensible to surrounding objects. If you notice him, he answers not; but the keeper, observing your commiseration, may perhaps relate to you, as he did to us, the substance of this history. That imbecile old man is the once noble-hearted, highminded, William Westwood. LOVE AND DEATH. "Si mihi Di faciles, si sunt in amore secundi OVID, Her. xix. 3. WHEN the steeps, that crown Abydos, Wore a deepening purple hue, Leander on the mountain stood Entranced with the view. "This night, my bride, I'll rest with thee," And plunged into the foaming tide, That far beneath him broke; He swims to distant Sestos, The ever changing ocean, At first was calm and bright, VERAX. |