put her hand upon his
shoulder in an agony of entreaty, and the boy sullenly raised his head as
if in refusal. It was a brilliant morning, and every object looked fresh
and happy in the broad, gay sunlight; he gazed round him for a few
moments, bewildered with the brightness of the scene, for it was long
since he had beheld anything save the gloomy walls of a prison. Perhaps
the wretchedness of his mother made some impression on the boy's heart;
perhaps some undefined recollection of the time when he was a happy
child, and she his only friend, and best companion, crowded on him--he
burst into tears; and covering his face with one hand, and hurriedly
placing the other in his mother's, walked away with her.

Curiosity has occasionally led us into both Courts at the Old Bailey.
Nothing is so likely to strike the person who enters them for the first
time, as the calm indifference with which the proceedings are conducted;
every trial seems a mere matter of business. There is a great deal of
form, but no compassion; considerable interest, but no sympathy. Take
the Old Court for example. There sit the judges, with whose great
dignity everybody is acquainted, and of whom therefore we need say no
more. Then, there is the Lord Mayor in the centre, looking as cool as a
Lord Mayor _can_ look, with an immense _bouquet_ before him, and habited
in all the splendour of his office. Then, there are the Sheriffs, who
are almost as dignified as the Lord Mayor himself; and the Barristers,
who are quite dignified enough in their own opinion; and the spectators,
who having paid for their admission, look upon the whole scene as if it
were got up especially for their amusement. Look upon the whole group in
the body of the Court--some wholly engrossed in the morning papers,
others carelessly conversing in low whispers, and others, again, quietly
dozing away an hour--and you can scarcely believe that the result of the
trial is a matter of life or death to one wretched being present. But
turn your eyes to the dock; watch the prisoner attentively for a few
moments; and the fact is before you, in all its painful reality. Mark
how restlessly he has been engaged for the last ten minutes, in forming
all sorts of fantastic figures with the herbs which are strewed upon the
ledge before him; observe the ashy paleness of his face when a particular
witness appears, and how he changes his position and wipes his clammy
forehead, and feverish hands, w