rtain
"whether it had been used or _not_"; and, as there were two sides to it,
which side had become dirty from being carried in the pocket, and which
from legitimate use. Before the prisoner was a toilet-glass, in which he
could not help seeing his own pale, haggard, frightened face whenever he
looked up,--a refinement of barbarism I was not prepared for in a
British court of justice. I occupied a seat in the gallery, surrounded
by professional pickpockets, burglars, and highwaymen, I dare say; for
they talked freely of the poor fellow's chances, and like experts.

* * * * *

_Joanna Baillie._--"Here," said Lady Bentham, wife of General Sir
Samuel Bentham, the originator of that Panopticon, which was the germ
of all our prison discipline as well as of all penitentiary
improvements, the world over,--"Here is an autograph you will think
worth having, I am sure, after what I have heard you say of the writer,
and of her tragedies, and I want you to see her";--handing me, as she
spoke, the following brief note, written upon a bit of coarse paper
about six inches by four.

"If you are perfectly disengaged this evening, Agnes and I will
have the pleasure of taking tea with you, if you give us leave.

"J. BAILLIE."

Now, if there was a woman in the world I wanted to see, or one that I
most heartily reverenced, it was Joanna Baillie. Her "De Montfort" I had
always looked upon as one of the greatest tragedies ever written,--equal
to anything of Shakespeare's for strength of delineation, simplicity,
and effect, however inferior it might be in the superfluities of genius,
in the overcharging of character and passion, of which we find so much
in Shakespeare; and, on the whole, not unlike that wonderful Danish
drama, "Dyveke," or a part of "Wallenstein."

My great desire was now to be satisfied. We met, and I passed one of the
pleasantest evenings of my life with _Mrs._ Baillie, as they called her,
Lady Bentham, her most intimate if not her oldest friend, and "sister
Agnes."

I found Mrs. Baillie wholly unlike the misrepresentations I had seen of
her. She was rather small,--though far from being diminutive, like her
sister Agnes,--with a charming countenance, full of placid serenity,
almost Quakerish, beautiful eyes, and gray hair, nearly white indeed,
combed smoothly away from her forehead. We talked freely together,
avoiding the shop, and the impression she left on my mind wa