The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1842-06-21 00:00:00

'irokert man—but

to that you wi11...! Abali be prepared

to-morrow at my apartment—(the
—l5, Walnut Tree Walk, Lambeth

Yours, dear George,
" HENRY MELTON."

Strange as was the tone of this note, and wretched as it
bespoke the mind of the writer to be, it was with a thrill of

satisfaction that I received it; and, at an early hour the fol-
lowing day, I found myself crossing Westminster Bridge, and

threading my way to the place appointed

A thousand

thoughts of the past—a thousand anticipations of the future
crowded upon me as I passed along. The picture of the
friend of my boyhood was at one time before me, his glad
eyes beaming with health and the buoyancy of a youthful
;—(it was a

spirit bright spring morning, and spring brings
happy memories into the saddest heart;)—and, at another, I
saw him pallid and worn, and a chilling anticipation of ill
The bustle of Lambeth Walk,

crept over my spirit

ever, dissipated my dreaming inclinations ; and, on my ar-
rival at the house mentioned in the note of poor Melton, I
had dismissed alike my diseased fears and hopes, and was
prepared to encounter the dreaded or wished for certainty,
with something like the stoicism of a man of this world, not
unused either to scenes of joy or of sorrow.
It was a house of respectable appearance at which I soon
found myself, and in a few minutes a damp and tremulous
hand had clasped my own, and accents faint and hoarse, yet
still sweet and well remembered, had bid me welcome. But
when I gazed upon the tearful eyes of the speaker--,
glanced over the shrunken form and the deeply marked and
fallen features—when I looked upon that pallid brow and
the hair which shaded it, once of clustering glossy brown,
but now lank and prematurely grey-1 could have said in my
heart this is not he; and perhaps a feeling of dissatisfaction
might have been traced upon my features and in my manner,
for the poor being before me shrunk beneath my glance, and
withdrew his hand with a sigh from the grasp of confiding
affection with which he had met mine. I had pained him—
how involuntarily heaven, knows ! He had bowed his spirit
to the task of meeting me ; he had opened the sealed casket
of his withered heart to admit me to a place there, and he
fancied that he had been repulsed, and to a spirit like his—a
broken spirit, yet still a proud one—who can paint the bit-
terness which such a fancy must have borne with it ? It was
but fancy, however. Another glance assured him that it was
so—that a pitying, a shocked, a grieving eye was gazing upon
him ; and with a sob, as if the heart from which it issued
had burst, he sunk into my arms and became insensible. He
had fainted.
- • '

-when I

—lt was some minutes before my summons for assistance
was attended to ; for the little apartment occupied by poor
Melton was not of that description which the reader, perhaps,
accustomed to the comforts of a family fireside, or to fashion-
able lodgings, with their ready bells and obsequious attend-
ants, may picture to himself. The room in question was
decently furnished, it is true. It was bed-room and sitting-
room in one ; and by the occupants of such domiciles—(how
many literary men in London have no better!)—attendance
of any description is rarely enjoyed. In the present case,
however, my friend bad been especially fortunate in the kind
of persons in whose house I found him. The landlady, or by
whatever other term she might be called, attended promptly,
as soon as my cries and stamping reached her ear ; and with
her assistance—(and it was:rendered, I speak it for her credit,
with almost maternal solicitude)—he was placed in the little
sofa bed which occupied one side of the room, and the neces-
sary stimulants promptly applied.
It was long, however, before he recovered ; and, whilst
anxiously watching for the return of sensibility, I was enabled,
with deep pain, to contemplate the full danger of his state,
and, by a few questions to his landlady, to ascertain some-
thing of his pecuniary condition. That I could relieve ;
and at once placed in her hands the means of affording him
the comforts which he required. But his health it was too
evident was gone beyond recovery. He was wasted to a very
shadow, and a devouring fever was in all his limbs ; and as
his eye glanced round occasionally, whilst he returned to
consciousness, there was a wildness in it, and at times a va-
cancy of expression, which suggested sad thoughts with
respect to his mental state. He became, however, more set-
tled at length ; and when he recognised me, as I sat by his
bedside, he sailed sadly upon me, and grasped my hand once
more with an affectionate pressure, motioning, at the same
time, to his landlady to retire. " I knew you would come to
me, George," he spoke in a faint and broken voice, " I have
been ill—very ill ; but now I shall be better—happier at

..........
I could not speak, for as I gazed upon his worn and still
noble features, a choking sensation paralyzed my tongue ; but
I pressed his band in silence. " You will come again,
George," he resumed, " when I am better—to-morrow. I
am weary now, and, as poor Shelley sings,
' I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away this life of care ;'

and yet my tears would not be all of sorrow. lam not yet
all deserted and desolate—although I deserve to be so."
His features darkened as he spoke, and his eyes resumed the
wild gleaming expression which I had noticed during the re-
eovery from his swoon. I interrupted him. " You must not
talk now, my dear friend ; I will come again when you are
more settled—when we can talk over the past and arrange
for the future."

1%14
" The past !" he broke in with a bitter energy, which,
from one so weak, surprised me, " Oh ! you know not what
misery is in the thought ! When I think of the past, those
maddening lines of Wordsworth are ever rising up into my
brain, and every breeze whispers, every object reflects them

lon my sight,—

But she is in the grave,
And, oh ! the difference to me !'
Once, George, I thought that was not poetry," he continued,
with a strange volubility of manner, " but now how often
have I felt it to be so ! The past—yes, we will talk of the
past—of the bright and beautiful—of the darkened and
wretched hours which are now summed up in that one em-
phatic word. You shall know all ; but not now. When I

am calmer ; when I am stronger."
I seized gladly upon the opportunity of interrupting this
wild and intensely-painful rambling ; and having repeated
my promise to see him on the following day, he turned upon
his pillow, and I left him enjoying, apparently, a tranquil
sleep. Before leaving the house, I encountered the old lady,
and from her I learnt much of the sufferings of my unhappy
friend, and much of the occasional recklessness of conduct
by which those sufferings had been aggravated, if not caused.
This information was communicated, however, with forbear-
ance, and almost in a pleading spirit; and I felt, therefore,
that I might safely leave him to her friendly surveillance.
Leaving with her, therefore, in case of any sudden emergency,
my address, I turned from the scene with a saddened and a
heavy heart.

TRIAL OF FRANCIS

(From the Morning Herald of Saturday.)
John Francis was convicted of high treason and sentenced
to death. The evidence detailed on the trial of this guilty I
youth was quite conclusive, and the verdict was most
righteous. That the convicted traitor did deliberately,
sanely, and of malice prepense, attempt the life of her most
gracious !Majesty the Queen, was established beyohd all
doubt; and that to no power save that of Almighty God
does the nation owe the preservation of its courageous and
beloved Monarch, is certain. Amongst the many blessings
poured down by an all-wise and all-good Providence on
this highly-favoured land, the failure of this attempted
assassination of Queen Victoria is pre-eminent. In the
midst of much present chastening for manifold national
offences, it ought to be a subject of devout thanksgiving
that the nation has escaped so dreadful a calamity as the
murder of its Sovereign. Most manifest to mankind is the
re-fulfilment of that Divine promise, that He will not for-
sake those princes who place their trust in Him.
Against the verdict of the jury, who tried and convicted
, John Francis, not a dissentient syllable can be raised—sub-
stantially there was no defence. Against the sentence which
condemns the convict to a traitor's death, no objection can
be taken ; it is but the fulfilment of the law of the land.
Against the execution of that sentence we do hesitate to pro-
test. The life of the Sovereign must be protected ; and if
the death of the traitor be absolutely necessary to secure that
life, so precious to the country, from future attacks, then to
the excution of John Francis must we say amen, and " may
the Lord God Almighty have mercy on his soul." But is his
death ,absolutely necessary ? Can her Majesty he secured
from such treasonable outrages only by the execution of this
traitor? These are solemn inquiries; but, solemn as they
are, they must be answered by the sworn advisers of the
Crown. The responsibility of the Queen's ministers is deep
and delicate. Should the mitigation of the sentence be fol-
lowed by another attempt on the royal person, it would be
universally ascribed to present leniency. Should future se-
curity attend the rigorous excution of the law, it may be
doubted whether they would be treated as cause and effect.
Whatever be the decision of the Privy Council with respect
to this sentence, and whatever it may be, whether for life or
death, we shall not doubt its mercy ; for there is mercy to
the Queen and her people as well as the traitor. That de-
cision must be come to on the sole and individual responsi-
bility of those whose duty it is to administer the pr:epaga4ves
of the Crown. It is a subject-matter for decision, into
which the wishes or feelings of the S.overeign mus not be
permitted to enter. What those wishes and feelings are
none can doubt ; they must be restrained. The Queen's
ministers have an awful duty to perform ; for its performance
they are responsible to a deeply-interested nation.
The simple question is, will the death of the trealatottracpkrse.?
tend to preserve her Majesty from other trcasonabl