Law, take thy victim — May she find the mercy
In yon mild heaven, which this hard world denies her!
It was an hour ere the jurors returned, and as they traversed the crowd with slow steps, as men about to discharge themselves of a heavy and painful responsibility, the audience was hushed into profound, earnest, and awful silence.
“Have you agreed on your chancellor1, gentlemen?” was the first question of the Judge.
The foreman, called in Scotland the chancellor of the jury, usually the man of best rank and estimation among the assizers, stepped forward, and with a low reverence2, delivered to the Court a sealed paper, containing the verdict, which, until of late years, that verbal returns are in some instances permitted, was always couched in writing. The jury remained standing3 while the Judge broke the seals, and having perused5 the paper, handed it with an air of mournful gravity down to the clerk of Court, who proceeded to engross6 in the record the yet unknown verdict, of which, however, all omened the tragical8 contents. A form still remained, trifling9 and unimportant in itself, but to which imagination adds a sort of solemnity, from the awful occasion upon which it is used. A lighted candle was placed on the table, the original paper containing the verdict was enclosed in a sheet of paper, and, sealed with the Judge’s own signet, was transmitted to the Crown Office, to be preserved among other records of the same kind. As all this is transacted10 in profound silence, the producing and extinguishing the candle seems a type of the human spark which is shortly afterwards doomed12 to be quenched13, and excites in the spectators something of the same effect which in England is obtained by the Judge assuming the fatal cap of judgment14. When these preliminary forms had been gone through, the Judge required Euphemia Deans to attend to the verdict to be read.
After the usual words of style, the verdict set forth15, that the Jury having made choice of John Kirk, Esq., to be their chancellor, and Thomas Moore, merchant, to be their clerk, did, by a plurality of voices, find the said Euphemia Deans Guilty of the crime libelled; but, in consideration of her extreme youth, and the cruel circumstances of her case, did earnestly entreat16 that the Judge would recommend her to the mercy of the Crown.
“Gentlemen,” said the Judge, “you have done your duty — and a painful one it must have been to men of humanity like you. I will undoubtedly17 transmit your recommendation to the throne. But it is my duty to tell all who now hear me, but especially to inform that unhappy young woman, in order that her mind may be settled accordingly, that I have not the least hope of a pardon being granted in the present case. You know the crime has been increasing in this land, and I know farther, that this has been ascribed to the lenity in which the laws have been exercised, and that there is therefore no hope whatever of obtaining a remission for this offence.” The jury bowed again, and, released from their painful office, dispersed18 themselves among the mass of bystanders.
The Court then asked Mr. Fairbrother whether he had anything to say, why judgment should not follow on the verdict? The counsel had spent some time in persuing and reperusing the verdict, counting the letters in each juror’s name, and weighing every phrase, nay19, every syllable20, in the nicest scales of legal criticism. But the clerk of the jury had understood his business too well. No flaw was to be found, and Fairbrother mournfully intimated, that he had nothing to say in arrest of judgment.
The presiding Judge then addressed the unhappy prisoner:—“Euphemia Deans, attend to the sentence of the Court now to be pronounced against you.”
She rose from her seat, and with a composure far greater than could have been augured21 from her demeanour during some parts of the trial, abode22 the conclusion of the awful scene. So nearly does the mental portion of our feelings resemble those which are corporeal23, that the first severe blows which we receive bring with them a stunning24 apathy25, which renders us indifferent to those that follow them. Thus said Mandrin, when he was undergoing the punishment of the wheel; and so have all felt, upon whom successive inflictions have descended26 with continuous and reiterated27 violence.1
“Young woman,” said the Judge, “it is my painful duty to tell you, that your life is forfeited28 under a law, which, if it may seem in some degree severe, is yet wisely so, to render those of your unhappy situation aware what risk they run, by concealing29, out of pride or false shame, their lapse30 from virtue31, and making no preparation to save the lives of the unfortunate infants whom they are to bring into the world. When you concealed32 your situation from your mistress, your sister, and other worthy33 and compassionate34 persons of your own sex, in whose favour your former conduct had given you a fair place, you seem to me to have had in your contemplation, at least, the death of the helpless creature, for whose life you neglected to provide. How the child was disposed of — whether it was dealt upon by another, or by yourself — whether the extraordinary story you have told is partly false, or altogether so, is between God and your own conscience. I will not aggravate35 your distress36 by pressing on that topic, but I do most solemnly adjure37 you to employ the remaining space of your time in making your peace with God, for which purpose such reverend clergymen, as you yourself may name, shall have access to you. Notwithstanding the humane38 recommendation of the jury, I cannot afford to you, in the present circumstances of the country, the slightest hope that your life will be prolonged beyond the period assigned for the execution of your sentence. Forsaking39, therefore, the thoughts of this world, let your mind be prepared by repentance40 for those of more awful moments — for death, judgment, and eternity41. — Doomster, read the sentence.”2
When the Doomster showed himself, a tall haggard figure, arrayed in a fantastic garment of black and grey, passmented with silver lace, all fell back with a sort of instinctive43 horror, and made wide way for him to approach the foot of the table. As this office was held by the common executioner, men shouldered each other backward to avoid even the touch of his garment, and some were seen to brush their own clothes, which had accidentally become subject to such contamination. A sound went through the Court, produced by each person drawing in their breath hard, as men do when they expect or witness what is frightful44, and at the same time affecting. The caitiff villain45 yet seemed, amid his hardened brutality46, to have some sense of his being the object of public detestation, which made him impatient of being in public, as birds of evil omen7 are anxious to escape from daylight, and from pure air.
Repeating after the Clerk of Court, he gabbled over the words of the sentence, which condemned47 Euphemia Deans to be conducted back to the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, and detained there until Wednesday the day of — — and upon that day, betwixt the hours of two and four o’clock afternoon, to be conveyed to the common place of execution, and there hanged by the neck upon a gibbet. “And this,” said the Doomster, aggravating48 his harsh voice, “I pronounce for doom11.”
He vanished when he had spoken the last emphatic50 word, like a foul51 fiend after the purpose of his visitation had been accomplished52; but the impression of horror excited by his presence and his errand, remained upon the crowd of spectators.
The unfortunate criminal — for so she must now be termed — with more susceptibility, and more irritable53 feelings than her father and sister, was found, in this emergence54, to possess a considerable share of their courage. She had remained standing motionless at the bar while the sentence was pronounced, and was observed to shut her eyes when the Doomster appeared. But she was the first to break silence when that evil form had left his place.
“God forgive ye, my Lords,” she said, “and dinna be angry wi’ me for wishing it — we a’ need forgiveness. — As for myself, I canna blame ye, for ye act up to your lights; and if I havena killed my poor infant, ye may witness a’ that hae seen it this day, that I hae been the means of killing55 my greyheaded father — I deserve the warst frae man, and frae God too — But God is mair mercifu’ to us than we are to each other.”
With these words the trial concluded. The crowd rushed, bearing forward and shouldering each other, out of the Court, in the same tumultuary mode in which they had entered; and, in excitation of animal motion and animal spirits, soon forgot whatever they had felt as impressive in the scene which they had witnessed. The professional spectators, whom habit and theory had rendered as callous56 to the distress of the scene as medical men are to those of a surgical57 operation, walked homeward in groups, discussing the general principle of the statute58 under which the young woman was condemned, the nature of the evidence, and the arguments of the counsel, without considering even that of the Judge as exempt59 from their criticism.
The female spectators, more compassionate, were loud in exclamation60 against that part of the Judge’s speech which seemed to cut off the hope of pardon.
“Set him up, indeed,” said Mrs. Howden, “to tell us that the poor lassie behoved to die, when Mr. John Kirk, as civil a gentleman as is within the ports of the town, took the pains to prigg for her himsell.”
“Ay, but, neighbour,” said Miss Damahoy, drawing up her thin maidenly61 form to its full height of prim62 dignity —“I really think this unnatural63 business of having bastard-bairns should be putten a stop to. — There isna a hussy now on this side of thirty that you can bring within your doors, but there will be chields — writer-lads, prentice-lads, and what not — coming traiking after them for their destruction, and discrediting64 ane’s honest house into the bargain — I hae nae patience wi’ them.”
“Hout, neighbour,” said Mrs. Howden, “we suld live and let live — we hae been young oursells, and we are no aye to judge the warst when lads and lasses forgather.”
“Young oursells! and judge the warst!” said Miss Damahoy. “I am no sae auld65 as that comes to, Mrs. Howden; and as for what ye ca’ the warst, I ken49 neither good nor bad about the matter, I thank my stars!”
“Ye are thankfu’ for sma’ mercies, then,” said Mrs. Howden with a toss of her head; “and as for you and young — I trow ye were doing for yoursell at the last riding of the Scots Parliament, and that was in the gracious year seven, sae ye can be nae sic chicken at ony rate.”
Plumdamas, who acted as squire66 of the body to the two contending dames67, instantly saw the hazard of entering into such delicate points of chronology, and being a lover of peace and good neighbourhood, lost no time in bringing back the conversation to its original subject.
“The Judge didna tell us a’ he could hae tell’d us, if he had liked, about the application for pardon, neighbours,” said he “there is aye a wimple in a lawyer’s clew; but it’s a wee bit of a secret.”
“And what is’t — what is’t, neighbour Plumdamas?” said Mrs. Howden and Miss Damahoy at once, the acid fermentation of their dispute being at once neutralised by the powerful alkali implied in the word secret.
“Here’s Mr. Saddletree can tell ye that better than me, for it was him that tauld me,” said Plumdamas as Saddletree came up, with his wife hanging on his arm, and looking very disconsolate68.
When the question was put to Saddletree, he looked very scornful. “They speak about stopping the frequency of child-murder,” said he, in a contemptuous tone; “do ye think our auld enemies of England, as Glendook aye ca’s them in his printed Statute-book, care a boddle whether we didna kill ane anither, skin and birn, horse and foot, man, woman, and bairns, all and sindry, omnes et singulos, as Mr. Crossmyloof says? Na, na, it’s no that hinders them frae pardoning the bit lassie. But here is the pinch of the plea. The king and queen are sae ill pleased wi’ that mistak about Porteous, that deil a kindly69 Scot will they pardon again, either by reprieve70 or remission, if the haill town o’ Edinburgh should be a’ hanged on ae tow.”
“Deil that they were back at their German kale-yard then, as my neighbour MacCroskie ca’s it,” said Mrs. Howden, “an that’s the way they’re gaun to guide us!”
“They say for certain,” said Miss Damahoy, “that King George flang his periwig in the fire when he heard o’ the Porteous mob.”
“He has done that, they say,” replied Saddletree, “for less thing.”
“Aweel,” said Miss Damahoy, “he might keep mair wit in his anger — but it’s a’ the better for his wigmaker, I’se warrant.”
“The queen tore her biggonets for perfect anger — ye’ll hae heard o’ that too?” said Plumdamas. “And the king, they say, kickit Sir Robert Walpole for no keeping down the mob of Edinburgh; but I dinna believe he wad behave sae ungenteel.”
“It’s dooms42 truth, though,” said Saddletree; “and he was for kickin’ the Duke of Argyle3 too.”
“Kickin’ the Duke of Argyle!” exclaimed the hearers at once, in all the various combined keys of utter astonishment71.
“Ay, but MacCallummore’s blood wadna sit down wi’ that; there was risk of Andro Ferrara coming in thirdsman.”
“The duke is a real Scotsman — a true friend to the country,” answered Saddletree’s hearers.
“Ay, troth is he, to king and country baith, as ye sall hear,” continued the orator72, “if ye will come in bye to our house, for it’s safest speaking of sic things inter73 parietes.”
When they entered his shop, he thrust his prentice boy out of it, and, unlocking his desk, took out, with an air of grave and complacent74 importance, a dirty and crumpled75 piece of printed paper; he observed, “This is new corn — it’s no every body could show you the like o’ this. It’s the duke’s speech about the Porteous mob, just promulgated76 by the hawkers. Ye shall hear what Ian Roy Cean4 says for himsell.
My correspondent bought it in the Palace-yard, that’s like just under the king’s nose — I think he claws up their mittans! — It came in a letter about a foolish bill of exchange that the man wanted me to renew for him. I wish ye wad see about it, Mrs. Saddletree.”
Honest Mrs. Saddletree had hitherto been so sincerely distressed77 about the situation of her unfortunate prote’ge’e, that she had suffered her husband to proceed in his own way, without attending to what he was saying. The words bills and renew had, however, an awakening78 sound in them; and she snatched the letter which her husband held towards her, and wiping her eyes, and putting on her spectacles, endeavoured, as fast as the dew which collected on her glasses would permit, to get at the meaning of the needful part of the epistle; while her husband, with pompous79 elevation80, read an extract from the speech.
“I am no minister, I never was a minister, and I never will be one”
“I didna ken his Grace was ever designed for the ministry,” interrupted Mrs. Howden.
“He disna mean a minister of the gospel, Mrs. Howden, but a minister of state,” said Saddletree, with condescending81 goodness, and then proceeded: “The time was when I might have been a piece of a minister, but I was too sensible of my own incapacity to engage in any state affair. And I thank God that I had always too great a value for those few abilities which Nature has given me, to employ them in doing any drudgery82, or any job of what kind soever. I have, ever since I set out in the world (and I believe few have set out more early), served my prince with my tongue; I have served him with any little interest I had, and I have served him with my sword, and in my profession of arms. I have held employments which I have lost, and were I to be tomorrow deprived of those which still remain to me, and which I have endeavoured honestly to deserve, I would still serve him to the last acre of my inheritance, and to the last drop of my blood —”
Mrs. Saddletree here broke in upon the orator:—“Mr. Saddletree, what is the meaning of a’ this? Here are ye clavering about the Duke of Argyle, and this man Martingale gaun to break on our hands, and lose us gude sixty pounds — I wonder what duke will pay that, quotha — I wish the Duke of Argyle would pay his ain accounts — He is in a thousand punds Scots on thae very books when he was last at Roystoun — I’m no saying but he’s a just nobleman, and that it’s gude siller — but it wad drive ane daft to be confused wi’ deukes and drakes, and thae distressed folk up-stairs, that’s Jeanie Deans and her father. And then, putting the very callant that was sewing the curpel out o’ the shop, to play wi’ blackguards in the close — Sit still, neighbours, it’s no that I mean to disturb you; but what between courts o’ law and courts o’ state, and upper and under parliaments, and parliament houses, here and in London, the gudeman’s gane clean gyte, I think.”
The gossips understood civility, and the rule of doing as they would be done by, too well, to tarry upon the slight invitation implied in the conclusion of this speech, and therefore made their farewells and departure as fast as possible, Saddletree whispering to Plundamas that he would “meet him at MacCroskie’s” (the low-browed shop in the Luckenbooths, already mentioned), “in the hour of cause, and put MacCallummore’s speech in his pocket, for a’ the gudewife’s din4.”
When Mrs. Saddletree saw the house freed of her importunate83 visitors, and the little boy reclaimed84 from the pastimes of the wynd to the exercise of the awl85, she went to visit her unhappy relative, David Deans, and his elder daughter, who had found in her house the nearest place of friendly refuge.
收听单词发音 |
1
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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dooms
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| v.注定( doom的第三人称单数 )；判定；使…的失败（或灭亡、毁灭、坏结局）成为必然；宣判 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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54
emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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discrediting
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| 使不相信( discredit的现在分词 )； 使怀疑； 败坏…的名声； 拒绝相信 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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67
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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promulgated
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| v.宣扬（某事物）( promulgate的过去式和过去分词 )；传播；公布；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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80
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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84
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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awl
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| n.尖钻 | |
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