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From the Home Journal. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. BY MRS. BELL SMITH. One Saturday afternoon, some years since, about the bar-room of the only public house in the little village of S , on Lake Erie, were gathered a number of gos siping idlers, sea-faring men and farmers. Although early in the afternoon, the heavy clouds of an approaching storm so darkened the shore, that candles were lit, and in their dim-light the gathered crowd listened to the beating of the waves upon the beach, and the distant roll of thunder that announced the coming strife. It was one of those scenes that occur when a mighty tempest comes down on Erie’s inland sea, and the dullest seemed struck with its impressive grandeur. ] Sailors drank from their poisoned cups with less noise, and the village politicians were less absorbed in the presidential election. One of the number seemed more uneasy than the rest. A young man, of mild, prepos sessing appearance, with a rifle in his hand, and a powder horn slung over his shoulder, for he had but a few minutes before coine in from gunning, paced to and from the door, looked at the troubled bay and cloudy sky, and frequently asked an old captain of a schooner when he would be able to sail—to night? “To-night? No, sir!” lie responded to one of these inquiries; “nor to-morrow—nor next day, 1 expect. This ’ere storm looks as if it was goin’ to lead oft a dance for a good many flirtin’ ones, and I don’t believe j in puttin’ out in sich company—it corrupts good maimers, as the savin’is. You seem to be in a great hurry, comrade ?” “I am. The .Spa Gull brought me ill news from home this morning, and I will double your passage money it you will run me down to G to-night.” “Not I. I wouldn’t undertake it for four times the money.” Silenced by this reply, the young man re turned sadly into the house; and, sitting : down, thrust his hands into his pockets, with the dogged air of one who makes up his mind to be content with a positive evil. M W had been in S but a few weeks, and although a stranger, had im pressed its inhabitants favorably—so quiet, j retiring, and, as all thought, kind was he in j manner and disposition. The business that! brought him to the place was by no means settled, and the intelligence he had received | must have been of a very pressing nature to j make one naturally so timid anxious to brave I a storm that caused the hardiest sailor to ! shrink from duty. He had been sitting with j a look of gloomy discontent but a short time, when the clatter of horses’ feet was heard in the street, and a man, pale and trem- ! bling, stood within the door-way. His first discordant, utterance was the word “Murder!” j No expression of pain or terror can send the same deathly chill to the heart as that one j word of terrible import; and, paralyzed with j stupid-surprise, the gathered crowd inquiring ly gazed at the breathless messenger of evil. I Before ho could relate what seemed to choke Lis utterance, the sheriff of the county has tily entered and arrested M W . “For what?” faltered the young man. “The murder of Millie Woods,” was the stern reply. It wanted only this to swell the horrible sensation that had fallen upon the crowd. Millie \\ oods, a little girl ten or twelve years of age, was the only child of respectable pa rents living within a mile of S , and in her sprightly loveliness had won the affec tion of all the villagers. The circumstances attending her death were as follows: The parents, as was frequently their custom, left the house under the charge of Millie, and had been, the greater part of the day, making purchases and visiting in the village. Hurry- ■ ing home before the coming storm, the agoniz- I ed parents found their house robbed, and their only child brutally murdered. The news Spread rapidly, and soon the curious and cool er neighbors were looking carefully on all marks the violence bad left in the premises. The house, a large frame one, stood some distance from the road. The front door was found open, all the inner doors unlocked or broken, every drawer, chest, press or cup board forced, and their contents scattered over the floor. In the garret, to which place the poor little creature had probably fled, Millie was found covered- with blood that flowed from a stab in her side, her little hand ! grasping an old bed-post, while around her neck a white handkerchief was slightly knot ted. Upon the floor of the hall, one of the neighbors picked up a squirrel with one fore paw gone, and its head scalped by a rifle ball. A young man who had been chopping wood in a neighboring grove immediately re cognized it as one W had shot that af ternoon ; he was by, and picking it up, re marked to W the excellent shot. W left him in the direction of Woods’ house, with the squirrel in his hand. The handker chief unwound front Millie’s neck had the letters >i. w. in one corner. True these were the initials of Millie’s own name, but her mother positively avowed she owned no such article. Satisfied with these circumstances the officer at once arrested W . From the time the murder was discovered to that of W ’s arrest was just two hours. The prisoner was hurried to the nearest magistrate, and the evidence l have detailed, given before him. In addition to this, spots of fresh blood were found on his coat sleeve, and as \\ oods had been nibbed of some gold and silver coin, of a peculiar character, two or three of the pieces were found upon the unfortunate man’s person. This riveted the final link and the crowd grew furious. Little Millie, so good, solovedand loving,all remem bered as a child of their own, and she to be butchered for gold—the law seemed too slow and mild for vengeance; and the great crowd, now swelled to hundreds, swayed to and fro shouting angrily for Mood. A convict hut lately from prison, hasten ed forward with a rope, threw it over a post, while some of the citizens in answer to this mute suggestion, hurried the unfortunate pris oner towards the impromptu gallows. “Oh, gentlemen!” screamed the young man, frightened at what appeared his invisi ble fate. “Have mercy upon me—l am inno cent—indeed I am—have mercy.” His voice was drowned in a roar from the crowd. “Who had mercy on little Millie? kill him, kill him!” and again they pushed him towards the fatal post. “Oh, God!” cried the unhappy man iq bit ter anguish and trembling like a child ; “will no one pity me! I have a widowed mother— mercy, mercy—wait a little while—only a little while.” One alone answered this last appeal. A young lawyer of eminent ability, and person al popularity, sprang forward", severed the rope, and then in a clear, silvery voice that rung high above the tumult, said : “My friends, be careful of your acts. You are about to do what in this man you con demn—an awful murder. Chain him down, do what you will to secure the criminal, but respect the law —” “And give Squire B —a chance to clear him,” interrupted the convict I have men tioned. “To that man, fresh from the cells, I have nothing to say. But to you, my companions, neighbors, I appeal—earnestly appeal. Mby | will you do this cruel thing? What right have you to commit a murder ? How will you answer to the great Giver of all good for this ? Where is your authority ?” “He whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shall liis blood be shed,” responded a harsh, solemn voice, and the crowd turning, saw, j where a torch waved over a stem, unfeeling face, the countenance of their preacher ! It was a time when the gathered feeling, check ed by some great obstacle, pauses in its rash career, and for a moment there seems a doubt which way the tide will flow. The awful passage so solemnly quoted, fell on the crowd at that moment, when the - slightest word would have turned them from their b ur P ose > i and, stimulated as it seemed to them by a command from Heaven, they once more seiz ed their trembling captive, when the old cap tain whom W had importuned for a pas sage, claimed to he heard: “Comrades,” said he, “Squire B thinks we hadn’t ought to hang this fellow. W ell. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. He wanted to sail with me this day. He shall do so. We’ll ! take him outside the Bay—lay him in an open boat, and set him adrift. Then the Lord have mercy on him. What say you ?” A shout of approbation was the response, and they hurried YY to the shore. In the* meanwhile the storm grew loud, and when, in the dark night, their torches beaten out by wind and rain, the great crowd heard the j angry waves dashing over the rude pier, their courage failed, and seven only were found ; ready for the enterprise. Clambering upon the deck, with their victim in their midst, the cables were cut and the little bark, like a frightened bird, flew out to sea. Perhaps no scene ever painted itself on the canvass of real life so startling, weird and strange as this. While the stout-hearted skipper steered the bark, the convict, assisted j by four of his companions, tied W to : the open boat, and the preacher, kneeling up on the deck, was heard between the pauses of the thunder, far above waves and wind, j calling upon Heaven to bless their unholy ; act. The open lake was gained and the wretch- : ed man, regardless of his entreaties and screams, was given to the foaming waters. In a glare of lightning, that was followed by a deafening [teal of thunder, they saw their j victim rise upon a huge wave, then plunge in- j to darkness and death beyond. Short time had the executioners to dwell upon their ruthless deed. Their lives were j in jeopardy. A storm so violent has seldom ; been equalled, and the little craft was work- j ed, save the skipper, by unskillful hands, j Desperate efforts were made to regain the Bay, but the entrance was narrow and intri cate, while commands, grossly misunderstood, were promptly executed, so that the bark ran upon a ledge of rocks and quickly went to pieces. Two only of its strange crew were saved—the clergyman and the convict to gether reached the shore. Some three years after these strange events, the Rev. Mr. II was awakened one night by a request to come immediately, and ad minister religious consolation to a prisoner, who, in attempting an escape from jail, had been mortally wounded by the sentinel on du ty. The Rev. gentleman folding his cloak about him, and accompanied by the jailor, threaded his way through snow and sleet to the prison. They found the prisoner writhing in pain upon his bed in the gloomy cell, lit by a diin candle, and alone, for the surgeon had pro nounced his case hopeless. “You’ve come at last,” he growled, as the clergyman, approaching his bed, took from beneath his cloak a book# and began the du ties pertaining to his sacred mission. “You’ve come at last; I thought I’d go down before you got here.” “May you be spared for repentance; let us lose no time.” • .“Noyou don’t! I’m bound to go down— down. Don’t be fooling—l didn’t send for that.” “The sands of life are running fast. In a few moments you will he in the presence of your Judge, and repentance then will be of no avail.” . ; “It will not avail me now,” said the criminal. 1 “Think of your past life—think of the pun ishment that is to follow.” The answer to this was a frantic roar of laughter, that made even the jailor’s blood tingle with alarm. “I will not remain,” said Mr. II stern ly, “and hear this awful mockery. 1 warn you now—beware !” “Well, listen then—don’t you know me ?” The clergyman held the candle to the con vict’s face, and started frith astonishment. j “Oh! you know me, do you ? You re member the night we tossed W over board—how he prayed ? Oh, ho! look to I yourself!” “I did mv duty.” “Ha, ha! you did, did you? You did your duty in drowning a poor fellow for a murder he never committed!” A tremor like an ague ran through the lis tener’s frame, and there he stood as one dis mayed. “He never did the deed; I murdered Mil lie Woods—l chased her to the garret and killed her. I was there robbing the house I when \\ came. I heard him speak cheerily to the child, give her the squirrel, and then leave. A minute after that, she was a dead baby, and W had the blame.” “Lord, have mercy upon me!” groaned the divine, in an agony of spirit. “1 slipped the gold pieces into his pocket. How he prayed and begged for mercy ! It’s our turn now ! L don’t beg—l won’t—l’ll die as I have lived—but you can howl. He had a widowed mother. We all went under— but you and I, parson, came up together— ! now we go down—down—down!” The voice ceased—a shudder ran through his iron frame, and the wretched criminal was no more. * * * * * * In time, the village of S grew to a city. Many of its old citizens had emigrated, or were dead, and among the remaining, the events I have narrated had faded almost into an uncertain legend, when, one sunny after noon, an elderly gentleman of staid, respect able appearance, accompanied by his wife and children, made his way from the evening steamer, to one of the principal hotels. Af ter securing rooms he walked into the streets. He earnestly scanned the signs as he passed. He stopped belore one that read “Attorney at-law he paused, and then, with a start as if the determination had a spice of the desper ate in it, he ascended the stairs and entered the olfice. An elderly man, with a bald head and wrinkled face, was seated at a ta ble surrounded by books and papers. Invi ting the new comer to be seated, lie peered at him through his spectacles, and inquired his l business. “Mr. B , you do uot remember me ?” “I cannot say that I do,” answered the at torney, slowly, as if in doubt. “Do you not remember pleading in behalf of a poor fellow, about being lynched tor a murder some thirty years since I” “Mr. M—*— W !” exclaimed the law yer joyfully. “Can it be possible ? I never forget a face, and yours I saw in a frame- j work that night that ought to impress it upon my memory forever. But I thought you dead years ago. Sit down—sit down, and tell me all.” “After I was thrown from the vessel that night,” said W , seating himself, “I was so frightened that for some time I had no con sciousness of what occurred. On becoming more collected, I found my little boat, half filled with water, riding the short heavy waves, and every second I expected to go un der, or be capsized, and so drown. This not occurring, I began to look about me. I found the cord by which I was tied passed over my shoulder. I managed to get it in my mouth, and soon gnawed it apart. This loosened my hands, so that in a few minutes I freed myself and sat up. With an old cup that I found in the boat, I baled out the wa ter, and then breaking up one of the seats I managed the little affair so as to ship no more of the waves, and in this way rode out the storm and the night. “By morning the wind had somewhat sub sided, but so exhausted was I by fear and fa tigue, that I was forced to lie down, and soou was sound asleep. When I awakened the sun was setting, and as far as I could see on every side, was a dreary waste of waters. Strange as it may sound, I was greatly re lieved” I feared nothing so much as falling again into the hands of that terrible mob. “The full moon came out, making the scene light almost as day, and, a gentle breeze springing up, I took my coat, fastened it on the broken seat, and with this for a sail, drif ted, near as I could make out by the stars, in a north-easterly direction. I knew, sooner or later, I must strike the Canada shore, but how I had been carried in the storm, I could not of course determine. Through that long night f floated on. I saw the moon go down and the stars fade into the cold gray light of morning, and then the sun came up with the clear, calm day, but no land could be seen— nothing but glittering water. I imagined at one time seeing in the dim distance a sail, but if one, it immediately disappeared. About noon I noticed something floating near me, and on paddling my boat along side, found it a bale of goods carefully corded together. 1 fastened it, almost without motive, to my boat, and again lying down was soon asleep. 1 was awakened by a shout, and starting up, found I was running in close to a wooded shore, and a number of men staring in won der at my appearance. In answer to my re quest, one of them waded in and pulled my boat to the land. I learned, to my great re lief, that I had reached the Canada side, with in a few miles of . It was supposed that I had been shipwrecked, to which my bale of goods at once gave coloring, and se cured for me a kind reception. On open ing this bale next day, I found it filled with costly silks and velvets, and so admirably packed the water had not damaged them. This had probably been lost from some wreck in the late storm, and noting the ad dress with intention of repayment some day, 1 sold the contents, and with the proceeds made my way to New York, where I, after my mother’s death, joined an expedition fit ting out for ,in South America. In this new home I married, and engaged in mer chandise. There I lived until I learned, a I few months since, my innocence of that cru : cl deed had been made known by the confes sion of the real criminal.” When he had finished recounting his strange escape, the lawyer rising abruptly caught him by the arm and pointed to the open window. They looked and saw a gaunt figure, with sunken eyes, pale cheeks and long gray hair, in the gloom of the evening, move silently along. “That,” said the lawyer, “is Mr. II . Since the night of the criminal’s confession his intellect, never very strong, has been a complete wreck. Every evening he wan ders to the lake. If stormy, no entreaties : can induce him to seek a shelter, but, hour after hour, he paces the shore, as if every mo ment he expected some revelation from its troubled waters.” j Expounding the Law.—A Scotchman called at the house of lawyer Fletcher, of Ly don, \ ermont, to consult that legal gentle man professionally. “Is the Squeer at home ?” he enquired of the lawyer’s lady, who opened the door at his summons, lie was answered negatively. Disappointment was now added to the tri als of Scotia’s son, but after a moment’s con sideration, anew thought relieved him. “Mebby yourself can gie me the necessary in formation as weel as the Squeer—seein’ as ye’re his wife.” The kind lady readily promised to do so, j if, on learning the nature of his difficulty, she ; found it in her power, and the other proceed ed to state the case as follows: “Spoae ye was an auld white mear, and I should bony ye te gang to mill, with a grist on yer back, an’ we should get no farder than Stair hill, when, all at woonce, ye should back up, and rear up, and pitch up, and keel down backwards, and break year darned old neck, who’d pay for ye ? not I, dearn me if I would!” The lady smilingly told him, as she closed the door, that as he had himself passed sen tence on the case, advice would be entirely superfluous. A Quiet Mediator. —A young English man, while at Naples, was introduced at an Assembly of one of the first ladies, by a Nea politan gentleman. While he was there, his snuff-box was stolen from his pocket. The next day, being at another house, he saw a person taking snuff out of liis box. He ran i to his friend. ’ “There,” said he, “that man in blue, with gold embroidery, is taking snuff’ out of the box stolen from me yesterday. Do vou know him ? Is he not a sharper ?” “Take care,” said the other, “that man is of the first quality.” “I do not care for his quality,” said the Englishman, “I must have my snuff-box again. I will go and ask for it.” “Brav, be quiet,” said his friend, “and leave it to me to get back your box.” Upon this answer the Englishman went away, after inviting his friend to dine with him the next day. He accordingly came, and as he entered, said: “There, I have brought you your snuff box.” “Well, how did you obtain it ?” “Why, I did not wish to make any noise about it, and so I picked his pocket of it!” ’ Os all the melancholy sights, a bachelor’s home is the most so. A house without a woman, is like a world without a sky, or a sky without a star—dark, desolate and dreary. With the ex j ception of the lady who “milked the cow with I the crumpled horns,” we know of nothing more forlorn and melancholy. THE WEBSTER TRIAL.. It was our intention, to have resumed this week, the narration of the most of the testi mony in this painfully interesting case, hut its termin ation in the conviction of the Prisoner, as well as the press of other matter,’ induces us to omit it. Speak ing of the trial, the Baltimore Sun says: Few can contemplate this remarkable case, one of the most startling in the annals of American Juris prudence, without an appalling sense of the terrible consequence of crime. Our pity fur the victim and the afflicted family deprived of his love and care, is almost totally absorbed by the extraordinary develope ments attending the detection of the murderer ; and here again, the utterances of indignant reproach against the perpetrator of the fearful crime, are restrained by those sympathies of our nature which are awakened amidst the deep anguish in which an amiable family is involved. But the law, that law without which society would recede into barbarism, is above our sympathies. It exacts the penalty of life for life, on the conviction of guilt. The jury in the present case have declared that the guilt is proved as charged in the indictment. The court approves the finding of the jury, and the law will take its course. Speaking of the verdict, the same paper says: The combination of chances upon which alone we could predicate the innocence of the prisoner, would almost j ustify a conclusion that the formation of the world was the effect of chance. To admit the vague possi bility of innocence in the face of such a consistent and methodical array of facts as that presented by the prosecution, would be to afflict society with painful uncertainty in relation to the force of evidence and the power of truth. We give below the closing scenes of this trial. Af ter the argument by counsel had been concluded, the prisoner obtained permission to address the court and jury- He commenced in rather a confused manner with out addressing, directly, either bench or jury, and said: I have desired to enter into an explanation of the complicated net-work of circumstances which by my peculiar position, the Government has thrown around me, and which in nine cases out of ten, are completely distorted, and prob ably nine-tenths of which could be satisfactorily explained. All the points of the testimony have been placed in the hands of my counsel, by whom my innocence could have been firmly estab lished. Acting entirely under their direction, I have sealed my lips during my confinement, trusting myself entirely to them—they have not deemed it necessary, in their superior wisdom, to bring forward the evidence which was to exonerate me from a variety of these acts. The Govern ment have brought whatever consummate ingen uity could suggest against me, and I hope it will not have an undue influence upon the jury. I will not allude to many of the charges. There is one which touches me, and that is the letter which has been produced, stating that I had, af ter the disappearance of Dr. P., purchased a quantity of oxalic acid to remove the stains of blood, and it instantly occurred to me that this parcel might be saved and produced when neces sary. For several days Mrs. W. had requested me to purchase some acid for domestic use, and my wife had repeatedly laughed at me because I had not purchased it. I had borne it in mind that afternoon, and had gone into Thayers store un der the Revere House, made the purchase, waited till the Cambridge Hourly came along, and then jumped into the omnibus with the bun dle. I went home and gave the bundle to my wife, and when afterward, I heard so much said about the bundle, it flashed on my mind in a mo ment that this must be it. It was not to this bun dle, and not to any document that I referred in the direction of my wife. As regards the nature of copper—in the usual lectures preceding my arrest, 1 had occasion to use the influence of chemical agents in produ cing changes of various subjects—among others, upon gases. I prepared a large quantity of ox alic acid gas, a gallon jar was filled with gas in order to produce the changes from dark color to orange, and also in air, on great heat being ap plied to the jar. The gas was drawn through water. As to the nitrate of copper spilt on the stairs and floor of the laboratory, it was spilt ac cidentally from a quantity, and by me, in my lectures between the day of Dr. P.’s disappear ance and my own arrest. So I might go on in explaining a variety of circumstances which have been distorted. My counsel have pressed me to keep calm— my very calmness has been made to hear against j me; but my trust has been in my God and my j own innocence. In regard to the money I must i say a word. The money which I paid Dr. P. on ■ the afternoon of Friday, Nov. 23d, I had saved j up from time to time and kept it in a trunk in | my house in Cambridge, but, unfortunately, no ; one ever saw me take it; therefore, I can only ! give my word that such is the fact. Several : years ago I had students, who were in the habit | of being in my laboratory, and who injured my | apparatus; therefore, I prepared every thing for my own use in my lectures with my own hands —and that is the reason why I excluded persons from my laboratory. As regards my whereabouts from the hour of Dr. P.’s disappearance, 1 have put into my coun sel’s hands satisfactory information, which will account for every day I had spent during that week, for every day and every hour. I never was absent from home. As to being seen by Mr. 1 Sanderson, I was at home every evening. One thing that has been omitted by my counsel was that on the Friday on which the alleged murder was said to have been committed, I had purchased Humboldt’s new work, “Cosmos,” and while waiting for an omnibus, stepped into Brigham’s to take a mutton chop, and on com ing-out to take the omnibus, had forgotten my book, but after my arrest, remembered the place j where I left it, and mentioned it to my counsel. 1 They sent to Mr. Brigham’s, and the book had | been found. I He then took his seat, but in a moment rose i and said: I will say one word more; I have felt very much distressed by, the of those an- I onymous letters; nukes* than by any thing that has occurred during I call my God to witness, that if it of my life, I would say that I never wrote tlrose letters. Since the trial commenced, a letter has been received from this very “Civis” by one of my counsel. If the person has a spark of humanity, I call upon him to come forward—a notice to this effect has been put in the papers. Prof. W. having said this, sat down. A deep impression was made upon the jury, the court, and the spectators, by the solemn earnestness exhibifed by the prisoner in his remarks. The Verdict. At twenty minutes before 11 o’clock there was a movement at the door of the Supreme Court Room, and presently a number of gentlemen came in, and among them the counsel for the prisoner, Charles Summer, Chas. T. Jackson, Judge Bigelow, N. J. Bowditch, and a number ! of members of the Bar, Policemen and Clergy men. The galleries being crowded to excess. In about five minutes after, Prof. Webster came in, in charge of a constable, and took his seat in the dock. His appearance was un changed, except that serious dejectedness was apparent in the contraction of the muscles about the mouth. The court came in in five minutes after. The clerk of the court, Mr. Willard, then said, ad dressing the Jury, “Mr. Byron, foreman, have you agreed upon your verdict?” Mr. Byron, foreman of the jury, bowed assent The Clerk “John W. Webster, hold up your right hand.” The prisoner arose and looked steadily and in tently upon the foreman of the jury. The Clerk ‘Air. Foreman, look upon the prisoner; prisoner, look upon the jury.” Prof. W ebster still maintained his intense look upon the foreman of the jury. The Clerk con tinued, “Y\ hat do you say, Mr. Foreman—is the prisoner at the bar Guilty or Not Guilty ?” “GUILTY!” was the solemn response. The hand of the prisoner, which had hitherto been held erect, fell to the bar in front of him with a deadly sound, as if he had lost all muscu- \ lar action, and his head dropped upon his breast. ! He soon sat down, his limbs seeming to give evi deuce of failing. He put his hands to hie face, and was observed to rub his eyes. He then closed his eyelids and bowed his head down towards the court. Mr. Byron, the foreman of the jury, at the same time held his hand before his eyes, as if overcome by the pain ful duty he had” to perform. An unbroken si lence ensued, in which the court, the jut) and spectators seemed to be absorbed in their own reflections. The appearance of the prisoner at this time was painful to contemplate; his eyes were closed, and a deep sigh denoted the load of inexpressi ble anguish on his soul, and the crushing blow that had fallen upon him. Chief Justice Shaw broke the silence and sus pense by dismissing the jury in a voice trembling with emotion, and requested their attendance on the court at 9 o’clock on Monday morning. Mr. Merrick, the prisoner’s counsel, then went into the prisoner’s dock, and spoke a few words in his ear, and soon after the order was given by the court that the prisoner should be remanded; which was done, after the gallery had been clear ed by the officers. The whole proceedings did not occupy more than twelve minutes, and was a scene never to be forgotten by those who were present. The verdict was received by the crowd out side with not a few expressions of regret Af ter the spectators had been dispersed from the court house, the prisoner was removed by the officers to the Leverett street jail, to await his sentence. Monday, April 1. At 5 minutes past 9 o’clock the prisoner was brought into the court room by officer Jones. His appearance indicated much mental suffer ing, but he attempted to appear calm. The Attorney General moved that the sen tence of the law be pronounced upon the priso ner. His language was feeling and pathetic. Chief Justice Shaw then asked the prisoner if he had any thing to say why the sentence of the law should not be pronounced. The prisoner signified that he had nothing to say. The Judge then in a very feeling manner proceeded to give the sentence of the law as follows: The Sentence. John \V. Webster: In meeting you here for the last time, to pronounce that sentence which the law has affixed to this high offence of which you stand convicted, it is impossible for lan guage to give utterance to the “deep conscious ness of responsibility, to the keen sense of sad ness and sympathy with which we approach this solemn duty. Circumstances, which all who hear me will duly appreciate, and which it. may seem hardly fit to allude to more in detail, j render the performance of this duty on the pre- ; sent occasion unspeakably painful. At all times, and under all circumstances, a j feeling of indescribable solemnity attaches to the utterance of the stern voice of retributive justice, which consigns a fellow being to an untimely and ignominious death, but when we consider all the circumstances.*)!’ your past life, your va rious relations to society, the claims upon you by others, the hopes and expectations you have cherished, with your present condition and the ignominious death which awaits you, we are oppressed with grief and anguish, and nothing but a sense of imperative duty imposed on us by the law whose officers and ministers we are, could sustain us in pronouncing such a judg ment against the crime of wilful murder, of which you stand convicted; a crime at which | humanity shudders; a crime every where, and under all forms of society, regarded with the deepest abhorrence. The law has pronounced its severest penalty in these few and simple but solemn and im pressive words. “Every person who shall com mit the crime of murder shall suffer the pun ishment of death for the same.” The manifest object of this law is the protec tion and security of human life, the most impor tant object of a just and paternal government. It is made the duty of this Court to declare this penalty against any one who shall have been found guilty in due course of the administration of justice, of having violated the law. It is one of the most solemn acts of judicial power which an earthly tribunal can be called upon to exercise. It is a high and exemplary manifestation of the sovereign authority of the law, as well in its stern and inflexible severity, i as in its protecting and paternal benignity. It punishes the guilty with severity in order i that the right to the enjoyment of life, the most | precious of all rights, may be more effectually j secured. j By the record before us, it appears that you j have been indicted by the grand jury of this j count y for the crime of murder, alleging that on ! the 23d of November last, you made an assault 1 on the person of Dr. George Parkman, and by | acts of violence, deprived him of life, with mal i ice aforethought. This is alleged to have been done within the j apartment of a public institution in this city— I the Medical College—of which you were pro j fessor and instructor, upon the person of a man l of mature age, well known, and of extensive connexions in this community, and a benefac tor of that institution. The charge of an offence so aggravated, un der such circumstances, in the midst of a peace ful community, created an instantaneous out burst of surprise, alarm and terror, and was fol lowed by a universal and intense anxiety to learn, by the results of a judicial proceeding, whether this charge rvas true. The day of trial came. A Court was organ ized to conduct it. A jury, almost of your own choosing, was selected in a manner best calcu lated to insure intelligence and impartiality. Counsel were appointed to assist you in con ducting your defence, and who have done all that learning, eloquence and skill could accom plish in presenting your defence in its best as pects. Avery large number of witnesses were care fully examined, and after a very laborious trial of unprecedented length, conducted as we hope, with patience and fidelity, that jury have pro nounced you guilty. To this verdict, upon a careful revision of the whole proceedings, I am constrained to say, in behalf of the Court, that they can see no just or legal ground of excep tion. Guilty! How much, under all these thrilling circumstances which cluster around the case, and throng our memories in the retrospect, does this single word impart! The wilful, violent and malicious destruction of the life of a fellow man, in the face of God and under the protec tion of the law. Yes, of one in the midst of life, with bright hopes, warm affections, mutual attachments, strong, extensive and numerous friends, making life a blessing to himself and others. , We allude thus to the injury you have inflict ! ed, not for the purpose of awakening one unne cessary pang in a heart already lacerated, but to remind you of the irreparable wrong done to the victim of your cruelty. In sheer justice to him whose voice is now hushed in death, and whose wrong can only be vindicated by the liv ing actions of the law. If, therefore, you may at any moment think your case a hard one, and your punishment too ; heavy—if one repining thought arises in your | mind, or one murmuring word seeks utterance from your lips, think, oh think, of him instantly j deprived of life by your guilty hand; then, if not lost to all sense of retributive justice, if you have any compunctious visitmgs of conscience, i you may be ready to exclaim, in the bitter an ; guish of truth, “I have sinned against heaven and my own soul. My punishment is just. God i be merciful to me, a sinner.” God grant that your example may afford a j solemn warning to all, especially to the young. ! May it impress on every mind the salutary les son it is intended to teach ; to guard against the i indulgence of unhallowed or vindictive passions, , ; and to resist temptation to any and every sel j fish, sordid and wicked purpose—to listen to j the warning of conscience and yield to the plain j dictate of duty; and while they instinctively ; shrink with abhorrence from the first thoughts j of assailing the life of another, may they learn j i to reverence the laws of God and of society, de- 1 ; signed to secure protection to their own. We forbear, for obvious considerations, from j j adding such words of adxdce as may be some j times thought appropriate on occasions like this. It has commonly been our province, on occa sions like the present, to address the illiterate, the degraded, the outcast, whose early life has been cast among the vicious, the neglected, the abandoned, who have been blessed with no 1 moral or religious culture, who have never re- ! < ceived the benefits of cultivated society, nor the sweet and ennobling influences of home. 1 To such a one a word of advice upon an oc- 1 casion so impressive, may be a word fitly spo- i ■ ken, and turned to good account; but in a case like this, when those circumstances are all re-j moved, no word of ours could be more effica cious than the suggestions of your own better thoughts, to which we commend you. But, as w'e appioach this last sad duty of pronouncing sentence, which is indeed the voice of the law”, and not our own, in giving it utterance we can not do it with a feeling of indifference as a for mal and official act. God forbid that we should be prevented from indulging and expressing these irrepressible feel ings of interest, sympathy and compassion which arise spontaneously in our hearts, and we do most sincerely and cordially deplore the distress- j ing condition into which crime has brought you; j and though we have no word of present conso lation, or one earthly hope to offer you, in this hour of your affliction, yet we devoutly com mend you to the mercy of our Heavenly Father, with whom is abundance of mercy, and from whom we may all hope for pardon and peace. And now nothing remains but the solemn du ty of pronouncing the sentence which the law affixes to the crime of murder, of which you ! stand convicted; which sentence is, that you, John W. Webster, be removed from this place, and detained in close custody in the prison of this county, and be thence taken, at such time as the Executive Government ot this eommon- I wealth may by their warrant appoint, to the j place of execution, and there be hung by the j neck until you are dead—And may God, in his j infinite goodness, have mercy upon your soul. Upon hearing the last of the above words, the j prisoner sunk heavily upon his seat, and incli ! ned his head upon the bar. He wept in agony. His emotions were extremely violent, and his j sobs could be distinctly heard in any part of the Court room; but in a few moments he summon ed his usual fortitude and became more calm. A large number of those present were deeply affected, even to tears. An awful silence reign ed for a few moments in the room, and the eyes of hundreds were bent upon the prisoner; who now sat upright with fixed gaze upon the bench. A suppressed whisper went through the crowd, in anxious enquiry respecting the prisoner, but silence being gained, the Judge placed the pris j oner in charge of the sheriff. At half past nine j | the prisoner was ordered to be remanded, and ! j was led from the room by officer Jones. The main body of the Courthouse, the galle- j ries, the halls and entries were crowded by an j anxious concourse of people who rushed from j the building, anxious to get another look at the prisoner. Dining the delivery of the sentence, the crowd were remarkably quiet, and retired deeply im pressed with the awful solemnity of the scene. ; A telegraphic despatch to the Sun says: It is understood that the jury after going out on Saturday night, at first deliberated in silence for ten minutes, then voted on the question whether the remains were those of Dr. Park man. There was a unanimous yea. On the second whether. Webster committed the murder ap'hefe were eleven yeas and one nay. The narcame from Mr. Benj. 11. Greene lie stated his point of doubt, and after some discussion, he declared it was removed. The family of Webster was not informed of the A'erdict on the night it was rendered. Some friends, however, undertook the task of prepar ing their minds tor it. The awful disclosure was made to them on Sunday morning, by Mrs. Win. E. Prescott. The scene was most heart rending. Every effort has been made by their friends to assuage the grief of the afflicted wife 1 and daughters, who, up to a late hour, confident ly expected an acquittal. A letter of condolence was presented to them or. Sunday afternoon, signed by the heads of all the : principal families of Cambridge, including Hon. ! Edward Everett, Jared Sparks, Prof. Morton, : Judge Fay, &c. Judge Fay gave it up, that his friend Webster was a guilty man , after hear ing his own speech on Saturday evening. From the Alabama Planter. Varieties of Cotton. Messrs. Editors:—The vast importance of Cotton as the great leading staple of Southern product, has created an interest in the different varieties of the plant, and some | considerable pains have been taken to pro duce new kinds, or introduce into notice and use those that have been discovered, and among these efforts some little humbug has no doubt crept in also. From what has oc- I curred, we may safely consider the middle 1 and southern portions of Alabama and the ; corresponding latitudes of this continent ; along the Atlantic and the Gulf, at a small i distance from and parallel to them, as the true land of the short staple cotton in its va j rieties of Green Seed, Mexican, Petit Gulf, : Mastodon, and their cognate varieties, yet, j from causes I think not at till difficult, at i least in part, to explain, till are satisfied, who j have not noticed the subject, that instead of i improvement, there is a manifest tendency !to deterioration in the article, both in pro ; duct and quality. I propose to suggest a few of the reasons | and some of the remedies, and among them, ! perhaps, stands first the use of defective seed. We rarely succeed even in picking a lot of j superior early cotton separately into one house, and even if we do it, it has all the ; small defective lower bolls of inferior quali ty, both as to size and staple, in it. But when we come to ginning, the evil is still : further increased by the ginning together in one heap, most commonly, early and late, good and bad, and then from this mixture of j all sorts our seed is promiscuously taken up bv a negro who neither knows nor cares anything ! about the subject, and were he ever so capa ! ble, it would be impossible for him to make any judicious selection. To this is added the fact, that very frequently, especially in early planted cotton, the most full and perfect seeds j that vegetate soonest and send up the most early and vigorous plants are, by frost, cold, wet and insects, destroyed, and to get a stand, we must fain content ourselves with any poor, sickly plant we can get. Thus, from year to year, we propagate a still more sickly and a 1 still more weak and degenerate race of plants, 1 until it is a wonder that it does not run out entirely. True it is, that some few planters do take a little pains to keep separate some particular lot of cotton for planting seed, and this plan, with all its defects, is amply reward ed, but it is very defective still, as is evinced by its results. But this is not all. It is not sufficient that we pay no attention to where the seed we plant is grown, what its quality—whether im mature or perfect, degenerated or improved. We add to the absurdities and errors on this subject, still another gross one. From year to year we plant cotton on the same land, re gardless ot the well known fact, that in time, j the qualities in any soil adapted to the best development ot any plant are so exhausted that they can no longer be procured by it in sufficient quantity for that purpose, and the plant must degenerate; the soil being, by the lessened quantity of the necessary ingredi- j ents, unfit for the perfection of that plant, it ceases to thrive upon it. This is familiarly ; illustrated by the appearance at times upon 1 the commons and open plaees, of certain weeds that for a time cast all others out, and usurp the domain exclusively, and to appear ance, have fixed their abode permanently upon it, to the exclusion of all others. In a year or two, from the highest luxuriance, we see them dwindle and soon disappear, giving place to one requiring other substances for its nourishment. Probably it is much weak er than its predecessor, but the characteris tics of the soil favor it, and it roots out the stronger, and occupies the place of it for Un allotted time, when it must give way to an other. Again: destroy a forest of old and long standing trees, and it is sure to be, if left to the course of nature, succeeded by one of a quite different character, and requiring a different kind or different proportions of materials for its production. Yet from year to year we plant cotton on the same field, alternated, it is true, once in a while, with corn and peas, and thus robbing it gradually ot all power to produce either, or at best, weak and degenerated specimens of them. From these causes arises the constant ten, dency in all the improved new and boasted varieties of cotton to degenerate. It is true, that some peculiar soils and localities are better adapted to cotton, as well as other plants than others are, yet no one at all con versant with the subject can have failed to notice the fact In the one case, nature herself so clearly points to a greater variety and rotation of crops, as a remedy, that no observant enqui rer can mistake her teachings. Thev are’ clear, unequivocal and uniform. The proper” choice of seed, however, makes another con, dition to the successful development of~ plants. Experience has proved beyond ques tion that to this end, the choice of good and” | perfect seed, well selected, is absolutely re : quisite. This, in cotton, is perhaps more* difficult than in almost anything else, and I j suggest for your readers, what appears to* j me would be the best plan that has occurred i to me for attaining the end. Let the owner, overseer, or some trusty,- I experienced hand, of good judgment, and se ! looted for the purpose, before the general j picking, go into the best and most fully devel oped fields or spots of cotton in the planta i tion, and then from the select stalks, pick the I select bolls, going on in this way, at least, un i til he has picked enough to plant so much us : will make seed the next year, and so annual jly proceed. Doubtless, it would be better to j pick of these “select bolls” from “select stalks” ! sufficient for the whole planting every year, but I can hardly expect to induce the go ahead cotton planters of Georgia, Alabama ! and Mississippi to take so much pains as all ’ that, though I think they would be well paid for the trouble. But perhaps some may adopt the modified plan proposed, the experi ence of which may induce them to carry out the whole. ! It is true, that in the first curse pronounced upon our race, and on the earth, on account of the race, that the necessary tendency to deterioration of valuable products was pro bably included, as well as the spontaneous or natural growth of useless or noxious ones; yet experience has proved, that by labor and care, the toil of man can at least amelio j rate this tendency very much in other products, j and why not in cotton, especially in this clime : and locality, by nature the most favorable to j it that is known. I believe that if this plan were judicions ; ly and perseveringly carried out, the sale of cotton seed by quart, pint, gill or 100 ; seeds, would end, and with it the many loss* j es, disappointments and vexations connect ed with it. There would be a limit to Imm ! bug as well as to unnecessary expense for that which is really valuable, but which the j purchaser could gs well have produced him* j self, and which must degenerate in his hand?, ! if lie does not bestow, to some extent, that j care which produced the original. To per fect the system of improvement, or at least j preservation, it is absolutely requisite that a 1 judicious change or rotation of crops he pur | sued. We may, with some degree of im punity, again and again tax the energies of a virgin soil to produce in succession the same crop, but they will give way, and de feat must he the result of such ili directed efforts if long continued. We are now sore ly experiencing this evil already in Alabama and Mississippi, and wisdom bids us sevk a ; remedy. 11 any thing is better than prop er rotations of crops and judicious manuring, I know not what it is; and until better rem odics tor the deterioration and decrease of cotton crops are given, I would recommend care in the selection of seed, proper changes ! ot crops, and good manuring, as remedies worth trying. Sumter. Pat’s Boots.—The Newark (N. J.) Mercury j says: We heard a good one of a green sprig j from the Emerald Isle, who, the other day, en tered a boot and shoe store to purchase himself a pair ot “brogues.” After overhauling hi 6 stock ! in trade, without being able to suit bis customer, the store-keeper hinted that he would make him ! a pair to order. “And what will yer ax ov me to make a good j pair iv them was the query. The price was then named; the Irishman de i marred ; hut after “bating down,” the thing was ■j a trade. Paddy was about’ leaving the store, when the other called after him, asking: “But what size shall I make them, sir V 1 “Oh!” cried Paddy, promptly, “make them as ; large as ye conxaniently can for the money /” j At a very excellent hotel, not a hundred j miles from our parts, they were one day j short of a waiter, when a newly arrived Hi • bernian was hastily made to supply the j place of a more expert hand. “Now, Barney,” says mine host, “mind you serve every man with soup, any how,” “Be dad I’ll do the same,” said the alert Barney. Soup came on the start, and Bar , | ney after helping all but one guest, came , upon the last one. ’ j “Soup, sir ?” said Barney. “No soup for me,” said the gent, j “But you must have it,” said Barney, “it is the rules of the house.” — ll die house,” exclaimed the guest, highly exasperated; “when I don’t want soup, I won t eat it—get along with you.” “Well,” said Barney, with solemnity, “all I can say is just this: it’s the regulations of the house, and damn the drop else ye'll get till ye finish the soup.” The traveller gave in, and the soup wae gobbled. Irish and Dutch.—lt is generally admitted! that the Irish are most famous for making bulls ! but we think the Dutch can go ahead for making pigs—for instance: I’ve got a pig cat, and I've got a pig tog, i I've got a pig calf and I’ve got a pig hog, I've got a pig baby so pig and so tali, And I've got a pig vise dats piggar as all. A Slip-Up.—An Irishman slipped up and came down “broadside” upon his back, recently, . which stilled his breathing a minute or two, be sides bruising his head considerably. Recover ing, he jumped up, threw himself into a fighting attitude, shook his fists at the ice as if he was I about to take summary vengeance upon the slippery substance, and then with violent gestures and threatening voice, exclaimed —“Faith, and J ye’ll take a sweat for this before June, sure !” [Albany Knickerbocker. Judge Jeffries, of notorious memory, pointing with his cane to a man who was about to be tried, said, “there is a rogue at the end of my cane.” The man to whom he pointed, looking at him, said— “At which end, my ford ?” Don’t touch the lute when drums are re sounding. A wise man remains silent while fools are speaking.