r anything savouring of radicalism in politics could hope to
receive fair play. In Gourlay's case there were one or two suspicious
features which, to say the least, require explanation. The custom
ordinarily adopted by the sheriff, in selecting jurymen, was to draw
them in rotation from the various townships in the district. "In my
case," says Mr. Gourlay, "it was said that he had varied his course; and
not this only, but, instead of drawing from a square space of country,
he chose a line of nearly twenty miles, along which it was well known
that there were the greatest number of people prejudiced and influenced
against me."[13] Mr. Gourlay further declares that it was observed by
people in court that in the glass containing the folded transcripts from
the jury-list some of the folded papers were distinctly set apart, so as
to admit of their being drawn, apparently with fairness, in the ordinary
manner. These papers so set apart from the rest, as Mr. Gourlay informs
his readers, were "caught hold of" as the twelve which should decide his
fate. The names of the jurors, which, so far as I am aware, have not
hitherto appeared in print, are worthy of preservation. They were
William Pew, John Grier, William Servos, James B. Jones, Ralfe M. Long,
David Bastedo, John C. Ball, John Milton, James Lundy, William Powers,
Peter M. Ball and John Holmes.

The personal appearance of the prisoner had undergone a woful change
during his confinement. Had his own wife seen him at that moment it is
doubtful whether she would have recognized her lord. Could it be
possible that that frail, tottering, wasted form, and that blanched,
sunken-eyed, imbecile-looking countenance were all that were left of the
once formidable Robert Gourlay? The sight was one which might have moved
his bitterest enemy to tears. His clothing, a world too wide for so
shrunken a tenant, hung sloppy and slovenly about him, and it was
remarked by a spectator that he had aged fully ten years during the six
months that had elapsed since his journey to York in the previous
February. His limbs seemed too weak to support him where he stood, and
as he leaned with his hands upon the rail in front of him his fingers
twitched nervously, while his whole frame visibly trembled. The saddest
change of all had been wrought in his once fine eyes. They were of light
grey, and their ordinary expression had been more sharp and piercing
than is commonly found in eyes of that colour. They h