Hayes and
myself were the first, who since our being in trouble, did grasp the hand
of a gentleman, volunteering to be our friend.
JAMES MACPHERSON GRANT, solicitor, is a Scotchman of middle-size,
middle-height; and the whole makes the man, an active man of business,
a shrewd lawyer, and up to all the dodges of his profession. His forehead
announces that all is sound within; his benevolent countenance assures
that his heart is for man or woman in trouble. He hates oppression; so
say his eyes. He scorns humbug; so says his nose. His manners declare
that he was born a gentleman.
I very soon gave him hints for my defence, quite in accordance with what
I have been stating above, and his clerk took the whole down in short-hand.
He encouraged me to be of good cheer, "You need not fear," said he,
"you will soon be out, all of you."
God bless you, Mr. Grant! For the sake of you and Mr. Aspinall, the
barrister, I smother now my bitterness, and pass over all that I suffered
on account of so many postponements.
Timothy Hayes, when we returned broken-hearted for the FIFTH(!) time to
our gaol, did we not curse the lawyers!
A wild turn of mind now launched my soul to the old beloved spot on the
Eureka, and there I struck out the following anthem.
