One Tichelaer, a barber, a man noted for infamy, accused Cornelius de Witt of endeavoring by bribes to engage him in the design of poisoning the Prince of Orange. The accusation, though attended with the most improbable, and even absurd circumstances, was greedily received by the credulous multitude; and Cornelius was cited before a court of judicature. The judges, either blinded by the same prejudices, or not daring to oppose the popular torrent, condemned him to suffer the question. This man, who had bravely served his country in war, and who had been invested with the highest dignities, was delivered into the hands of the executioner, and torn in pieces by the most inhuman torments. Amidst the severe agonies which he endured, he still made protestations of his innocence, and frequently repeated an ode of Horace, which contained sentiments suited to his deplorable condition: "_Justum et tenacem propositi virum_," _etc._[16] The judges, however, condemned him to lose his offices, and to be banished the commonwealth. The pensionary, who had not been terrified from performing the part of a kind brother and faithful friend during this prosecution, resolved not to desert him on account of the unmerited infamy which was endeavored to be thrown upon him. He came to his brother's prison, determined to accompany him to the place of exile. The signal was given to the populace. They rose in arms; they broke open the doors of the prison; they pulled out the two brothers, and a thousand hands vied who should first be imbrued in their blood. Even their death did not satiate the brutal rage of the multitude. They exercised on the dead bodies of those virtuous citizens indignities too shocking to be recited; and till tired with their own fury, they permitted not the friends of the deceased to approach or to bestow on them the honors of a funeral, silent and unattended. _Hume's History of England._ [16] The man whose mind, on virtue bent, Pursues some greatly good intent, With undiverted aim, Serene beholds the angry crowd; Nor can their clamors, fierce and loud, His stubborn honor tame. Not the proud tyrant's fiercest threat, Nor storms, that from their dark retreat The lawless surges wake; Not Jove's dread bolt, that shakes the pole, The firmer purpose of his soul With all its power can shake. Should nature's frame in ruins fall, And chaos o'er the sinking ball Resume the primeval sway, His courage chance and fate defies, Nor feels the wreck of earth and skies Obstruct its destined way. _Translated by Blacklocke._ DICKENS (Charles), 1812-1870. "_On the ground._" He was losing his balance and feared that he would fall to the floor.