The trial of these “Rebel Lords” took place at Westminster Hall with much ceremonial. The Lord High Steward, Philip Yorke, Earl of Hardwicke, arrived from Ormond Street, attended by a train of gentlemen-at-arms, Black Rod and Garter King at Arms supporting him. He was received by the guard in Old Palace Yard, “by drums beating as to the Royal family.” The peers were in their robes, and the grand old Hall was filled to its utmost limits with a vast crowd of spectators. Horace Walpole, writing to Mann, says: “I am this moment come from the conclusion of the greatest and most melancholy scene I ever saw; you will easily guess it was the trial of the rebel Lords. As it was the most interesting sight, it was the most solemn and fine. A coronation is a puppet show, and all the splendours of it idle; but this sight at once feasted one’s eyes, and engaged all one’s passions. It began last Monday; the three parts of Westminster Hall were enclosed with galleries, and hung with scarlet; and the whole ceremony was conducted with the most awful solemnity and decency, except in the one point of leaving the prisoners at the bar amidst the idle curiosity of the crowd, and even with the witnesses who had sworn against them, while the Lords adjourned to their own house to consult. No part of the Royal Family was there, which was a proper regard for the unhappy men, who were become their victims. One hundred and thirty-nine Lords were present, and made a noble sight on their benches, frequent and full. The Chancellor was Lord High Steward, but though a most comely personage with a fine voice, his behaviour was mean, curiously searching for occasion to bow to the Minister (Henry Pelham) that is no Peer, and consequently applying to the other Ministers in a manner for their orders: and not even ready at the ceremonial. To the prisoners he was peevish; and instead of keeping to the humane dignity of the law of England, whose character it is to point out favour to the criminal, he crossed them, and almost scolded at any offer they made towards defence. Lord Kilmarnock is past forty, but looks younger. He is tall and slender, with an extremely fine person; his behaviour a most just mixture between dignity and submission; if in anything to be reprehended, a little affected, and his hair too exactly dressed for a man in his situation. But when I say this, it is not to find fault, but to show how little fault there is to be found. For Lord Balmerino, he is the most natural, brave old fellow I ever saw; the lightest intrepidity, even to indifference. At the bar he behaved like a soldier and a man; in the intervals of form with carelessness and humour. He pressed extremely to have his wife, his pretty Peggy, with him in the Tower. When they were brought from the Tower in separate coaches, there was some dispute in which the axe must go, old Balmerino cried, ‘Come, come, put it with me!’ At the bar he played with his fingers upon the