The scene is one of much interest. As early as nine o’clock the small portion of the court allotted to the public had begun to fill with eager spectators.
The press enters in force, considerable portions of the court, and also of the gallery above the jury, being reserved for its representatives.
Barristers drop in, eager as the people who are unfamiliar with the courts, and quickly filling their seats, there accumulates a standing group, which remains about the door all day.
The occupants of the court, with scarcely an exception, deport themselves as men and women come to witness a comedy, not a grim tragedy—talking, laughing, joking, and congratulating themselves on their luck in gaining admission on so famous an occasion.
The judge takes his seat precisely at ten o’clock, and the case at once begins.
Mr. Campbell Foster bespeaks the unprejudiced and impartial attention of the jury, and enters upon a lengthened recital of the facts of the case.
The tale is a plain and unvarnished one, but, to be quite candid, that is all the praise that can be bestowed upon it.
A very frank critic might even say that it is somewhat dreary and decidedly commonplace. However, it is listened to with silent attention—by none is it followed with closer care than by the prisoner, who occasionally indulges in a nod of assent, or a remonstrating shake of the head, or now and then leans forward, his head on his hand, and eyes fixed upon the speaker.
The learned council spoke for half an hour.
Then the evidence began, the first witness being Mr. Johnson, who proved the plans put in of the Dysons’ house in Bannercross-terrace, and was asked a question or two as to Mr. Dyson’s physical appearance.