Chapter 24

And hast thou sought me in this dreary cell, This dark abode of guilt and misery; To win my sadden'd spirit back to earth With words of blessed import?--S.M.

The assizes were rapidly approaching. Conscious of his innocence, as far as the murder of his father was concerned, Anthony Hurdlestone looked forward to his trial with firmness and composure. There never was a greater mass of circumstantial evidence brought against a prisoner than in his memorable case.

Holding an elevated position in society, his trial created a great amount of interest and curiosity among all ranks, and the court was crowded to excess. The youth of the criminal, his gentlemanly bearing, his fine expressive countenance, his thoughtful mild eye and benevolent brow excited surprise in the beholders, and gave rise to many doubts as to his being the murderer; and the calm dignified manner in which he listened to the evidence given against him tended greatly to increase the interest which was expressed by many in his awful situation.

Grenard Pike was the first witness called, and he deposed,

That on the evening of the tenth of October, between the hours of eight and nine, he and the elder Hurdlestone were seated at a table counting money into a mahogany brass-bound box. He (Grenard) saw a tall figure pass the window. Mr. Hurdlestone instantly called out, "Grenard, did you see that man?" and he (the witness) answered, "Yes, it is your son." Mr. Hurdlestone replied, in some alarm, "I told him to come to-night; but I did not think that he would take me at my word. What can he want with me?" The next moment a pistol was fired through the casement. The ball passed through Mr. Hurdlestone's shoulder. He fell to the floor across the money-box, exclaiming, "My son! my cruel son! He has murdered me for my money; but he shall not have my money!" Witness looked up, and saw the murderer, by the light of the moon, standing by the window. He could swear to the person of Anthony Hurdlestone. Thinking his own life in danger he made his escape into a back room, and got out of the window, and ran as fast as he could to the village, to give the alarm and procure a surgeon. When he returned he found the prisoner leaning, apparently conscience-stricken, over the corpse. He offered no resistance when seized by the constables; he had no money in his possession. A pair of pistols was found in his coat pocket. One had been recently used; the other was still loaded; and there were stains of blood upon his hands and clothes.

He then related Anthony's previous visit to the cottage; the manner in which he had threatened his father; and the trick the miser had played off upon him, which circumstance had been faithfully detailed to him by old Mark, who regarded the latter as an excellent joke, although, Grenard dryly remarked, "It had cost him his life."

During Pike's evidence, the prisoner was greatly agitated, and was observed to lean heavily upon the dock for support. But when his cousin Godfrey and William Mathews appeared to add their testimony against him, his fortitude entirely forsook him, and he turned away, and covered his face for some minutes with his hands.

Godfrey's evidence was most conclusive. He stated that Anthony had borrowed from him, before his uncle's death, the sum of four hundred pounds, to settle some college debts which he had concealed from Colonel Hurdlestone's knowledge. Godfrey, willing to oblige him, had raised upon a note the greater part of the money. It became due and he (Godfrey) being unable, from his altered circumstances, to meet it, went to his cousin, to beg him to do so, if possible. He was surprised that the prisoner was able to give him the sum at once, though he afterwards learned that it was money left in his charge by Mr. Wildegrave that he had taken for that purpose. Anthony told him that Mr. Wildegrave had written to him for the money, and that he was greatly perplexed what to do. In this emergency, he (Godfrey) advised him to go to his father and state to him the difficulty in which he was placed, and, in all probability, the old man would rescue him from his unpleasant situation. He then related the result of the prisoner's interview with his father, the manner in which he had been repulsed, and the threatening language which the prisoner had used; his (Godfrey's) discovery of the trick which the hard old man had played off upon his son, and Anthony's determination to visit him again on the night of the tenth of October, and force him to terms. He concluded by saying, that he had every reason to believe that the intended visit had taken place at the very time that the murder was committed. He spoke of his cousin with much feeling, and tried to excuse his conduct, as being the result of his father's ill-treatment and neglect; and he commented upon Anthony's solitary habits, and sullen uncommunicative disposition, as having been fostered by these unfortunate circumstances.

His evidence was given in so frank and manly a way, and he seemed to sympathize so deeply in his cousin's unfortunate position, that he created quite a sensation among his listeners. No one imagined him to be in any way implicated in the crime.

The statement of William Mathews corroborated all that had been advanced by Godfrey Hurdlestone. He related his accidental meeting with Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone on his way to the miser's cottage, but he omitted the conversation that passed between them; only stating, that he observed the muzzle of a pistol protruding from the pocket of the prisoner--a circumstance which, knowing the peaceable habits of the prisoner, astonished him at the time.

Long before Mathews had concluded his deposition, there remained not a doubt on the minds of the jury that Anthony Hurdlestone was the murderer. Even Captain Whitmore, who had greatly interested himself on behalf of the young man, believed him guilty.

One witness still remained unheard, and Anthony still clung to hope; still anxiously anticipated that the evidence of Frederic Wildegrave would go far to save him. Alas! how great was his disappointment, when the circumstances related by his friend were more conclusive of his guilt than all the false statements that had been made by his enemies. His own letter, too, which was read in court, alone would have condemned him in the opinion of all unprejudiced men.

"October 10th, 1790.

"My Dear Frederic,

"I am certain that I have forfeited your good opinion, by omitting to send you the money you left in my keeping: I have forfeited my own. How shall I find words to tell you the dreadful truth, that the money is no longer in my possession; that, in a moment of excitement, I gave the deposit entrusted to my care to another?

"Yet listen to me for a few painful moments, before you condemn me utterly. My cousin Godfrey came to me in great distress; he implored me to save him from ruin, by obtaining for him a temporary loan, for a few hours, of four hundred pounds, which he faithfully promised to replace the following day. Hurried away by my feelings, I imprudently granted his request, and gave him the money you left with me. Do not wholly despise me, Frederic; he looked so like my poor uncle, I knew not how to deny him.

"This morning brought your letter. You ask for the money to be sent to you immediately. I have it not to send; my sin has found me out. A thief and swindler! Can it be possible that I have incurred such dreadful guilt?

"_Night._--I have seen Godfrey--he has failed me. What shall I do? I must go to my father; perhaps he will relent, and pity my distress. My heart is torn with distracting doubts. Oh, that I could pour into some faithful bosom my torturing situation! Clary is ill--and left to myself, I am lost.

"_Midnight._--I have seen my father. What a meeting. My brain aches while I try to recall it. At first he insulted my agony; taunted me with my misfortunes, and finally maddened me. I cannot describe to you what passed. Wound up to a pitch of fury, I threatened to obtain the money by violence, if he did not write an order upon his banker for the sum required. Cowering with fear, he complied; and I--I, in the fullness of my heart, implored his pardon for the language I had used, and blessed him. Yes, I blessed him, who only a few minutes before had spurned me from his feet--had mocked at my calamity--and cursed me in the savage malevolence of his heart. Some feeling of remorse appeared to touch his cruel breast; as I left the house he called after me, 'Anthony, Anthony, to-morrow night I will do you justice.' I will go to him no more. I feel that we have parted for ever.

"_Thursday evening._--The old man has deceived me--has jested with my distress. I could curse him, but I have not done so. To-night we shall have a fearful reckoning; yes, to-night he will be forced to do me justice.

"Godfrey has been with me. He discovered the cruel trick which the unnatural wretch who calls himself my father had played me--and he laughed. How could he laugh at such a melancholy instance of depravity? Godfrey should have been this man's son. In some things they resemble each other. Yes, he laughed at the trick. Is the idea of goodness existing in the human heart a mere dream? Are men all devils, or have some more tact to conceal their origin than others? I begin to suspect myself and all mankind. I will go once more to that hard-hearted man; if he refuses to grant my request, I will die at his feet. Last night I attempted suicide, but my good angel prevailed. To-night is my hour, and the power of darkness. Will he feel no touch of remorse when he beholds his neglected son--lost--bleeding--dying at his feet?

"Oh, that you were near to save me from myself! An unseen power seems hurrying, drawing me to perdition. The voice of a friend would dissolve the spell, and set the prisoner of passion free. The clock strikes eight--I must go. Farewell, my friend, my brother; forgive and pity the unfortunate

"Anthony M. Hurdlestone."

He went--and the old man was found murdered. What more natural than such a consequence after penning such a letter? The spectators looked from one to the other: on every brow rested a cloud; every head was nodded in token of agreement; every one present, but Frederic Wildegrave, believed him guilty. He had retained no counsel, preferring to plead in his own defence.

He rose; every eye was fixed upon him, men held their breath, wondering what sort of defence could issue from the lips of the parricide.

He spoke; the clear, rich, mellow, unimpassioned tones of his voice rolled over that mass of human heads, penetrating every heart, and reaching every ear.

"My lord, and you gentlemen of the jury, I rise not with the idea of saving my life, by an avowal of my innocence, for the evidence which has been given against me is of too conclusive a nature for me to hope for that; I merely state the simple fact, that I am not guilty of the dreadful crime laid to my charge; and I leave it to God, in whose hands are the issues of life and death, to prove the truth of my words.

"The greater part of the evidence brought against me is true; the circumstances recorded against me really occurred; the letter just read was penned by my own hand; yet, in the face of these overwhelming facts, I declare myself innocent of the crime laid to my charge. I know not in what manner my father met his death. I am as ignorant as you can be of the hand that dealt the fatal blow. I confess that I sought his presence with the dreadful determination of committing murder; but the crime was against myself. For this I deserve punishment--for this I am content to die: to this charge, made by myself, I plead guilty. I look around me--in every face I see doubt and doom. I stand here a mark and scorn to the whole world; but, though all unite in my condemnation, I still fearlessly and distinctly declare my innocence. I am neither a parricide nor a murderer! and I now await my sentence with the calmness and fortitude which a clear conscience alone can give."

Murmurs of disapprobation ran though the court.

"What a hypocrite!" muttered some, as the jury left the court to consult together about the verdict.

"Do you observe the striking likeness between the prisoner at the bar and his cousin, the second witness against him?" whispered a gentleman in the crowd to a friend near him. "By Jove, 'tis a fearful resemblance. I would not be so like the murderer for worlds. 'Tis the same face."

"Perhaps," said his friend, "they are partners in guilt. I have my doubts. But 'tis unlawful to condemn any man."

"He's a bad fellow by his own account," said the other. "It was he who first led the prisoner to commit the theft. I think one of them deserves death as much as the other."

"Whist, man! Yon handsome rogue is the miser's heir."

"Humph!" said the first speaker. "If I were on the jury--"

"Here they come, there is death in their very looks, I thought as much, he is found guilty."

The judge rose; a death-like stillness pervaded the court during his long and impressive address to the prisoner. The sentence of death was then pronounced, and Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone was ordered for execution on the following Monday.

"This dreadful day is at length over," he said as he flung himself on his pallet of straw in the condemned cell, on the evening of that memorable day. "Thank God it is over, and I know the worst, and nothing now remains to hope or fear. A few brief hours and this weary world will be a dream of the past, and I shall awake from my bed of dust to a new and better existence, beyond the power of temptation--beyond the might of sin. My God, I thank Thee. Thou hast dealt justly with Thy servant. The soul that sinneth, it must die; and grievously have I sinned in seeking to mar Thy glorious image--to cast the life thou gavest me as a worthless boon at Thy feet. I bow my head in the dust and am silent before Thee. Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?"

His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the chaplain of the jail--a venerable Christian who felt a deep interest in the prisoner, and who now sought him to try and awaken him to a full sense of his awful situation.

"My son," he said, laying his hand upon Anthony's shoulder, "how is it with you this night? What is God saying to your soul?"

"All is well," replied Anthony. "He is speaking to me words of peace and comfort."

"Your fellow-men have condemned you--" he paused then added with a deep sigh, "--and I too, Anthony Hurdlestone, believe you guilty."

"God has not condemned me, good father, and by the light of His glorious countenance that now shines upon me, shedding joy and peace into my heart, I am innocent."

"Oh, that I could think you so!"

"Though it has seemed right in the eyes of the All-wise Sovereign of the universe that I should be pronounced guilty before an earthly bar, I feel assured that He, in His own good time, will declare my innocence."

"Will that profit you aught, my son, when you are dust?"

"It will rescue my name from infamy, and give me a mournful interest in the memory of my friends."

"Poor lad, this is but a melancholy consolation; I wish I could believe you."

"What a monster of depravity you must think me, if you can imagine me guilty after what I have just said! Is truth so like falsehood, that a man of your holy calling cannot discern the difference? Do I look like a guilty man? Do I speak like a guilty man who knows that he has but a few days to live? If I were the wretch you take me for, should I not be overwhelmed with grief and despair? Would not the thought of death be insupportable? Oh! believe one who seeks not to live--who is contented to die, when I again solemnly declare my innocence."

"I have seen men, Anthony Hurdlestone, who, up to the very hour of their execution, persisted in the same thing and yet, after all their solemn protestations, owned at the last moment that their sentence was just, and that they merited death."

"And I too have merited death," said Anthony mournfully. "God is just."

The chaplain started; though but a few minutes before he had considered the prisoner guilty, yet it produced a painful feeling in his mind to hear him declare it.

"Is self-destruction murder?" asked Anthony with an anxious earnest glance.

"Aye, of the worst kind: for deep ingratitude to God, and contempt of his laws, are fearfully involved in this unnatural outrage."

"Then my sentence is just," sighed Anthony; "I never raised my hand against my father's life, but I raised it against my own. God has punished me for this act of rebellion against His Divine Majesty, in rejecting, as a thing of no value, the life He gave. I yield myself into His hands, confident that His arm is stretched over His repentant creature for good; whether I die upon the scaffold or end my days peacefully in my bed, I can lay my hand upon my heart and say--'His will be done.'"

For about an hour the good clergyman continued reading and praying with the prisoner, and before he left him that evening, in spite of his pre-conceived notions of his guilt, he was fully convinced of innocence.

Sadly and solemnly the hours passed on that brought the morning of his execution, "with death-bed clearness, face to face." He had joined in the sacred duties of the Sabbath; it was to him a day of peaceful rest--a forestate of the quiet solemnity of the grave. In the evening he was visited by Frederic Wildegrave, who had been too ill after the trial to leave his bed before. He was pale, and wasted with sorrow and disease, and looked more like a man going to meet death than the criminal he came to cheer with his presence.

"My dear Anthony," said Frederic, taking his cousin's hand, "my heart bleeds to see you thus. I have been sick; my spirit is weighed down with sorrow, or we should have met sooner."

"You do indeed look ill," replied Anthony, examining, with painful surprise, the altered face of his friend; "I much fear that I have been the cause of this change. Tell me, Frederic, and tell me truly, do you believe me guilty?"

"I have never for one moment entertained a thought to that effect, Anthony; though the whole world should condemn you, I would stake my salvation on your integrity."

"Bless you, my friend; my true, faithful, noble-hearted friend," cried Anthony, clasping the hand he held to his breast, "you are right; I am not the murderer."

"Who is?"

Anthony shook his head.

"That infernal scoundrel, Mathews?"

"Hush! Not him alone."

"Godfrey?"

"Oh! Frederic; had you seen the triumphant smile that passed over his face at the moment that my sentence was pronounced, you could entertain no doubt upon the subject. I heard not the sentence--I saw not the multitude of eyes fixed upon me--I only saw him--I only saw his eyes looking into my soul and laughing at the ruin he had wrought. But he will not go unpunished. There is one who will yet betray him, and prove my innocence; I mean his hateful accomplice, William Mathews."

"And can nothing be done to convict them?"

"They have sworn falsely, and perverted facts. I have no proof of their guilt. Would the world believe my statements? Would it not appear like the wolf accusing the lamb? For my poor uncle's sake I am ready to suffer; and for this cause I employed no counsel to plead on my behalf; I would rather die myself than be the means of bringing to the scaffold the only son that he adored. Poor Algernon! I have paid a heavy debt for his generosity to me. Yes," he continued, more cheerfully, "I will leave Godfrey to enjoy his ill-gotten wealth, nor waste the few hours which now remain to me on earth in vain regrets. How is it with the dear Clary? How has she borne up against this dreadful blow?"

Frederic's sole answer was a mournful glance at the sables in which he was clad. Anthony comprehended in a moment the meaning of that sad, sad look. "She is gone," he said--"she, the beautiful--the innocent. Yes, yes--I knew it would kill her, the idea of my guilt. Alas! poor Clary!"

"She never thought you guilty," said Frederic, wiping his eyes. "She bade me give you this letter, written with her dying hand, to convince you that she believed you innocent. Her faith towards you was as strong as death; her love for you snapped asunder the fragile threads that held her to life. But she is happy. Dear child! She is better off than those who weep her loss. And you, Anthony, you--the idol of her fond young heart--will receive her welcome to that glorious country, of which, I trust, she is now the bright inhabitant."

"And she died of grief. Died--because others suspected of crime the man she loved. Oh, Clary! Clary! how unworthy was I of your love! You knew I loved another, yet it did not diminish aught of your friendship, your pure devotion to me! Oh, that I had your faith--your love!"

He covered his face with his hands, and both were silent for a long time.

"Frederic, we must part," said Anthony, at length raising his head. "Beloved friend, we must part for ever!"

"I shall see you again to-morrow."

"What! on the scaffold?"

"Aye, on the scaffold! Your place of martyrdom."

"This is friendship indeed. Time may one day prove to you that Anthony Hurdlestone was not unworthy of your love."

Frederic burst into tears afresh, and wringing Anthony's hand, hurried from the cell; and the prisoner was once more left alone to commune with his own thoughts, and prepare for the awful change that awaited him.

His spirit, weaned as it was from the things of earth, contemplated with melancholy pleasure the death of the young Clary, which he considered had placed his sweet young friend beyond the reach of human suffering.

"She is with the Eternal Present," he said. "No dark mysterious future can ever more cloud her soul with its heavy shadow. To-morrow--and the veil will be rent in twain, and our ransomed spirits will behold each other face to face. What is Death? The eclipse for a moment of the sun of human life. The shadow of earth passes from before it, and it again shines forth with renewed splendor."

His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the jailor followed by another person muffled up in a large riding cloak. "A stranger," he said, "wished to exchange a few words in private with the prisoner."

Anthony rose from his humble bed, and asked in subdued tones, "to whom he had the honor of speaking?"

"To a sincere friend, Anthony Hurdlestone--one who cannot believe you guilty of the dreadful crime of murder."

The sound of that voice, though months had passed away since its musical tones had vibrated on his ear, thrilled to the soul of the prisoner.

"Miss Whitmore!" he cried, in an extasy of joy; and sinking at her feet, he seized her hands, and pressing them to his lips and heart burst into an agony of tears.

"Anthony!" said Juliet, placing her hand upon his shoulder, as he sat at her feet with his face upturned and his eyes suffused in tears, gazing tenderly upon her; "I came here to-night to ask you one simple question. With many tears I gained my father's consent to this unusual step. Not without many severe mental struggles I overcame the feelings of maiden shame, and placed myself in this painful situation in order to receive from your own lips an answer which might satisfy the intense anxiety that presses upon my mind. As you value your own and my eternal peace, I charge you, Anthony, to answer me truly--as truly as if you stood before the bar of God, and the eye of the Great Searcher of hearts was upon you; Did you murder your unhappy father?"

"As I hope for salvation, I am as ignorant of the real perpetrators of the deed as you are."

"Both directly and indirectly?"

"The whole affair is involved in mystery. I have, of course, my doubts and surmises. These I must not name, lest I might accuse persons who like myself are innocent of the offence. Hear me, Juliet Whitmore! while I raise this fettered right hand to heaven, and swear by that awful Judge before whose dread tribunal I must in a few hours appear, that I am guiltless of the crime for which at the age of one-and-twenty, in the first bloom of youth and manhood, I am condemned to die!"

There was a slight convulsion of the features as he uttered the last words, and his lips quivered for a moment. Nature asserted her right over her sentient creature; and the thoughts of death awoke at that moment a strange conflict in his breast. So young--so highly gifted--so tenderly beloved; it was indeed hard to die--to die a death of infamy, amidst the curses and execrations of an insulting mob. Oh, how gladly would he have seen the bitter cup pass from his lips!

Juliet regarded her unhappy lover with a sad and searching glance. But innocence is strong; he shrunk not from the encounter. His eyes were raised to hers in confidence and love, and the glow of conscious worth irradiated his wan and wasted features. Alas! what years of sorrow had been compressed into one short week!

"I believe you, Anthony, to be an injured man. Thank God!" she continued, mournfully folding her hands together, "thank God! I have not loved a murderer!"

"Loved!" repeated the prisoner, whilst the deepest crimson for a moment flushed his face; "is it possible that Juliet Whitmore ever loved me! Loved me after witnessing that disgraceful scene in the park. Oh, Juliet! dear generous Juliet! these blessed words would make me too happy were it not for these bonds."

"I wronged you, Anthony; cruelly wronged you. My unfortunate misconception of painful facts may have been the means of rivetting those irons upon your limbs. I cannot forgive myself for not questioning Mary Mathews alone upon the subject."

"Appearances were strongly against me, Juliet. I have been the victim of unfortunate circumstances." He bent his head down upon his fettered hands, and continued, in a low voice rendered almost inarticulate with emotion: "But you love me, and this assurance ought to atone for all the dreary past. Alas! at this moment it comes to rob me of my fortitude; to add a bitterness to death!"

"Oh, that it were in my power to save your life, beloved Anthony!" said Juliet, sinking on her knees beside him, and clasping his fettered hands within her own. "I have loved you long and tenderly. I shall see you no more on earth. If my life could ransom yours, I would give it without a sigh; but will is powerless; our hands are tied; we are indeed the creatures of circumstance. All that now remains for us is to submit--to bow with fortitude to the mysterious ways of Providence. To acknowledge, even in our hearts' deep agony, that whatever is, is right."

"Let us pray," said Anthony solemnly, holding up her hands in his; "pray that God may give us strength to undergo the trial that awaits us."

"With tears and sobs and struggling sighs, those unhappy young lovers poured out their full hearts to God. They appealed to his love, his justice, his mercy; they cried to him in their strong agony; and even in that moment of unutterable woe they found peace.

"Go, my beloved," whispered Anthony, "I can part with you now. We shall soon meet again."

"To part no more for ever!" sobbed Juliet, struggling with her tears. "I have a message for you from one who has already passed the dark valley--from one who loved you--poor Clary."

"I cannot bear it now," said Anthony. "I hope soon to hear a more joyful message from her gentle lips. Farewell, my Juliet--my soul's first and only earthly love! Live for my sake--live to defend my memory from infamy. Time will dissipate the clouds that now blacken my name; and the day will come when Juliet Whitmore will not have cause to blush for her unfortunate lover."

One long and last embrace--one gush of free and heartfelt tears--one sad impassioned kiss, and Anthony Hurdlestone was once more alone in the condemned cell, with silence and darkness--mute emblems of death--brooding around him.

He had all this time unconsciously held Clary's letter strained in his hand; and as his thoughts flowed back to her he longed intensely to read it. The visit of the good chaplain, who brought with him a light, afforded him the opportunity he so much desired.

A strange awe came over him as he unfolded the paper. The hand that had traced it was no longer of earth; the spirit that had dictated it was removed to another sphere. Yet he fancied, as he read the paper, that the soft blue eyes of Clary looked into his own; that her bright golden locks fanned his feverish cheek; that she was actually before him. Several times he started and looked up into the face of the chaplain before he could dispel the vision.

"Anthony, Dear Anthony, (she wrote.)

"This will meet you at a time when sorrow for my death will be lost in joy, that we shall so soon meet in heaven. Fear not, Anthony; that hour may be far distant. God is just. You are innocent; trust in him. Trust firmly, nothing wavering, and he will save you. I have wept for you, prayed for you; would that I could die for you! My soul has been poured forth in tears; but never for one moment have I abused our holy friendship by imagining you guilty. Weep not for me, dear Anthony; I am happy. God is taking me from the evil to come, from the anguish of seeing you the husband of another. Death has no sting; I welcome him as a friend.

"Why should I dread thee, Death? Stern friend in solemn guise; One pause of this frail breath, And then the skies!

"When restored to peace, to happiness, and to Juliet, think kindly of me. Remember how I loved you--how I delighted in all that delights and interests you. But not in crowded halls would I have you recall my image;--my heart was solitary amidst the dust and rubbish of the gay world. But in spring, when the earth is bright with flowers, when the sun looks down in love upon creation, when the full streams are flowing on with a voice of joy, when the song of birds makes glad the forest-bowers, when every blade of grass is dressed in beauty, and every leaf and flower glows with the light of life, and the unsophisticated untried heart of youth breathes forth its ardent aspiration to the throne of God--then, Anthony, think of me. My spirit will hover about your path; my voice will murmur in the breeze; and the recollection of what I was, of all my faith and love, will be dear to your heart.

"When these eyes, long dimm'd with weeping, In the silent dust are sleeping; When above my lowly bed The breeze shall wave the thistle's head, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"When the queen of beams and showers Comes to dress the earth with flowers; When the days are long and bright, And the moon shines all the night, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"When the tender corn is springing, And the merry thrush is singing; When the swallows come and go, On light wings flitting to and fro, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"When 'neath April's rainbow skies Violets ope their azure eyes; When mossy bank and verdant mound Sweet knots of primroses have crown'd, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"When the meadows glitter white, Like a sheet of silver light; When bluebells gay and cowslips bloom, Sweet-scented briar and golden broom, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"Each bud shall be to thee a token Of a fond heart reft and broken; And the month of joy and gladness Shall fill thy soul with holy sadness, And thou wilt sigh for me, love.

"When thou rov'st the woodland bowers, Thou shalt cull spring's sweetest flowers, To strew with tender, silent weeping The lonely bed where I am sleeping, And sadly mourn for me, love!"

And thus ended poor Clary's letter. Anthony folded it up carefully, and laid it next his heart. The hope she had endeavored to inspire did not desert him at that moment. He was resigned to his fate; he even wished to die. Her simple child-like letter had done more to reconcile him to his doom than the pious lectures of the good priest, and his own deep reflections on the subject. The madness of all human pursuits--the vanity and frivolity of life--now awoke in his breast sensations of pity and disgust. But love and friendship--those drops of honey in the cup of gall--did not their sweetness in this hour of desolation atone for the bitter dregs, and hold him to earth? The mighty struggle was to rend asunder these new-formed and holy ties. For him there existed no hope of a reprieve. Wise and good men had tried and found him guilty of a crime which, in all ages, had been held in execration by mankind. He was not a common criminal; for him there existed no sympathy, no pity. The voice of humanity was against him; the whole world united in his condemnation.

It was his last night upon earth; yet amidst its silent dreary watches, when these thoughts flitted through his mind, he wished it past. A thousand times he caught himself repeating from Dr. Young that memorable line, as if to fortify himself against the coming event,

"Man receives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow."

But it was not the mere death-pang--the separation of matter and spirit--that he shrank from. It was the loathed gibbet; that disgusting relic of a barbarous age, the revolting exhibition, the public and disgraceful manner of his death, that made it so terrible. And he sighed, and prayed to God to grant him patience, and fell into a deep tranquil sleep, from which he did not awake until the hour of his departure was at hand.