GATHERING FOR THE EXECUTION.
He was a man of simple heart,
Patient and meek; the Christian part
Came to his soul as came the air
That heaved his bosom; hope, despair,
Were chastened by a holy faith!
Meek in his life he feared not death.
The day of execution arrived, and every hearth-stone in the great
metropolis was shadowed by a knowledge that at an hour to be fixed
between sunrise and sunset, a human being was to be strangled to
death--forced brutally into the presence of his Maker. Children
whispered to one another in the grey dawn as they crept awe-stricken
from their little couches. Mothers--those who had hearts--grew sad as
they thought of the household ties which the law would that day tear
asunder.
I do not say that this law of blood for blood, which some good men cling
to so tenaciously, should be altogether abolished. Women who from the
natural and just arrangement of social life, have no share in forming
laws, can scarcely arrogate to themselves the right of advancing or of
condemning those which owe their existence to the greatest masculine
intellect; and we, who reason so much from the heart, can never be sure
that the angel of mercy, whom we worship, may not sometimes crowd
Justice from her seat. But there is no law that should permit a solemn
act of justice to become a jubilee for the mob. Executions, if they must
darken the history of a nation, should be still as the grave--solemn as
the eternity to which they lead.
Two wardens had been placed over the prisoner that night, for the
sheriff feared that the poor old man might attempt suicide. It was a
useless precaution for one who was so close to death, and yet slept so
calmly. There he lay in the deep slumber which is so sweet to old age.
The men kept a light in the cell, and it streamed softly over those
calm, pale features, revealing a faint smile upon the lips, and the
impalpable shadows scattered over his forehead by the white hair that
lay around his temples. Sometimes, as the men gazed upon this picture,
and thought of the morrow, with all its death horrors, they turned from
each other with a sort of terror, and sat with downcast eyes, gazing
upon the floor, for it made them heart-sick--the contrast of that
peaceful slumber and the brutal death-sleep into which they were
guarding the old man.
At the most, it was but a brief gleam of life that the law claimed; and
even that had grown faint within the last few days, so faint that it
seemed doubtful if the officers of the law would not be compelled to
lift its victim to the scaffold, when the hour of sacrifice came. The
day dawned quietly, and shed a sort of still, holy light over the
slumbering man. Then, for the first time, his keepers remarked hew
deathly pale was the serene countenance--how feeble was the breath that
scarcely stirred the coarse linen on his bosom.
Everything was still. The cold dawn, the quiet city, and the prison
lying heavy and grim in its bosom. All at once this stillness was broken
by the fall of a hammer, distinct and sharp as the beat of a
death-watch. It made the officers start and look at each other with
meaning eyes; but the old man slept on, and the sound might have been
the sigh of an angel, instead of the hideous death-signal that it was,
for it only disturbed that tranquil slumber pleasantly, as it would
seem. A faint smile dawned upon the face, and he folded his hands softly
upon his bosom, with a deeper breath, as if some vision of ineffable
happiness filled his thought.
It seemed a cruelty to disturb the last sleep he was ever to know on
earth, and so the morning deepened, and the prison was filled with that
sort of muffled tumult which bespeaks the opening day within those
walls, before the old man awoke.
Other persons than the keepers were in the cell then. The wife, who was
so soon to be a widow, and the grandchild, half orphaned at heart, were
seated at the foot of the bed, watching him dimly through their tears.
He held forth his hands on seeing them, and with the same smile that had
haunted his slumber, asked after their welfare. You should have seen
that aged couple, in their humble but sublime sorrow, that day, for it
was a beautiful sight, and one which is not often witnessed within the
walls of a felon's cell. There they sat, hand in hand, linked together
by that beautiful love that outlives all things, comforting each other
with gentle earnestness--he reading passages from the Bible to her now
and then, and she more than once smiling hopefully through her tears,
when he spoke of their great age, and of the little time that they could
possibly be kept asunder. It did not seem as if they were talking of
death, but of some important and not unpleasant journey, in which the
wife would soon follow her husband to a new home.
The grandchild sat by in silent grief. It seemed a long time for her to
wait, she was so young, so cruelly full of life. She could not, with her
sensitive feelings and quick imagination, cast off the consciousness of
all the horrors that would that day overwhelm her grandfather. Her eyes
were heavy with weeping. At every sound a shiver of terrible
apprehension ran through her frame, and she would grasp at the old man's
hand, as if scared with dread that they might tear him away before the
appointed time.
Then came another--and that prison cell was crowded full of grief. Ada
Leicester, modestly clad, with all the jewels stripped from her hands,
and her superb beauty veiled and toned down by suffering, such as wrings
all bitterness from the heart, stood with her parents once more, a
portion of the household her own errors had desolated. Then the old man
arose in his bed, and his benign features lighted up with such joy as
the angels know over a sinner that repenteth.
"My child," he said, opening his arms to receive her, "my child, who was
lost and is found!" For a moment he held her to his bosom; then lifting
his head, he reached forth one hand, and drew his grandchild forward.
"It is your mother, Julia, your own mother; she has been far away for
many years; God has sent her back. Ada, kiss your daughter; Julia, my
grandchild, love your mother, reverence her, for this day shall I be one
of those that rejoice over her in heaven."
Ada turned to her daughter, and timidly held forth her arms. A thrill so
exquisite that it swept all the tears from her heart, passed over the
bereaved girl. She moved forward; she nestled close to the bosom of her
mother; she murmured the name over and over again,
"Mother--mother--mother!"
I have dwelt upon this scene, perhaps, tediously, and only, gentle
reader, because my heart and nerves shrink from a description of that
which was going on without the prison. It is so much better to describe
that which is holy and strong in human nature, than to yield oneself up
to scenes that shock and revolt every pure feeling, every gentle
affection. But in portraying life as it is, an author cannot always
choose the flower nooks, or keep back the clouds that darken human
nature.
It was a winter's day, cold and drear, without being stormy. The sky was
clouded a little, and of that pale, hard blue which is more desolate
than absolute storm. The air seemed full of snow, but none fell; and the
sunshine, when it did penetrate the atmosphere, streamed mournfully to
the brown, frozen earth. Had you gone into the streets that day,
something in the aspect of the populace would have told you that an
event of no common interest was about to transpire. Men were grouped at
the corners and around the doors. Business was in a degree suspended.
But few females were abroad, and they walked hurriedly, as if necessity
alone had called them from home.
The time of execution was fixed at five in the afternoon, an hour when
the gay world usually throngs Broadway. But for once that noble
promenade was deserted; and though the cross streets began to fill long
before noon, it was not by the class who usually make the great
thoroughfare so full of life.
It was a singular thing; but that day, a little after twelve, a star
became visible, hanging, pale and dim, like a funereal lamp in the cold
sky. At every corner you saw groups of men and boys gazing upward, with
superstitious awe, as if there must be some connection between this star
and the human soul about to be launched into eternity. It might have
been only the grey light; but every one who went forth that morning must
have noticed how pallid were the faces that met his view in the streets.
It is difficult to excite the masses of a great city; but in this case
there had been so much to interest the public, that for once the
multitude seemed perfectly aroused. The age of the prisoner, the
exceeding beauty and touching loveliness of his grandchild, the position
and fashionable associations of William Leicester--all conspired to
arouse public interest to a state of unusual excitement. Hours before
the time of execution, the city prison was besieged by an eager mob.
Mechanics left their work; women of the lower classes went forth, some
with infants in their arms, some leading sons and daughters by the hand,
all eager and full of open-mouthed curiosity to see a fellow-creature
strangled to death in the face of high heaven.
It had been given forth that this execution would be private, in the
court of the prison; that is, three or four hundred persons, favorites
of the sheriff, or members of the press, might have the exquisite
satisfaction of seeing how an old man could die, and these would duly
report his struggles and his agonies, the next morning, through the
daily press, that the crowd, heaving, swearing, and jostling together
without the walls, might have their horrid curiosity satisfied.
All the cross streets around the prison filled rapidly up; and Centre
street, down to Reade and above White, was crowded full of human beings.
Then they began to swarm closer, filling the housetops and windows,
choking up the door passages and alleys, till every standing place
within sight of the prison was crowded full of eager, brutal life. I am
saying now what might be deemed a cruel perversion of probability in
fiction, but which many of my readers well know to be a disgraceful
truth. But in the windows, and on the roofs of almost every house that
overlooked the prison, appeared that day women _not_ of the lowest
classes, who came there to witness a scene at which the very soul
revolts--women whom, with all the proud love of country thrilling at the
heart, an American blushes to call countrywomen. When the time drew
near, this ocean of human life began to heave and swell tumultuously
against the prison walls. Many climbed upwards, fierce for a sight of
bloodshed, though at the peril of life and limb, creeping like animals
along the massive stonework, or hoisted up on the shoulders of those
below, till they hung on the gateway and walls, literally swarming
there, like bees seeking for a hive.
As the hour drew near, the mob became more compact and more eager.
Excitement grew ferocious; faces, before only curious, now gleamed
upwards in groups and masses, haggard with impatient brutality. Ten
minutes had gone by--ten minutes beyond the time, and the gallows still
loomed up from the prison yard empty. Then the crowd began to murmur and
bandy rude jests, like men who had paid for an exhibition, and feared to
be baffled out of their amusement. Shouts went up; oaths ran from lip to
lip; those upon the walls leaned over, with open mouths and gloating
eyes, gazing down into the yard, then telegraphed their companions, or
shouted their disappointment to the mob, while others crept up from the
mass, crowding the possessors from their places, and occasionally
casting one headlong downward.
All at once, when the whole mob was tumultuous with impatience, a cry of
fire rung up from the prison walls. The crowd caught the sound, and
echoed it fiercely, heaving to and fro, and trampling each other down,
eager to see the flames burst forth. There was a wooden steeple or
watch-tower, over the front building of the prison. Through the huge
timbers of this structure the flames leaped upward, flinging long gleams
of light over the upturned faces of the multitude, and adding another
horrid feature to a scene already terrible. The alarm bells sounded; the
crowd rushed to and fro, shouting, heaving up in waves, beating itself
fiercely against the prison walls. Through the masses thundered three or
four engines, and a stream of firemen swept through the tumult, pouring
noise upon noise, with their trumpets and their voices.
The prison gates were flung open, and as the firemen entered, a portion
of the crowd, now furious with excitement, forced through after them,
with a sudden rush, filling the inner courts like a torrent let loose.
With nothing but bare timbers to feed upon--for the prison itself was
fire-proof--the flames soon burned themselves out, after scattering
brands and sparks among the throng, leaving a red glare and a cloud of
smoke hovering luridly over the scene. When the mob saw the fire dying
away, its attention was once more turned upon the execution, and the
clamor became deafening both within and without the prison walls. The
hour of death had gone by. Were the people to be cheated and put off
with a burning watch-tower? Were mechanics, who had lost half a day's
time, in order to see a man hanged, to be kept waiting, when their
appetite was whetted for a sight of blood? They packed the prison courts
more densely; they swarmed close up to the gallows, and pushed forward
into the prison corridors, abusing the sheriff, and calling on him
vociferously to come forth and explain the meaning of all this delay.
He did come forth, at last, looking white as death; but this was
nothing. All were pale then, either from compassion or wrath. He came
slowly forth from the prisoner's cell, and standing upon the third
gallery, looked down upon the mob.
"Bring the old fellow out--let's see him--no put off with us!" Shouted a
man near the staircase.
"I cannot bring him out, he is ----"
They drowned the sheriff's voice with clamor.
"Cheated the gallows--stabbed himself."
The sheriff again attempted to speak, but the tumult grew louder.
"Bring him out--dead or alive, bring him out!"
The officer waved his hand and pointed into the cell. Half a dozen men
sprang up from the masses, and ran from one gallery to another, shouting
to the crowd below.
"We'll see for ourselves--it's all sham--they mean to let him escape!"
Like a troop of wild animals they plunged forward, pushed themselves
past the sheriff, and entered the cell. There they stood motionless, all
their brutal ferocity struck dumb within them. They had their wish. The
old man was before them; the last gleam of life in his eyes; the last
breath freezing upon his lips. God had been very merciful, more merciful
than the law.