Although the 5th of March had been appointed as the day for the
execution of James Stauncy, for some reason not explained by the law
annals of those times it was deferred to the 7th of May. The
interval passed slowly and drearily, relieved, however, by the kindly
visits of the Ordinary, specially by a visit from his cousin, and by
a regular correspondence with his beloved wife--his last letter to
her being still extant. At first he endeavoured to show that the
course he had taken was the only one which could satisfy him or
benefit her. He brought forward the argument of the merchant as his
own--that an open confession would at least have been so far
unavailable, for want of evidence, as to be no security against
transportation for life, and added that by making the merchant an
enemy he would have cut off all hope of support for herself and
children. He besought her to forgive him, and to remember him
always, promising to give heed to her counsel, and to seek the mercy
of God through the Saviour. That he did this, his letters, as the
fatal day approached, hear testimony; and touchingly and lovingly did
she answer him, just hinting at her sad disappointment, without any
upbraiding, and assuring him, though broken-hearted, of her hope in
the care and sufficiency of a merciful Creator and Redeemer.
Before the month of March was quite run out, the captain's worthy
relative, who had entertained him at his home in Clovelly after the
loss of the brig, partly on foot, partly by waggon, partly by coach,
accomplished that difficult thing in those days, a journey to London;
designing, as far as possible, to be a minister of instruction and
comfort to the condemned man. He found the captain so altered in
appearance as to be scarcely recognizable, especially in his prison
dress. Instead of the robust and ruddy man of former days, he saw
before him a sallow, shrunken being, with hollow eyes and cheeks, and
wretchedness traceable in every feature. In his inner man, however,
but little change had at that time taken place, though he admitted
with much humility and self-reproach that the more he considered it,
the more inexplicable and insane his conduct appeared.
'You did very wrong, Stauncy,' said the cousin, 'in refusing to
listen to your wife's advice. One duty cannot be performed by
breaking another to perform it. If you thought it a duty to screen
the merchant, you should have thought it a duty to screen yourself;
and the love we owe to our neighbour must be regulated by the love we
owe to ourselves. As Mary told you, it's a greater sin to keep a bad
promise than to break it.'
'It may be, William,' replied the captain; 'but don't trouble me with
that now. Things right in themselves become wrong whenever they are
done in opposition to our convictions, and my conscience bid me do as
I have done. I haven't any compunction to feel on that score; and
what must be, must.'
'Don't say that, James; "what must be must" is as deplorably false in
one sense as it is righteously true in another, and, with regard to
conscience, your remark cuts two ways. A thing that is evil cannot
be made good by any erroneous conceptions of ours respecting it. Our
consciences frequently stimulate us to what is wrong, under the false
notion that we are right. They are not safe guides without the light
of life.'
'No doubt you're right, cousin, but a man must take his conscience as
it is, and be faithful to it. If I saw as you did, I should reason
in the same way.'
'I wish you had seen differently, James; but now the sentence cannot
be reversed. If we form a wrong judgment of the quality of our
actions, we form a wrong judgment of all associated with and
resulting from them. But I will not say any more on that matter. I
came up here not to argue with you on such points, but to show you
God's argument when He says, "As I live, I have no pleasure in the
death of the wicked. Come now, and let us reason together: though
your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they
be red like crimson they shall be as wool."' And so he went on to
preach in a prison, as an apostle had done before him, the glorious
gospel of the blessed God. Day after day he visited the cell, and
read and conversed on that word which enlightens the eyes and
converts the soul. Nor were his efforts unavailing. The truth as it
is in Jesus came to the condemned seaman in demonstration of the
Spirit. It dissipated darkness. It showed the way of life. It
rectified false conceptions of right and wrong. It caused 'old
things to pass away, and all things to become new.'
'What a mystery,' he said to his cousin, at their last interview, 'is
the human heart! deceitful truly above all things. Worse than the
man who makes a deity out of a log of wood, I created within me a
false sense of duty and worshipped it. I truly deserve to suffer;
and now I turn away from the mystery of my own ignorance and
depravity, to the mystery of godliness--God in Christ reconciling the
world unto Himself. What a comforting contrast to my case is the
story of the cross! It was from no motive of affection that I, as
guilty as Phillipson, stood in his place; but "God commendeth His
love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for
us, the _Just_ for the unjust, to bring us to God." My only concern
now is about Mary and the children; but with your word of promise I
know I have your heart of affection, and you will look after them in
my stead.'
The last night set in, and passed but tardily in the apprehension of
the prisoner, who counted the hours with strangely mingled emotions,
as they were told out by iron tongues in all directions, until the
morning dawned, penetrating the cell with its golden light. A
clearer sky or a brighter sun the face of nature never saw. A lovely
May morning poured forth a flood of brightness on the scaffold, as
though it would surround it with some token of heaven's mercy, whilst
it bore so melancholy a testimony to earth's justice.
A noisy crowd, composed principally of the lowest and worst of
characters, assembled to witness the sad spectacle. It might have
been a holiday, so light and mirthful was the throng, so hearty was
their laugh, so ribald their conversation. Instead of the impressive
awe and the deterring fear which such an occasion ought to have
brought with it, the looks, the words, the acts of that jostling mass
were expressive only of reckless hardihood and of wanton inhumanity.
As the captain ascended the scaffold he was greeted with a yell by
the crowd, but it did not discompose him; and there, in the bright
light of early day, suffusing the scene with genial glow, he
forfeited the life he might have preserved. His last words were
words of intercession for Mary, for the little ones, for himself; and
ere the final syllable left those trembling lips his spirit had fled
from its earthly tabernacle. He was a mistaken man, who sacrificed
himself on what he considered the altar of duty; but he was a renewed
man, plucked by the hand of mercy as a brand from the burning.
On the outskirts of the crowd the kind-hearted cousin continued to
linger, enduring much mental anguish as he gazed on the lifeless
remains of his relative. He could scarcely realize the fact that he
was attending an execution, and that James Stauncy was no more, and
continued to pace up and down, lost in thought, until the body was
removed.
'I've seen the last of him in this life, poor fellow,' he said aloud;
'and now farewell, till we meet in a better!'
With a heavy heart he turned his face westward, and, knowing that
coach or waggon would overtake him some time, walked on until
nightfall, and then took up his quarters in an inn by the roadside.
Heated and wearied with his journey, the damp bed assigned him as his
place of rest proved all the more fatal in its chilling effects; and
ere he reached his home the checked tide of life had already begun to
ebb. Feebler and feebler, shadowy and more shadowy, the poor man
grew. The colour departed from his cheek, the lustre faded from his
eye; and sooner than he had thought, when speaking of a reunion in
another world, did a reunion take place; for when the autumn sun
smiled blandly and benign on blooming gardens and golden fields, its
mellow rays fell brightly on the sod which covered the reposing dust
of William Hockeridge.