thing for her marriage, on the morrow, when you are set at liberty.
Oh! how must I break the awful truth to her! When I left her an
hour ago, she was singing some of your verses. Her mind seems
to have lost some of its power, for she wandered out alone this
afternoon, to the Common, where, on the morrow, you must die, and
gathered some of the simple daisies, to deck her hair. She protests
that these will be all that her dear James shall know of Kennington
Common!”
Sir Hector remained an hour with him, and took his last farewell!
The morning came, after a sleepless, restless night. Dawson attired
himself in full uniform, even to the Highland bonnet. At an early
hour the officers entered, and led him, along with eight of his
companions, down to the court yard of the prison. All who were to
suffer, greeted each other kindly, but no one had need to cheer
each other, and inspire them with firmness. For themselves, they
were indifferent to their doom, and were prepared to meet it with
the conciousness of what they considered innocence in a good cause;
but they had relatives, and this clouded their minds. Still they
appeared bold and undaunted.
“Townley,” said one to the Colonel, “you were always,--forgive me
for the hint,--fond of dressing your head, when it was about to pop
in at the door of a ball room, to be inspected by the ladies. Now
that it is to be seen more conspicuously, will you not bestow more
attention? There, upon mine honour, that fine curl has left its
sweep.”
After finishing breakfast, their chains were struck off, and their
arms pinioned.
“Stay,” exclaimed one, “give me the freedom of my hands, to
arrange my neckcloth, that should the Hanoverian Elector himself
be present, I may render the man all possible honours. Help me to
laugh Dawson. Captain, is my neckcloth nice? See,--but here is the
groom of my bedchamber, the master of my wardrobe, he will assist
me.”
The Executioner now appeared, with the halters carried behind him.
He was dressed in white, and his black and hideous face, although
of a cadaverous hue, was a striking contrast. Although Dawson
scorned the fear of death, yet life was dear to him for Katharine,
and a shudder passed over his frame, as the executioner approached
him.
“Young gentleman,” said the grim official, “your neck is the first
for the halter. But the first shall be last, in order that the
Scriptures may be fulfilled, and your heart shall be the last in
being thrown into the flames. Ha! ha!” and he laughed at the awful
blasphemy. With the greatest coolness and composure he removed the
scarf from Dawson’s neck, and was substituting the rope, when he
observed the golden chain, to which was attached the portrait of
Katharine Norton. He raised it.
“Young sir,” said he, as he attempted to smile, “shall I remove the
miniature? Pretty, pretty,--the lady smiles so beautifully upon the
rope!”
“Touch it not, wretch,” thundered forth Dawson, in tones which
made the barbarian tremble, and interrupted him in his chuckle.
“Never,” he added, “shall the resemblance of her whom I love, be
exposed to a profane gaze.”
“Nay,” returned the executioner, “you have no command over it,
young rebel. Your clothes are my property, as soon as I perform my
kind offices to that carcase, and, of course, the miniature amongst
the rest.”
“Shall it!” shouted Dawson in a rage. “Never. Officer, remove it
from my neck, and place it on the floor.” His request was granted,
and he ground it to atoms beneath his tread.
The prisoners were then brought out, and placed on hurdles,
surrounded by a body of foot guards. There, also, was the
executioner, with a naked scimitar. The “dead march” was now played
by the military, and its music was sad and slow, unlike that which
had roused the courage of the rebels when they assembled under the
standard of the Chevalier. Gradually it swelled, until, towards the
conclusion, it died quietly away, and expressed the true condition
of the prisoners, “who were wearing away to the land of the leal.”
Some of them gaily beat time with their feet, but others would not
counterfeit mirth, although they needed not to counterfeit courage,
for they all possessed it.
When they arrived at Kennington Common, they beheld a dense crowd,
for the London mob had assembled, to feast on the horrid spectacle
of hanging, embowelling, burning, and beheading. But as the hurdles
passed them, they were quiet, and some words, as well as many
looks, of commiseration greeted the prisoners. A large pile of
faggots was heaped up close to the gallows, and as they left the
hurdles, and entered the cart from which they were to be turned
off, they were set fire to, and threw a fitful glare over the faces
Of the guards around, as well as those of the prisoners. Colonel
Townley turned to the magistrates, who stood on a small platform,
and asked whether a clergyman had been brought to attend to them.
On being answered in the negative, he exclaimed,--
“What mercy is shown to us! You are generous enemies! Morgan, my
good friend, read us appropriate prayers, before we suffer for King
James. Let us die, trusting in God our Saviour. It is well that I
reminded you to bring your book.”
His fellow-sufferer began to read in a solemn manner, kneeling, and
with his head uncovered. Not a whisper was heard among the crowd,
but they stood silent, as if hushed by the true spirit of devotion,
and as if the angels, whom the prisoners invoked to surround them
with their fiery cars, would have been frightened away by the
noise and commotion. They were also in the suspense of expectation,
when these religious services should be ended, and the dread signal
given. Then a carriage was seen rapidly approaching.
“A pardon! a pardon!” shouted the mob, as they made way, at first
sight. The prisoners’ devotions were interrupted. For a moment
they gazed anxiously, but, as the carriage took its station behind
the dense masses of people, their hopes fell, and once more they
engaged in their religious exercises, but with paler countenances,
and the reader’s voice, at first, was observed to tremble. Dawson
looked up. From the window of the carriage he saw Sir Hector
gazing, and waving his farewell; and beside him was his own
Katharine! A violent shuddering seized him, but, at that moment,
Morgan was repeating the words, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,”
and now he felt that he had, for ever, done with earthly things.
The signal was given by a loud shout, raised by the prisoners, “God
save King James,” and the cart was driven from beneath them!
All the other horrible accompaniments were gone through, and the
executioner, on throwing the heart of Dawson into the flames,
exclaimed, “Long live King George!”
The carriage was that of Katharine Norton, and thus, attended
by her aunt and McLean,--who had failed in all their attempts
to dissuade her from witnessing such a scene,--she gazed on
her lover’s tortures to the last. She had seen him suspended,
then stripped, in order that he might be embowelled; and as the
executioner announced that he had performed his office, she clasped
her hands together, and meekly laying her head on the bosom of her
aunt, said,
“Dear James, I follow thee.”
“Not yet, my Katharine, not yet. Put your throbbing heart to mine,
love.”
Throbbing heart! Alas, it throbbed no more! Katharine Norton was
dead! Hector McLean took one hand, to console her, and, as the
other was placed upon the window of the carriage, it was seized by
the blind Prophetess, who now appeared, strangely and unexpectedly,
as before.
“Dead! dead!” she exclaimed.
At that moment the shouts of the mob frightened the horses, who
dashed furiously away; and the young Prophetess was left a mangled
corpse! Her life was all a mystery--her power of knowing the
future, and her sudden appearance!
THE SPECTRE COACH OF LIVERPOOL.
In one of the squares at the extremity of Liverpool, some sixty
years ago, there resided a young orphan, called Elizabeth
Woodville. She had no relations surviving; her parents had long
been dead, and an only brother, a few weeks previous, had, by
youthful excesses, been brought to an untimely end. The latter
event preyed upon her spirits and constitution, not only from
the mere fact itself of his death, but also from the horrible
circumstances connected with it. He had been conveyed home a
corpse, after his nightly revel; and at the moment when Elizabeth
was dreaming of her parents, in the far off happy land, she was
awoke to listen to the awful tidings, and view their confirmation
in the ghastly features of one who, whatever, and how many his
faults and crimes were, had always loved her. She seemed now to
be alone in the world, with no acquaintances save the flowers
which her fair hands fostered every morning, and the toys of her
brother, when a boy, which were all collected and arranged before
her. There was the pencil, with which he and Arthur Govenloch
alternately sketched her own features, in puerile art; and along
with it were the silken cords which bound her to a seat, when she
was refractory. That seat was still there, with the green faded
cushion, and in it, for hours, she often sat, held by the illusions
of memory. His fishing rod and basket kept their old places, fixed
to the ceiling. Even the marbles of the boy had been preserved, and
she thought of their sports in the garden, and remembered a long
and successful chase, through amidst the trees and over the grass
plot, into the arbour, which Arthur, followed by her brother, had
after her, when she stole away their marbles. His Holy Bible, too,
with the three names inscribed on the fly leaf, lay with its gilt
edges; and she pictured once more to her fancy, the beautiful and
happy sabbath eves, in summer, out on the flowery lawn, when their
young minds drank in the holy words of peace and life. She fondly
hoped that the solemn, yet sweet truths of mercy therein contained,
would have been so strongly impressed upon her brother’s heart,
that all the infidel thoughts which had latterly sprung up, and
effected his temporal ruin, must have failed to uproot them. It
had never been conned by them as a task book, but had always been
opened by them as a holy romance of truth from heaven, pointing
to Eden as the cradle, and the skies as the home, of our race;
with the lovely and the wise Jesus as the hero of every scene,
reflected above or below. Her whole heart was among these objects
of remembrance, and her happiness was in the past. She played
delightfully, and her sweet voice accompanied the harp, but only
the songs and hymns which had pleased her brother, and his friend.
She often thought of that friend. There was only one of the dead
who engrossed all her thoughts, and that one was her brother, even
to the entire exclusion of her parents; and there was only one of
the living, and he was Arthur Govenloch. Since boyhood he had been
in a foreign country, but he had never gone from the affections of
Elizabeth Woodville.
It was May day, towards sunset, as she took her seat on the
terrace. She was engaged in working a piece of embroidery,--a
history of the family, and of her childhood; and the last rays fell
sweetly upon the names of those she loved. An unusual buoyancy
had been imparted to her spirits, and she leaned over to view the
sports of children, as crowned with the first flowers of summer,
they gaily and enthusiastically tripped about the door. They all
departed, save one beautiful boy, who sat down beside an old
statue, on the grass plot, and by turns, for very happiness, sung,
clapped his hands, and shouted. He started as he heard footsteps
near, and seeing Elizabeth, ran up the outer flight of stairs,
leading to the terrace. She came down to meet him, when a stranger
appeared. He suddenly halted, and became deadly pale. He turned
round, for a moment, to conceal his agitation, when he heard a
half-suppressed shriek.
“Arthur Govenloch!”
Although many, many years had elapsed, and foreign climes had
embrowned his features, Elizabeth recognized him. She had loved
the boy, and when he was absent her imagination had pictured the
man, and there stood the living resemblance, unchanged. On hearing
his own name pronounced, he rushed forward. There was a beautiful
lady in mourning. Could it be his own Elizabeth? There was the same
slight figure, which he had so often clasped, as a boyish dream,
and the deep light of her soft blue eyes, which he had so often
braved for hours, when lying on the grass, and could he forget it?
“My own Elizabeth!” he exclaimed, “in mourning? But hast thou been
faithful and true, as I have been? There, there, that boy again.--A
shudder passed over me, as I first beheld him here. Art thou the
wife of another? That boy,”--
“Arthur, I know him not, he is the child of a neighbour. Oh! hast
thou come at last! Arthur, I am alone. My brother is--”
“Hush, dearest, _now_ thou art not alone. But let us enter the
house, where I have been so happy, and tell me all.”
Their love had been preserved through many years. It had commenced
early, and was hallowed by memory, as well as brightened by hope.
Innocence had lighted it, and the daring boy, and the gentle
girl, would leave their task to romp with each other, but not for
romping’s sake; for when the sport was ended, then came the soft
look, the soft touch, and the soft confession. Boys and girls are
the quickest, the warmest, the holiest, and the most successful
lovers. The God of love plays best with children; and,--mischievous
urchin--when the little scholars are rambling about, or seated,
teaching each other their tasks, taking hold of fingers, to
point out letters, or words, figures, or sums, then he lets fly
the arrow, touching their young and pure blood. Such lovers had
Elizabeth Woodville and Arthur Govenloch been, and their affection
was preserved, warm and strong, until the present. Both wept
over the death of their old companion, and all his books were,
once more, affectionately handled and looked at. They walked out
together upon the terrace, and brightly did the stars shine upon
them, like the glorious and happy types of that future, concerning
which they spoke. Happy were they now in each other, and long ere
Arthur left her, Elizabeth’s face was beautiful with smiles. She
accompanied him to the garden gate, leaning confidingly upon his
arm.
“Elizabeth--I must introduce the custom of the country which I have
left; and the square is so retired, and the nights, of late, have
been so beautiful, that I must come and serenade you beneath your
window. But arise not; only for a moment awake to listen to my
lute, and then, dearest, dream of me.”
He looked upon her, and saw that she was pale. Her slight frame
trembled. He pressed his hand against her heart, and it beat
violently.
“Nay, Arthur, do not.”
“I will not disturb your rest. No, Elizabeth; but the night is so
beautiful, that I cannot refrain from coming to the house where my
own love dwells, and serenading, in company with the angels, the
abode of the beautiful Orphan. You know that I won’t serenade you,
when you are my dear little wife. Henry, your brother, will thank
and bless me for coming.”
She became still paler, and leaned for support on the gate.
“You are not well. Walk back to the house. Come. Now, farewell
dearest,” and he fondly embraced her. Her brow was cold as he
kissed it, and she softly said,--
“Oh! Arthur, come not to night.”
But he thought that, although he might not serenade her, there
could be no harm in passing, at the hour of midnight, and looking
at the house, as it lay in the pale moonshine. For, be it observed,
that lovers are not so very unreasonable as some represent; and the
mere sight of the house where the adored one lives, can satisfy
them.
A little before midnight, Arthur was once more in the street, on
his way to the abode of his mistress. All was silent and lonely.
The glare of lamps was feeble and sickly, mingling with, while
yet distinguishable from, the light of the moon. The breezes
blew gently, and carried perfumes, as tranquilizing as they were
sweet. Few persons were abroad: and save the light dress of
the unfortunate and the guilty, revealing itself occasionally,
at a corner of the street, as he passed, and the song of the
bachanalian, coming from cellars, and greeting him, Arthur found
nothing to turn his attention from the thoughts and love which he
cherished to the fair Orphan. All boyish feelings, save one, had
been forgotten, and, as he trod his native town, he felt that in it
he was a stranger. But the brother shared his thoughts, as well as
the sister, and he wished that he had enquired of Elizabeth where
his grave was, that even there he might pay an early visit, after
his return, to the friend and companion of his boyhood. He reached
the lane which opened into the square. It was a dark, close, and
filthy way. Trees were on every side, but the leaves appeared to
be beds of worms and reptiles, and a sharp breeze coming from the
harbour, blew some of them against Arthur’s cheek, and they were
damp and polluting to the touch.
Suddenly he heard shouts of revelry behind, and the sound of a
coach starting. The whip was loudly urging on the steeds, and
their hoofs clattered fast and furious. He looked back, and to his
astonishment and terror, saw nothing. Still the noise came near and
nearer, and at length he distinctly heard a coach dash past him.
At that moment a loud shout was heard, and the whip was cracked
close to his ears. The blood curdled within him. He could not be
deceived. He ran on, and the nearer he came, he heard the rolling
of the wheels, the pawing and breathing of the horses, the cracking
of the whip, and even the oaths and tones of those who sat in it,
with greater assurance. He seemed close upon it, when all at once
it stopped, and then he found himself at the house of Elizabeth
Woodville, and there, horrible to think, the Spectre Coach was
waiting, unseen! He moved backwards and forwards, and fancied that
he heard whispers near the place, and occasionally the stroke of a
hoof, on the flinty road. A flavour of wine and tobacco was in the
air around. In a little, the door of the house was half opened:
a light and merry step was on the pavement, and instantly a loud
holloo, in the tones of one, quite familiar to his ear, arose, and
once more the coach dashed away. Arthur stood motionless, what
could this awful prodigy mean? He looked at the door, and there
stood Elizabeth! He rushed forward. Her eyes fell upon his form,
enveloped in a cloak, and shrieking, she fell. He raised her from
the earth, bleeding and senseless. He shouted for the domestics,
and committed her to their care. He entered another room. In a
short time, one of them returned, and announced that her mistress
had recovered, and was desirous of speaking with him.
“My young lady,” she added “every night watches for that coach.
It comes for her brother regularly, as usual. Oh! Sir, would you
persuade her to retire before the hour? It renews her grief.”
Arthur started at these words: and truths of an awful nature
flashed across his mind. But he heard Elizabeth’s voice, and he
hurried into her apartment. She sat, reclining on a sofa; her
countenance was pale; her eyes bright, but an expression of horror
and wildness in them.
“Did you not, Arthur,” she exclaimed, as she wrung her hands, and
with them covered her face, “did you not hear Henry’s voice, so
free and merry. What an awful apparition of his last ghost! I have
gazed for months, and hoped that I would see him, but in vain. The
tale is one of horror, and one which I have realized.”
She paused, and leaving her seat, went to the window, and listened
eagerly.
“It comes not yet--no--it is not the appointed time, and I may
proceed with the relation. But for God’s sake, Arthur, if you hear
a noise, if you hear the rolling of the coach, interrupt me not! I
must answer his call. Nay, rise not. I am calm, dear Arthur. You
knew my brother Henry--None could be more innocent and happy. But
after you left us, he listened to wicked men, and imbibed their
poisonous doctrines, and Henry Woodville, the beautiful and the
good, became a dark infidel! In place of the Holy book, from which
you read to us--was the accursed text book of the wretch, Paine.
You knew that when he read, he placed a chair for me, and with his
cheek against mine, invited me, laughingly, to examine whether he
read correctly. One evening, out on the terrace,--thus we sat
down to read, and mine eyes fell upon the words before he uttered
them; “There is no God, and christianity is all priests’ fables.”
I warmly told him to throw away such blasphemy. He laughed, and
added that it was his bible, and that he would sell the old one for
a penny! From step to step he went on, and became a drunkard and
a debauchee. He was so entangled with companions, that he would
not abandon their society. Still he loved me, wept as I wept, and
said that he was sorry for his conduct, and then laughed like a
fiend. Every night his associates came, in a coach, and took him
away to their foul orgies. In the outskirts of the town,--for,
Arthur, I have followed, though concealed--they lighted a fire,
burned the Bible, and then drove to the haunts of depravity.
Henry’s handsome form became emaciated, and almost loathsome; but
I embraced him more fondly than ever. His full bright eyes were
sunk and bloodshot. One night, he promised to stay with me at home,
and all my hopes revived. What happy hours we spent! He led me to
my apartment, and kissed me. He even implored God’s blessing upon
me. I saw him kneel before his Maker. I heard him plead love for
his sister, aye, and forgiveness for himself. I sank to sleep,
overpowered with a delirium of joy! And yet, Arthur, he deceived
me. He joined his companions, and in the coach, they repaired to a
vale, and there began to make a sacrament to the devil! Prayers and
praises to him were made in the midst of mirth and wine; and they
literally took the cup of damnation in their hands, and quaffed
it off. They invoked the enemy. The inhabitants of the suburbs
were aroused from their repose by awful noises. They went to the
place whence they seemed to proceed, and my brother, and two of
his associates, were found dead, and horribly mangled. A black
form was said to hover near them. What a corpse Henry was! And
yet, I watched every minute beside it, kissed the hideous lips,
until he was taken to the grave. Every night that coach comes for
him as usual. It is a Phantom Coach. On a beautiful night, it has
the sound of a light coach; and on a stormy one, that of a heavy
coach. The first night after his funeral, it came. I started up,
thinking that his associates had resolved to insult me. I rushed to
the window, but saw nothing. It tarried the usual time, and then
dashed away. I heard my brother’s voice distinctly! I stood for
hours, unable to move,--when it was heard returning. It halted, the
door opened, and a light step mounted the staircase, close by this
window, and struck against Henry’s door. In mad phrenzy I followed,
but saw nothing! All his associates have died; still, the Phantom
Coach calls regularly upon them, and takes them to their place of
rendezvous!”
She again arose, and went to the window.
The horrible tale had fallen like a nightmare upon the energies
and happiness of Arthur Govenloch. He sat motionless;--when his
mistress returned, and resumed the subject.
“One night--this is the anniversary of it, the first of May,--he
went out early, and told me to admit him when he knocked, without
delay. Long I watched. Mine eyes, or the bright moon, became pale;
and, at last, I fell asleep. In the midst of happy dreams I was
awoke by a loud knocking at the door. I rushed to the staircase,
and, in my hurry, fell down. I could scarcely arise to open the
door, but my love prevailed, and as Henry entered, he struck me!
yes, struck his sister! cursed my delay, and threatened worse
punishment for the next offence. This is the night when I should
have been asked to watch for and admit him, and those awful words
follow me! I knew that he afterwards wept over his cruelty--but
these words!”
In vain did Arthur attempt to turn away her thoughts from the
subject, and when he failed, he requested permission to bear her
company until the morning. Often did she express a wish that she
could only see the coach and her brother.
“I hear his voice, and sometimes it sounds like the tones of his
boyhood, happy and free; and yet, I cannot see him!”
The night was far advanced, and they went to the window. The sky
was dark and clouded. The moon could no longer be seen.
“Arthur!” Elizabeth exclaimed in a voice of terror, “I hear the
coach; it dashes furiously along. Nay, do not hold me.”