Dl'ATII AND THK WAKUlOli.
By I). L Iiir.’uirdfson.
'nie warrior’s soul is klr.dlinrj now
With Nviiilly-hlcndinj Crc',
He fondly breathes ench ruj turcd vow
That faithful love inspires;
But not those whispered words alone
Arrest the nialJen’s ear,
A- proiKler strain—a loftier tone.
Awakes tlic throb of fear!
They hear the war-notes on the gale,
Before the tent they statiil.
Ills form is clad in g-littering- mrul,
I'he sworiis in his hand;
Her scarf around his arm is twined,
For love’s remembering' spell—
Ah ! would that kindred skill could bind
The links of life as well!
Thf buttle steed is waitinjr nig’).
Nor brooks his lord’s delay ;
And eager troops »re trampling by,
And wave their banners gay,
Nor boding dream nor bitter care.
In thfit prond host arc found,
While echoing through the startled a;r
The cheei*ful trumpets souhd.
The maid, with mingled pride and grief,
Faiiit Iiopes and withering fears,
Still g.iZt s on the gallHiit chief
Through dim impassionc*! tears.
Jle sees but Victory's golden wreath
And love’s unfading flnnie,
TTor thinks lu)W 300n tlie form of Death
Msy cross the path of fame !
* A I‘>st farewell—a last embracc.
And now for glory’s plain
Thosi parting accents left a tracc
Of frenzy on her brain.
And when the warrior’s helm was brought
To crown his forehend fair,
Alas, the shuddering maiden thought
’'I'was Death that placed it tliere !
in okC upuu 111)
moke
j 0:- i.
iidiiJg. I’.c.* bii's.
lO J ii of co:,
lint tljc Fountlci' o,
Mixing together profit and ilelight.
SINGULAR NARRATIVK.
In Blackuoorl’s Magazine is an arti
cle, e’ltitled Le Revciiani, writU;n by a
maii who has been hanged and is now
alive. The writer confesses, that ho
was GUILTY of the act for which he suf
fered—; and states the partic
ulars of his arrest, committal to New
gate for trial, ami liis couviotion of the
crime at the Old Baily Sessions for
1826. Me then piocef.;d>i to describe
what were his sotisations aitcr receiving
the awful setileticc of death. After
painting, in touching colours, the inter
view which he hail with l^lizahcth Clare,
to whom he was strongly attached, lie
thus proceeds in his nai ralive :— '
“ It was four o’clock in the after
noon wlien Elizabethh left me ; and
N^hen she departed, ft seemed as if my
business in this woi ld was at an end.
I could have wished, then and there, to
have died on the spot ; I had done my
last act, and drai.k my last draught in
life. But as the twilight ilrew’ in, my
cell was cold and damp, and the even
ing was dark and gloomy ; and I had no
fire, nor any candle, although it was in
the month of January, nor much cov
ering to warm me ; and by tlegrees my
igpirits weakened, and my lieart sunk at
tlic desolate wretchedness of every thing
about me ; and gradually—for what I
v\*rite TOW shnll f)e the truth—the tho'j,
■ uf E!izab‘th, and wiiat shall be her fate,
be.' /t( give v/ay before a sense of my
ow situation. This was the first time
—I f’linnot tell the reason why—that
znv mind had evoi' fixed itself fully up
on the trial that 1 had,—wiihin a few
hours to go through ; and as I reflected
on it, u terror spread over mefalmost in
pi) i jstant, as thour;h it were that my
se: was ju3t pronounced, and tlial
I I ’I jt known, really aiui seriously,
';i. I vvas to die, before. I }ial eaten
n-' z for 24 hours. There w’as food,
■?v . a religious gentleman who had
vi^'vd me had sent from his own table,
but I could not taste it ; and when 1
looked at it, strange fancies came over
ZTii‘. It was dainty food—not such as
was served to the in isont ii in the jail.
It was sent to me because 1 was to die
lo-fiiorrow ; aiul I thouglit of the beasts
of the field, aiii the fcwls of the air,
that were ^tampered for the blaiighter.
I ff.lt that iny own sfjniations weie not
as they ought to be at this time : and I
Lelifve that, lor a while, I was insane.
A sort of dull liumniin^ noise, that 1
could liot gel rid of, like the buzzing of
bees, sounded in my ears. And though
it was dark, spai ks of I'glit seemed to
dance before my eyes ; and ! could re-
coll’'ct nothing. 1 ti led to say my pray-
er*-, f)U» could only remember a word
}j. !• . and there; and then it seeint'd to
rr •• !* tl)€sc were ljla‘^ph(*mies that I
\V!) I ' :—1 l6n’t know u ;i:>Htiey
W' tell wtint It I said,
eiil then on a euUdeii^ L I'cll as though
door, and tried the door with my shoul-
t!or—thou«;!i I knew it was pUted with
iron, and heavier than that ol a church ;
and I groped about the very walls,, and
into the corners of my dungeon—tho’
I knew very v/cll if 1 had my senses,
that it was all of solid stone three feel
thick, and that, if 1 could passthrough
a crevice smaller ilian the eye ol a nee
dle, I had no chance of escaping,
in the midst of all this exertion, a laint-
ness came over me as tliough I had
swallowed poison •, and I had just pow
er to reel to the beil place, where 1 sank
down, as I think, in u swoon ; but tiiis
did.not last: for my head swam round,
and the cell seemed to turn with me ;
and 1 dreamed—between sleeping and
waking—that it was midnight, and that
Klizabeth liad come hack as she had
promised, and that they refused to ad
mit her. And I thought that it snowed
heavily, and that the streets were all
covchmI with it, as il with a white sheet,
and that I sav/ her dead—lying in the
fallen snow’ : and in the darkness : at
the prison gate!—When I came to my
self, I was slrujigling and breathless.—
In a minute or two, I heard St. Sepul
chre’s clock go ten ; and I knew it was
a dream I had had. The chaplain of
the prison came without my sending,
lie exhorted me solemnly “ to think no
more of cares and trouble in this world,
but to bend my thoughts upon that to
come, and to try to reconcile my soul
to Heaven ; trusting that my sins, Iho’
they were heavy, under repentance,
might have hope of mercy.” When
he was gone, I did find myself for a lit
tle while more collccted ; and I sat
down again on the bed, and tried seri
ously to commune with myself on my
fate. I recalled to my mind, that I iiad
but a few liours more, at all events, to
live—that there was no hope on earth
of escaping—ami that it was at least
left me, I nevrr stirred from n>y place | that beat heavily do
on the bed. I was hei.iunbcd v. i-h cold, | chimnies : the wagono
prchahly frotii ti.e tlec
I was liciiiunbcd V. i!h cold, . . .
at»! unacciis-1 men, ;uring at ll.i; win yard oiii>u»Ut.
;;,7a cM^o'sure, =nd I crouchc.l to- tl.o l.uarsr low roar tliat .an H"‘'UbI. the
-ethf-r, as it m-f- to keep I'.ivscll' ^varm- gatlierwa crowd as we afl'tared. icy
er, with my avns foloeJ across my 1 er saw so many ol.jetls at once, to i-lam-
breast, and my head hangin
ering ; anl my body lelt. as it it v.ere
such a w'eight to me, that I was unable
to move'it; f>r .stir. The day was now
b
on ti:^ capwl.eh lhad^mue,.d,^.L
as it was—\%itli all that 1 could do, I
coulil not keep inyseli Iroui noticing
downshiv-|Iv and distinctly in all my life, as at
' tnat one glance ; but it lasted only for
an instant.
‘From that look, and from that in-
that followed is a blank. Of
irrht Stole by det^rees into i.iy dungeon, the prayers v the chaplain, oi the fa t^
;!,..vvin.r ,n.‘ tiie da.iU) stone v/alls and ening ol the latal noose, ol the pulling
these trifling things—thougli perdition
was coming upon me the very next mo
ment—I noticed tho lamp which the
turnkey had left on the floor, and which
was burning, dimly, with a long wick
being cloggel with the chill and oad
air, and 1 tliought to mysell even at
' that moment—that il had not been turn
ed sincc the night before. And I look
ed at the bare, naked, iron bed frame
cd ; of my actual execution and death,
I have not the slightest lecollection.
But that I know sucii occurrences must
have taken place, 1 should not have the
smallest coiisciousneiis that they ever did
so. I read ifi the daily newspapers an
account ('f my behaviour at the scatl’old :
that I conducted myself decently, but
with firmness ; of niy death, that 1 seem
ed to die almost witliout a struggle. Ol
any of those events I have not been able,
by my exertion*, to recall the mostdis-
that I sat on ; and at the heavy studs on | tant remembrance. With tlie first view
the door of the dungeon ; and at the of the scaflold, all my recollection cea-
scrawls and writings r.pon the wall, that
had been drawn by tlie lormer prison
ers ; and 1 put my hand to my own
pulse, and it was so low that I could
hardly count it. 1 could not feel—tho’
I tried to make mysril leel it—that I
was going to die. In the midst of this,
I heard the chimes of the chapel clock
begin to strike ; and I thought Ijord
take pity on me a wretch!—it could not
be three cpiarters after seven yet! The
clock w’ent over the three (juarters—it
cliimed the fourth quaiter and struck
eight. They were in my cell before I
perceived them. 'I'hey foun«l me in
the same place and in the same [>osture
as tliey had left mo.
“What I have farther to tell will lie
in a very small compass ; my recollec-
better that 1 should die decently and , tions are very ininute up to this i)oint,
like a man. Then I tried to recollect ■ but not at all so close as to what occur-
all the tales that I had ever heard about i red afterwards. I scarcely recollect
death by hanj^ing—that it was said to be j very clearly how I got from my cell to’
ses. The next circumstance, which, in
my conception, seems to iollow, is the
having awoke, as if from sleep, and
found myself in a bed, in a handsome
chamber; v. ith a gentleman, as -i first
oDened my eyes, looking attentively at
me. I had my senses perfectly, though
I did not speak at once. I thought di
rectly that I had been reprieved at the
scaflbld, and had fainted. After I knew
the truth, I thou^jht thai I had an imper
fect recollection of having found, or
fancied myself as in a dream, in some
strange place, lying naked, and with a
mass of figures floating about me ; but
ibis idea certainly never jiresented itself
to me until I w’as informed of the fact
that it had occurred.
••The accident to which I owe my
existence, will have been divined! My
condition is a strange one! I am a liv
ing man ; and I possess certificates both
of death and burial. I know that a
tho sensalioii of a moment—to give no j the press-room. 1 think two little with-j coflln, filled with stones, and with my
pain—to cause the extinction of life in-j ered men, dressed in bl«ck, supported | name upon the plate, lies buried in the
hlantaneously—and so on, to twenty | me. I know I tried to rise when I saw i church yard of St. Andrew’s, Ilolborn ;
other strange ideas. By degrees, my : the master and hir. people come into the
head b(;gan to v/ander and grow unman- duiigcou ; but I could not.
ageable again. I put my hand tightly to
my throat, as though to try the seiisa-
“ In the press-rouin were the two
miserable wretchfs that wore to sufier
tiun of strangling.—'I’hen I felt my arm with me ; they were bound, with their
at the places wh;rc tlie cord would b-1 ai ms behind them, and tiieir hands to
tied. I went through the fastenings of
the rope, tin; tying of the hands to
gether : the thing that I felt mostavei re
tu, was the having the white cap muf
fled over iny eyes and face. If 1 could
avoid that, the ivst was not so very hor
rible! In the midst of these fancits, a
numbness seemed to creej) over my sen
ses. The giddiness that 1 had felt gave
way to a dull stupor, which lessened
the pain which my thoughts gave, tho’
1 still went on thinking. The church
clock rang midniglit: 1 was sensible of
the sound, but it readied me indistinct
ly—as though coming through many
closed doors, or from a far distance.—
By and by, 1 saw the objects before my
mind less and less clearly ; then only
partially ; then they were gone alto
gether. I fell asleep.
“ 1 slept until tlie hour of execution.
It was seven o’clock on the next morn
ing, when a knocking a', tho door of my
cell awoke me. I heiud tho sound as
though in n:y dreams, for some moments
before 1 was fully a'vake ; and my iirst
sensation was only tin* dislike which a
wea.y man feels at being roused ; I was
tired, and wished to doze on. In a min
ute a;’ter, the bolts on the oulsitleof my
'.luiigeon were drawn ; a turnkey car
rying a small lamp, and I'ollowed by
the master of the gaol and tlie chaplain,
entered ; I hndu'd ujj—a shudder lik»;
the sliock of electricity, like a plun^^e
into a bath of ice, ran through me ; oiie
glance was sufiicient.
‘•Sleep was gone as though I had nev
er slept—even as I never waa to sleep
again — 1 was conscious of my situation.
*■ said the master to me, in a sub
dued, but steady tone, ‘ it is time for
you to rise.’ 'I'he chaplain asketl me
lunv 1 had passed tlie night, and j)iopo-
scd that we should join in prayer. I
gathered myself up, and remained seat-
i saw, from a window’, the undressed
lioarse arrive that carried it; I was wit
ness to u’y o'vn funeral t these are
r>lrange things to sec. My dangers,
iiowever, and I trust my crimes, are
over for ever. Thanks to the bounty
of the excellent individual, whose b»:
nevolence has recognized the service
which he did me for a claim upon him
1 am married to the woman, wliose hap
piness and safet}'proved my last thought,
so long as reason remained with me,
ill dying. And I am about to sail upon
a far voyage, which is only a sorrowful
one, that it parts me for ever from my
benefactor.”
Mrltnious.
gether, and were lying Uj)on a bench
iiard l)V, until I was ready. A meager
looking old man, with thin white hair,
who was reading to (uie of them, came
up, and said something ‘That ve
should embrace,’—1 did nol ilistinctly
hear what it was.
“The great diflicnity that I had was
to keep from falling. 1 had thought
that these mon^.ents would have l.een all
of fury and horror, but I felt nothing
of this ; but only a w'cakness, as though
my heart—and the very floor on which
I .‘'tooil—was sinking under me. 1
could just make a motion, that the old
white liairod man should leave me, anil
some one interfered, and sent him aw’ay.
The junioning of my hands and arms
was then fir.ished ; and 1 heard an ofli-
cer whisper to the chajdain that ‘ ail w-as
ready.’ As \ve passed out, one of the
men in black held a ^lass of water to my
lips ; but 1 could nol swallow.
“ 'I'his was the last moment—but one
—of full perception, that I h?.d in life.
I remember our beginning to move
forward, through the hmg arched pas-K*^ strength (d‘ ilie most powerful gov
sages which led from the press-room tnjcrnmcnt of the i^rcatcst of all empires.
Chrislianiiy cast away u!i «cupun„
of our lower nature. He shrunk IVom
no declaration of the mo'ji unpulatahit
truth. He told tlie Je > il>at his sj)ii uu:i’
pride was a deadly crime. He dccJareii
that the cherished impurity of the
tile was a deadly crime. I!c plutkcd u;
the temporal ambition of his fullowerf
by the roots, and told them tliai if ihc\
were to be (;reat, it must Ixr throui;h thf.
grave. In the full view of unpopuLiiiy^
desertion and death, he pronounccd tc
the Jews the extinction of iheir iiuiional
existence; to the discii)les, their li\es
persecution. At the time of his death,
his name had scarcely passed beyond his
despised province j and when ai Itn^nh it
reached Rome, it was known only in con-
tcmptuous connexion with that of a cro'.vd
of unfortunate men, condemned to li.c
rack and the flame. Yet within the Ufc
of man, his relijjion was constituted the
worship of the emperor and his people;
his doctrincs were acknov/ledped as in-
spiration, and the civilized world bowed
btfore him as the God whom the heaven
and heaven of heavens cannot contain.
Those wouders are familiar to the Chris
tian, but they are still wonders, the
mightiest phef.omena on which the spirit
of man can gaze—the stars of our mor
tal twilight, an'! worthy our loftiest ad
miration, till ihe grates of the grave shull
be unbarred, and the vision of glory shal!
spread before us with r. cloud.—
lieli^ious.—Messrs. Kditors : The
follow'ing extract f; om the writings of
thoiiev. John Wesley, has appeared in
the newspapers before, but there is real
ly so much of the spirit of liberal and
genuine Christianity in the article, that
we ask the favor of you to putjlish il
once more.
“ We may die without the knowledge-
of many truths, and yet be carried into
Abraham’s bosom—but if we die with
out love, what will knowledge avail? I
will not quarro! with you about any o-
pinion, only sec that your heart be ri"ht
towards God, that you know and luvc
the Lord Jesus Christ, that you love
your neighbor, tC'd walk asyourina.stc:'
walked, and I d-tfVe no more. I an
sick of opinions. I am v. eary to hear
t!:em, mj- soul loathes this frothy food
Give me solid and substantial religion :
give me a humble, gentle lover of Gnd
and man ; a man full of mercy and^ood
fruits, without partiality, and witiiout
hypocrisy : a man laying himself out
the work of faith, the patience of hope,
the labor of ^ovc. Let my soul be:
with these Christians, wheresoever thcv
are, and whatsoever opinion they are oi.
Whosoever thus iloth the will of niy
Father which is in Heaven, the sam;
is iny brother, and sister, and mother.''
Register.
rili: MIRACULOUS OHIGIN OF CIIUIST-
lANITY.
No coiifurmity of circumstances can
account for the origin of Chris'iunity.
A Being known to the world only as a
Jewish peasant, delivered a system of
doctrincs, wliich overthrew, not merely
some leeble phil030|ihy, or some harsh
and unpopular supeibtition, but both the
ory and establishment of the state reli
gion, guar ded and fought for by the arm-
the scaffold. I saw the lamps that were
still burning, lor the ilaylight never en
tered here : I hoard the cjuick tolling of
the bell, and dee[) voice of the chaplain,
reading as he walked before us.
“I am the re'-urrection and t!ie life,
saith tin' Loid ; he that believeth in me,
though he were dead, shall live. And
though aiter my death worms di'slroy
this body, yet in my flesh shall I see
God!”
“It was the funeral service—thr; or
der for the grave ; the olliee fiw’ those
that were senseless and dead—over us,
the (]uie,lv anil the living.
“1 fell once more—and saw! I felt
tlie transition from those dim, close, hot,
'I’housands and lens of tiiousands owed
iheir daily bread to their connexion with
r.eligion. rdillions on millions have i-
dentified it wi:h all iheir conceptions of
life, of enjoyment, and of that ol>scure
hope in which the heathen saw a life to
come. The noble families owed a large
share of their influence to it. 'l lif' em
peror himself was hii';h priest. Old tra
dition invigorating iiito living belief,
madi. il ihe pledge of safety to the em
pire—a sacred protcclor, without which,
the glories of Homan dominion were des
tined to inevitable ruin. Yet against this
colossal and haughty ei'oction—ihc con-
lampli;;lited siiblerraneous passages, to j work of subiilty and strength
ed on the side of the bed tdaco. My the open plaHorm, and sfer)s at the foot I . i r r. « • i
1 I.. .... i . .>.1 * I forth a solitary Being, and
teeth chattered, and my knees knocked
togetiier, in desjiite of myself. 11 wa>
barely day-light yet ; and, as the cell
door stood o]H;n, 1 coulil see into the
small paved court yard beyond ; the
morning was thick and gloomy ; and a
slow, but settled rain was coming down.
‘ Jtis half past 7 o'eJor k, ]{ saiil
the master. 1 iust mustered an entrea
ty to 1)0 left alone till the last moment.
I had JO ijjiiiulfJs to livt*.
(d' the scaffold, and to d.iy I s..w the 1 “‘"“'“w -'’-•••f.i u.i.i al hi.
i.nmense crow.l hlacUcins llie whole I”'' '
area ol street below.me. The windows itoivtred up to heaven, came, wall
of the shops and houM's oj)posite, elioak-] and gate, to the ground. And by what
ed wi‘h gsxers. 1 >aw St. Sepulchre ,s, uieuns had tliis been done ? By nothing
church through the >elh>w fog iu thejiiutl can f.nd u parallel in the history of
ilistancc, and heard the nealin'r ol it>i, • ■ c- i
, II , Il . 4i I I ^ • . I human lm[^ulse. Sigrt«l austcriiv, en-
bell. 1 recollcet the eluutly, iui.-nIv i , . ,
n.ornini:, the wel that lay upon li.e s, ai- Et-nir.s, the
fold, tl.e huge (hu k mass of buiidiiu^, j s[)!c:ul:a s'jccess, visionary
the prison itselt’, t!i;il k\mj besiile, and j irifs, the displays of sensual |'/ara-
In ancient times all knowledge ws'
either experimental, traditional, or de-
])osited in scarce and costly manuscript'
The power of public opinion was llici.
coulined within as narrow limits as tha
depositories and means of information
There was no system of general in
struction to enlighten the body ol the
people, and there was no channel of in
formation except the school of philoso
phy and seminaries of oi’ators. '1 l‘C
press had not then illuminated the worM,
and the great lights of the human rac
were either concealed or j’artially exhib
ited. But now that public oj)inion hs'^
ascendency co-(;xtensive with civili*'^>‘
lion, and rules the rulers as well as l:i'^
ruled, the throne as vvtJl as the cottnjT' -
and there is no man a!)uve or below tno
influence of this Archimcdian
which moves and eontroLs the worU
it is important that the truths and prin
ciples of our holy religion should hen.
fused into tlie movements and open'-
tions of a power so mighty and trai*
seendent. Systems of general ediK’^i'
tion, and a ditfiisive spread of Bible
cieties, are theret'ore necessary for d“'
tranquility, good order and liberties oi
mankind. We arc on the verge ol c-
vents greater than the astonishing one-*
whieii liave occurred within our times,
discoveries vast and stupendous'—
tutions deeply connected with huin-i’i
amcli(»ration, aiul e\ents c»t unpr"‘
denfcd character may be exjK'clotl - ’
, i Tho fountains of intellectual, moral .'ui-
religious light, which are now concefV
trated witiiin comparatively
boundarie.s, will overflow the
and luniianitv, throwing ofl its '
and rising above its incumbrances,
be euaobled as well as disenlhi-dled.^
■I tned tu iiii'.kc uKollicr obae^rvalion ! tcLiiied lo ca;l a sl.udcw ever r?: r.hc 1 h.ivc m.'.de progclytcs in barbirrou'^
^le that can please ndhudv', ‘
much to be J)’'.’ '''* I'. J uobjdy
plen‘f‘. —