Kitabı oku: «Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848», sayfa 5
"Never?" asked I, emphatically.
"Certainly, never!" answered she, with much apparent surprise.
My drive was a delightful one. How could it be otherwise, with a glorious day surrounding me, and a gloriously beautiful cousin sitting beside me, with whom I could not exactly make up my mind whether to fall desperately in love, or desperately out of love. I, too, such an enthusiastic lover of beauty. But she chose to be so different from what she was at our first meeting – so reserved, that I could not decide whether I most loved or was most indifferent to her.
We rode all the morning, and I left her, promising to call again in the evening. I walked the streets until dark, the whole affair vexed me so much – I, such a hater of all mysteries, the most impatient of all breathing mortals. I determined to come at once to an understanding with my perverse little cousin, and to decide at once the puzzling question whether to love or not to love.
In the evening I found myself alone with my little tormentor.
"Now, sweet Cousin Emily," said I, playfully, "you have been teazing me long enough with your pretty affectation of ignorance and innocence – not but that you are as ignorant as the rest of your sweet sex, and as innocent too – but, I beseech you, lay by this masquerading, you have played possum long enough. I humbly implore of you to be the same to me that you were in our first visit to Fairmount – the earnest, simple-hearted Cousin Emily you then were."
"Mr. Lincoln speaks in enigmas; I must confess I do not understand his meaning, nor his elegant allusion to 'playing possum.'"
This she said with so much haughtiness, that I was taken all aback. Rallying, however, in a moment I determined not to give up the point.
"I beseech of you to pardon the inelegance of my expression, and also my pertinacity in insisting upon some explanation of your manner toward me. It will all do very well for the stage," continued I, bitterly, "but in real life, among cousins, and two that have met so frankly, and in such sincerity, I feel that our acquaintanceship must at once end, pleasant as it has been, as it might be to me, unless you lay aside this assumed coldness. It harasses me more than I can express. Emily, after seeing you in the stage-coach, I thought I had never met with one half so lovely, and I could think of nothing but you. After remaining at home but one week, business called me to Philadelphia. Judge of my delight when almost the first object that met my view was your beautiful, unforgotten little self. You were just stepping into one of those very omnibusses you have since seen fit to decry. What followed you must remember as distinctly as I – no not as distinctly, for the whole of that delicious interview is engraven on my heart – one of the sun-bright scenes of my life that I can never forget. And now, after that beautiful interchange of thought and soul that promised – every thing, do I find you cold, impassive. If you repent the trust you so freely reposed in me, in all frankness, say so; but for the sweet love of heaven, do not pretend to such – "
"For the sweet love of heaven what is the man raving about? Are you mad, dear cousin, insane? Poor Cousin Ledyard! Or is it – ?" her whole manner changed, her brilliant eyes lighted up with intense fire. How beautiful she looked! I could have knelt and worshiped her, though, strange to say, my restless, ardent love for her had entirely abated. "Yes!" exclaimed she, "it must be so;" and with that she clasped her small white hands, and throwing back her fine head, laughed with all her heart, and strength, and soul.
This was very pleasant for me; still I had to join her laugh, it was so genuine and infectious.
"Forgive me, dear cousin, forgive me for my rude laughter; forgive me also for my folly in attempting to deceive you. You will hereafter find me the same you found me in our first pleasant interview. Here is my hand – I will not explain one other word to-night; I hear voices on the stairs. Come here to-morrow evening at eight, and you shall know all – all my reasons."
"And why not to-morrow morning, cruel cousin?"
"I am engaged all of the day to-morrow. I go with mamma and papa out of town, ten miles or so, to dine; a stupid affair, but mamma wishes it."
"But before you go – just after breakfast."
"No, no – come in the evening."
By this time the voices heard on the stairs had entered the room in the shape of a merry half-dozen of my cousin's young friends. Feeling too agitated for society, I withdrew.
And now another night and a whole day more of suspense – that pale horror, that come in what shape it will, even in the shape of a beautiful cousin, always torments the very life from my heart.
All the clocks in town were striking eight as I rung my uncle's bell. I found the drawing-room full of company, at which I felt vexed and disappointed.
My lovely cousin came up to me and placed her arm within mine, and led me through the next room into the conservatory, and there, seated amid the rare eastern flowers, herself the queen of them, was, gracious heaven! I dared scarcely breathe, so great was my fear of dispelling the beautiful illusion. It was she! none other; my stage-coach companion – my Fairmount goddess. The musical, measured voice of my statue-like Cousin Emily brought me to myself.
"Allow me. Cousin Ledyard, to introduce you to my Cousin Emily."
There they both stood, one Cousin Emily, calm, stately, serene; the other trembling and in blushes.
I looked from one to the other in the most ludicrous bewilderment, yet each glance showed me more and more what a wonderful fool I had been making of myself for the last few days. Still they were strangely alike; their own kindred could not at times distinguish one from the other. My heart could feel the difference. My Emily was a child of nature, the other bred in a more conventional school. My Emily was a shade less tall, less stately, less Grecian, and exquisitely more lovely, and loving.
But that double wedding was a grand one. By what means my Emily contrived to disentangle herself from that handsome-whiskered "Charles," and to entangle him fast in the chains of the other Emily, any one who wishes to know, and will take the trouble, can have all due information on the subject, and can also learn how I wooed my peerless Emily and won her, by coming to our lovely picturesque dwelling, situate in one of the most romantic spots in the country. I write you all to come, one by one, and spend a month with me, and you shall know all the particulars. You will find my little Emily a pattern housekeeper; you will also find a ready welcome. Bless her sweet face! There she sits, at the moment that I am writing this to you, with her willow arms twined around the exquisite form of her little lily-bud boy, and bending low her graceful form over him, hushing to sleep the very bravest, noblest, merriest little specimen of babyhood – the exact image of his enraptured father.
THE DEFORMED ARTIST
BY MRS. E. N. HORSFORD
The twilight o'er Italia's sky
Had wove a shadowy veil,
And one by one the solemn stars
Looked forth serene and pale;
As quickly the waning light
Through a high casement stole,
And fell on one with silver hair,
Who shrived a passing soul.
No costly pomp and luxury
Relieved that chamber's gloom,
But glowing forms, by limner's art
Created, thronged the room:
And as the low winds echoed far
The bell for evening prayer,
The dying painter's earnest tones
Fell on the languid air.
"The spectral form of Death is nigh,
The thread of Life is spun,
Ave Maria! I have looked
Upon my latest sun.
And yet 'tis not with pale disease
This frame is worn away,
Nor yet – nor yet with length of years —
A child but yesterday"
"I found within my father's hall
No fervent love to claim —
The curse that marked me from my birth
Devoted me to shame.
I saw upon my brother's brow
Angelic beauty lay,
The mirror gave me back a form
That thrilled me with dismay."
"And soon I learned to shrink from all,
The lowly and the high;
To see but scorn on every lip,
Contempt in every eye.
And for a time e'en Nature's smile
A bitter mockery wore,
For beauty stamped each living thing
The wide creation o'er;"
"And I alone was cursed and loathed;
'Twas in a garden bower
I knelt one eve, and scalding tears
Fell fast on many a flower;
And as I rose I marked with awe
And agonizing grief,
A frail mimosa at my feet
Fold close each fragile leaf."
"Alas! how dark my lot if thus
A plant could shrink from me;
But when I looked again I marked
That from the honey-bee,
The falling leaf, the bird's gay wing,
It shrunk with pain and fear,
A kindred presence I had found,
Life waxed sublimely clear."
"I climbed the lofty mountain height
And communed with the skies,
And felt within my grateful heart
Strange aspirations rise.
Oh! what was this humanity
When every beaming star
Was filled with lucid intellect,
Congenial, though afar."
"I mused beneath the avalanche,
And traced the sparkling stream,
Till Nature's face became to me
A passion and a dream:"
Then thirsting for a higher lore
I left my childhood's home,
And stayed not till I gazed upon
The hills of fallen Rome.
"I stood amid the forms of light,
Seraphic and divine,
The painter's wand had summoned from
The dim Ideal's shrine;
And felt within my fevered soul
Ambition's wasting fire,
And seized the pencil with a vague
And passionate desire"
"To shadow forth, with lineaments
Of earth, the phantom throng
That swept before my sight in thought,
And lived in storied song.
Vain, vain the dream – as well might I
Aspire to build a star,
Or pile the gorgeous sunset clouds
That glitter from afar."
"The threads of life have worn away,
Discordantly they thrill,
But soon the sounding chords will be
Forever mute and still.
And in the spirit-land that lies
Beyond, so calm and gray,
I shall aspire with truer aim —
Ave Maria! pray!"
A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY
BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD
Good-bye – good-bye, thou gracious, golden day:
Through luminous tears, thou smilest, far away
In the blue heaven, thy sweet farewell to me,
And I, through my tears, gaze and smile with thee.
I see the last faint, glowing, amber gleam
Of thy rich pinion, like a lovely dream,
Whose floating glory melts within the sky,
And now thou'rt passed forever from mine eye!
Were we not friends —best friends – my cherished day?
Did I not treasure every eloquent ray
Of golden light and love thou gavest me?
And have I not been true – most true to thee?
And thou– thou earnest like a joyous bird,
Whose sacred wings by heaven's own air were stirred.
And lowly sang me all the happy time
Dear, soothing stories of that blissful clime!
And more, oh! more than this, there came with thee,
From Heaven, a stranger, rare and bright to me,
A new, sweet joy – a smiling angel-guest,
That softly asked a home within my breast.
For talking sadly with my soul alone,
I heard far off and faint a music-tone,
It seemed a spirit's call – so soft it stole
On fairy wings into my waiting soul.
I knew it summoned me to something sweet,
And so I followed it with faltering feet;
And found – what I had prayed for with wild tears —
A rest, that soothed the lingering grief of years!
So for that deep, perpetual joy, my day!
And for all lovely things that came to play
In thy glad smile – the pure and pleading flowers
That crowned with their frail bloom thy flying hours —
The sunlit clouds – the pleasant air that played
Its low lute-music 'mid the leafy shade —
And, dearer far, the tenderness that taught
My soul a new and richer thrill of thought —
For these – for all – bear thou to Heaven for me
The grateful thanks with which I mission thee!
Then should thy sisters, wasted, wronged, upbraid,
Speak thou for me – for thou wert not betrayed!
'Twas little – true – I could to thee impart —
I, with my simple, frail and wayward heart;
But that I strove the diamond sands to light,
In Life's rich hour-glass, with Love's rainbow flight;
And that one generous spirit owed to me
A moment of exulting ecstasy;
And that I won o'er wrong a queenly sway —
For this, thou'lt smile for me in Heaven, my Day!
SAM NEEDY
A TALE OF THE PENITENTIARY
BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO
Several years ago, a man of the name of Samuel Needy, a poor artisan, was living in London. He had with him a wife, and a child by this wife. This artisan was skillful, quick, intelligent, very ill-treated by education, very well-treated by nature – able to think, but not to read. One winter his work failed him – there was neither fire nor food in his garret; the man, the woman, and the child were cold and hungry; he committed a theft; it is unnecessary to state what he stole, or whence he stole it. Suffice it to know, that the consequences of this theft were three days' food and fire to the wife and child, and five years of imprisonment to the man.
Sam Needy, lately an honest man, now and henceforth a thief, was dignified and grave in appearance; his high forehead was already wrinkled, though he was still young; some gray lines lurked among the black and bushy tufts of his hair; his eye was soft, and buried deep beneath his lofty and well-turned eye-brow; his nostrils were open, his chin advancing, his lip scornful; it was a fine head – let us see what society made of it.
He was a man of few words – more frequent gestures – somewhat imperious in his whole manner, and one to make himself obeyed; of a melancholy air – rather serious than suffering; for all that he had suffered enough.
In the place where he was confined there was a director of the work-rooms – a kind of functionary peculiar to prisons, who combined in himself the offices of turnkey and tradesman, who would at the same time issue an order to the workman and threaten the prisoner – put tools in his hand and irons on his feet. This man was a variety of his own species – a man peremptory, tyrannical, governed by his fancies, holding tight the reins of his authority, and yet, on occasion, a boon companion, jovial and condescending to a joke – rather hard than firm – reasoning with no one – not even himself – a good father, and doubtless a good husband – (a duty, by the way, and not a virtue;) in short, evil but not bad. The principal, the diagonal line of this man's character was obstinacy; he was proud of it, and therein compared himself to Napoleon, when he had once fixed what he called his will upon an absurdity, he went to its furthest length, holding his head high, and despising all obstacles. Such violence of purpose without reason, is only folly tied to the tail of brute force, and serving to lengthen it. For the most part, whenever a catastrophe, whether public or private, happens amongst men, if we look beneath the rubbish with which it strews the earth, to find in what manner the fallen fabric had been propped, we shall, with rare exceptions, discover it to have been blindly put together by a weak and obstinate man, trusting and admiring himself implicitly. Many of the smaller of these strange fatalities pass in the world for providences. Such was he who was the director of the work-rooms in the House of Correction where poor Sam Needy was sent to undergo his sentence. Such was the stone with which society daily struck its prisoners to draw sparks from them. The sparks which such stones draw from such flints often kindle conflagrations.
In a short time Sam found the prison air natural to him, and appeared to have forgotten every thing; a certain severe serenity, which belonged to his character, had resumed its mastery.
In about the same time he had acquired a singular ascendency over all his companions, as if by a sort of silent agreement, and without any one knowing wherefore, not even himself. All these men consulted him, listened to him, admired and imitated him, (the last point to which admiration can mount.) It was no slight glory to be obeyed by all these lawless natures; the empire had come to him without his own seeking – it was a consequence of the respect with which they beheld him. The eye of a man is a window, through which may be seen the thoughts which enter into and issue from his heart.
Place an individual who possesses ideas among those who do not, at the end of a given time, and by a law of irresistible attraction, all their misty minds shall draw together with humility and reverence round his illuminated one. There are men who are iron, and there are men who are loadstone. Sam Needy was loadstone. In less than three months he had become the soul, the law, the order of the work-room; he was the dial, concentrating all rays; he must even himself have sometimes doubted whether he were king or prisoner – it was the captivity of a pope among his cardinals.
By as natural a reaction, accomplished step by step, as he was loved by the prisoners, so was he detested by the jailers. It is always thus, popularity cannot exist without disfavor – the love of the slaves is always exceeded one degree by the hate of their masters.
Sam Needy was, by his particular organization, a great eater; his stomach was so formed, that food enough for two common men would hardly have sufficed for his nourishment. Lord Slickborough had one of these large appetites, and laughed at it; but that which is a cause of gayety for a British peer, with a rent-roll of fifty-thousand pounds a year, is a heavy charge to an artisan, and a misfortune to a prisoner.
Sam Needy, free in his own loft, worked all day, earned his four pounds of bread, and ate it; Sam Needy, in prison, worked all day, and, for his pains, received invariably one pound and a half of bread, and four ounces of meat; the ration admits of no change. Sam was therefore constantly hungry whilst in the House of Correction; he was hungry, and no more – he did not speak of it because it was not his nature so to do.
One day Sam, after devouring his scanty pittance, had returned to his work, thinking to cheat his hunger by it – the rest of the prisoners were eating cheerily. A young man, pale, fair, and feeble-looking, came and placed himself near him; he held in his hand his ration, as yet untouched, and a knife; he remained in that situation, with the air of one who would speak, and dares not. The sight of the man, and his bread and meat annoyed Sam.
"What do you want?" said he, rudely.
"That you would do me a service," said the young man, timidly.
"What?" replied Sam.
"That you would help me to eat this – it is too much for me."
A tear stood in the proud eye of Sam; he took the knife, divided the young man's ration into two equal parts, took one of them, and began eating.
"Thank you," said the young man; "if you like, we will share together every day."
"What is your name?" said Sam.
"Heartall."
"Wherefore are you here?"
"I have committed a theft."
"And I too," said Sam.
Henceforth they did thus share together every day. Sam Needy was little more than thirty years old, but at times he appeared fifty, so stern were his thoughts usually. Heartall was twenty – he might have been taken for seventeen, so much innocence was there in his appearance. A strict friendship was knit up between the two, rather of father to son than brother to brother, Heartall being still almost a child, Sam already nearly an old man. They wrought in the same work-room – they slept under the same vault – they walked in the same airing-ground – they ate of the same bread. Each of these two friends was the universe to the other – it would seem that they were happy.
Mention has already been made of the director of the work-rooms. This man, who was abhorred by the prisoners, was often obliged, in order to enforce obedience, to have recourse to Sam Needy, who was beloved by them. On more than one occasion, when the question was, how to put down a rebellion or a tumult, the authority without title of Sam Needy had given powerful aid to the official authority of the director; in short, to restrain the prisoners, ten words from him were as good as ten turnkeys. Sam had many times rendered this service to the director, wherefore the latter detested him cordially. He was jealous of him; there was at the bottom of his heart a secret, envious, implacable hatred against Sam – the hate of a titular for a real sovereign – of a temporal against a spiritual power; these are the worst of all hatreds.
Sam loved Heartall greatly, and did not trouble himself about the director. One morning when the turnkeys were leading the prisoners, two by two, from their dormitory to the work-room, one of them called Heartall, who was by the side of Sam, and informed him that the director wished to see him.
"What does he want with you?" said Sam.
"I do not know," replied the other.
The turnkey took Heartall away.
The morning past; Heartall did not return to the work-room. When the dinner hour arrived, Sam expected that he should rejoin Heartall in the airing-ground – but no Heartall was there. He returned into the work-room, still Heartall did not make his appearance. So passed the day. At night, when the prisoners were removed to their dormitory, Sam looked out for Heartall, but could not see him. It would seem that he must have suffered much at that moment, for he addressed the turnkey – a thing which he had never done before.
"Is Heartall sick?" was his question.
"No," replied the turnkey.
"Why is it, then, that he has not again made his appearance to-day?"
"Ah," replied the turnkey, carelessly, "they have put him in another ward."
The witnesses who deposed to these facts at a later period, remarked, that at this answer, Sam's hand, in which was a lighted candle, trembled a little. He again asked, calmly,
"Whose order was this?"
The turnkey said "Mr. Flint's."
The name of the director of the work-rooms was Flint.
The next day went by like the last, but no news of Heartall.
That evening, when the day's work ended, Mr. Flint came to make his usual round of inspection. As soon as Sam Needy saw him, he took off his cap of coarse wool, buttoned his gray vest, sad livery of the work-house, (it is a principle in prisons, that a vest, respectfully buttoned, bespeaks the favor of the superior officers,) and placed himself at the end of his bench, waiting till the director came by. He passed.
"Sir," said Sam.
The director stopped and turned half round.
"Sir," said Sam, "is it true that Heartall's ward has been changed?"
"Yes," returned the director.
"Sir," continued Sam, "I cannot live without Heartall; you know that with the ration of the house I have not enough to eat, and that Heartall shared his bread with me."
"That was his business," replied the director.
"Sir, is there no means of getting Heartall replaced in the same ward as myself?"
"Impossible! it is so decided."
"By whom?"
"By myself."
"Mr. Flint," persisted Sam, "the question is my life or death, and it depends upon you."
"I never revoke my decisions."
"Sir, is it because I have given you offence?"
"None."
"In that case," said Sam, "why do you separate me from Heartall?"
"It is my will" said the director.
With this explanation he went away.
Sam Needy stooped his head and made no answer. Poor caged lion, from whom they had taken his dog!
The grief of this separation in no way changed the prisoner's almost disease of voracity. Nor was he, in other respects, obviously altered. He did not speak of Heartall to any of his comrades. He walked alone in the airing-ground, in the hours of recreation, and suffered hunger – nothing more.
Nevertheless, those who knew him well, remarked something of a sinister and sombre expression which daily overspread his countenance more and more. In other respects he was gentler than ever. Many wished to share their ration with him, but he refused with a smile.
Every evening, after the explanation which the director had given him, he committed a sort of folly, which, in so grave a man, was astonishing. At the moment when the director, in the progress of his habitual duty, passed by Sam Needy's working-frame, he would raise his eyes, gaze steadily upon him, and then address to him, in a tone full of distress and anger, combining at once menace and supplication, these two words only – "remember Heartall!" the director would either appear not to hear, or pass on, shrugging his shoulders.
He was wrong. It became evident to all the lookers on of these strange scenes, that Sam Needy was inwardly determined on some step. All the prison awaited with anxiety the result of this strife between obstinacy and resolution.
It has been proved, that once Sam said to the director, "Listen, sir, give me back my comrade; you will do well to do it, I assure you. Take notice that I tell you this."
Another time, one Sunday, when he had remained in the airing-ground for many hours in the same attitude, seated on a stone, his elbows on his knees, and his forehead buried in his hands, one of his fellow-convicts approached him, and cried out, laughing,
"What are you about here, Sam?"
Sam raised his stern head slowly, and said, "I am sitting in judgment!"
At last, on the evening of the 1st of November, 1833, at the moment when the director was making his round, Sam Needy crushed under his foot a watch-glass, which he had that morning found in the corridor. The director inquired whence that noise proceeded.
"It is nothing," said Sam. "It is I, Mr. Flint – give me back my comrade."
"Impossible!" said his master.
"It must be done though," said Sam, in a low and steady voice, and looking the director full in the face, added, "reflect, this is the first of November, I give you till the 10th."
A turnkey made the remark to Mr. Flint that Sam Needy threatened him, and that it was a case for solitary confinement.
"No, nothing of the kind," said the director, with a disdainful smile, "we must be gentle with these sort of people."
On the morrow, another convict approached Sam Needy, who walked by himself, melancholy, leaving the other prisoners to bask in a patch of sunshine at the further corner of the court.
"What now, Sam – what are you thinking of? You seem sad."
"I am afraid," said Sam, "that some misfortune will happen soon to this gentle Mr. Flint."
There are nine full days from the 1st to the 10th of November. Sam Needy did not let one pass without gravely warning the director of the state, more and more miserable, in which the disappearance of Heartall placed him. The director, worn out, sentenced him to four-and-twenty hours of solitary confinement, because his prayer was too like a demand. This was all that Sam Needy obtained.
The 10th of November arrived. On this day Sam arose with such a serene countenance as he had not worn since the day when the decision of Mr. Flint had separated him from his friend. When risen, he searched in a white wooden box, which stood at the foot of his bed, and contained his few possessions. He drew thence a pair of sempstress's scissors. These, with an odd volume of Cowper's poems, were all that remained to him of the woman he had loved – of the mother of his child – of his happy little home of other days. Two articles, totally useless to Sam; the scissors could only be of service to a woman – the book to a lettered person. Sam could neither sew nor read.
At the time when he was traversing the old hall, which serves as the winter walk for the prisoners, he approached a convict of the name of Dawson, who was looking with attention at the enormous bars of a window. Sam was holding the little pair of scissors in his hands; he showed them to Dawson, saying, "To-night I will divide those bars with these scissors."
Dawson began to laugh incredulously. Sam joined him.
That morning he worked with more zeal than usual – faster and better than ever before. A little past noon he went down on some pretext or other to the joiner's workshop, on the ground-floor, under the story in which was his own. Sam was beloved there as every where else; but he entered it seldom. Thus it was – "Stop, here's Sam!" They got round him; it was a perfect holyday. He cast a quick glance around the room. Not one of the overlookers was there.
"Who has a hatchet to lend me?" said he.
"What to do?" was the inquiry.
"Kill the director of the work-rooms."
They offered him many to choose from. He took the smallest of those which were very sharp, hid it in his trowsers, and went out. There were twenty-seven prisoners in that room. He had not desired them to keep his secret; they all kept it. They did not even talk of it among themselves. Every one separately awaited the result. The thing was straight-forward – terribly simple. Sam could neither be counseled nor denounced.
An hour afterward he approached a convict sixteen years old, who was lounging in the place of exercise, and advised him to learn to read. The rest of the day was as usual. At 7 o'clock at night the prisoners were shut up, each division in the work-room to which they belonged, and the overseers went out, as it appears was the custom, not to return till after the director's visit. Sam was locked in with his companions like the rest.
Then there passed in this work-room an extraordinary scene, one not without majesty and awe, the only one of the kind which is to be told in this story. There were there (according to the judiciary deposition afterward made) four-and-twenty prisoners, including Sam Needy. As soon as the overseers had left them alone, Sam stood up upon a bench, and announced to all the room that he had something to say. There was silence.
Then Sam raised his voice, and said, "You all know that Heartall was my brother. Here they do not give me enough to eat; even with the bread which I can buy with the little I earn, it is not sufficient. Heartall shared his ration with me. I loved him at first because he fed me, then because he loved me. The director, Mr. Flint, separated us; our being together could be nothing to him – but he is a bad-hearted man, who enjoys tormenting others. I have asked him for Heartall back again. You have heard me. He will not do it. I gave him till the 10th, which is to-day, to restore Heartall to me. He ordered me into solitary confinement for telling him so. I, during this time, have sat in judgment upon him, and condemned him to death. In two hours he will come to make his round. I warn you that I am about to kill him. Have you any thing to say on the matter?" All continued silent.
