"That we ought to embrace,”—I did not distinctly hear what it

was.

The great difficulty that I had was to keep from falling. I had thought that these moments would have been all of fury and horror, but I felt nothing of this; but only a weakness, as though my heart -and the very floor on which I stood-was sinking under me. I could just make a motion, that the old white-haired man should leave me; and some one interfered, and sent him away. The pinioning of my hands and arms was then finished;-and I heard an officer whisper to the chaplain that "all was ready." As we passed out, one of the men in black held a glass of water to my lips; but I could not swallow: and Mr W, the master of the gaol, who had bid farewell to my companions, offered me his hand. The blood rushed into my face once more for one moment! It was too much-the man who was sending me to execution, to offer to shake me by the hand!

This was the last moment-but one-of full perception that I had in life. I remember our beginning to move forward, through the long-arched passages which led from the press-room to the scaffold. I saw the lamps that were still burning, for the day-light never entered here: I heard the quick tolling of the bell, and the deep voice of the chaplain reading as he walked before us :-"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, shall live. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God!"

It was the funeral service-the order for the grave-the office for those that were senseless and dead-over us, the quick and the living.

I felt once more-and saw !—I felt the transition from these dim, close, hot, lamp-lighted subterranean passages, to the open platform, and steps, at the foot of the scaffold, and to day. I saw the immense crowd blackening the whole area of the street below me. The windows of the shops and houses opposite, to the fourth story, choked with gazers. I saw St Sepulchre's church through the yellow fog in the distance, and heard the pealing of its bell. I recollect the cloudy, misty morning; the wet that lay upon the scaffold-the huge dark mass of building, the prison itself, that rose beside, and seemed to cast a shadow over us-the cold, fresh breeze, that, as I emerged from it, broke upon my face. I see it all now -the whole horrible landscape is before me. The scaffold-the rain-the faces of the multitude-the people clinging to the housetops-the smoke that beat heavily downwards from the chimneys -the waggons filled with women staring in the inn yards opposite -the hoarse low roar that ran through the gathered crowd as we

appeared. I never saw so many objects at once, so plainly and distinctly, in all my life, as at that one glance; but it lasted only for an instant.

From that look, and from that instant, all that followed is a blank. Of the prayers of the chaplain; of the fastening the fatal noose; of the putting on of the cap which I had so much disliked; of my actual execution and death, I have not the slightest atom of recollection. But that I know such occurrences must have taken place, I should not have the smallest consciousness that they ever did so. I read in the daily newspapers an account of my behaviour at the scaffold that I conducted myself decently but with firmness-Of my death-that I seemed to die almost without a struggle. Of any of these events I have not been able by any exertion to recall the most distant remembrance. With the first view of the scaffold, all my recollection ceases. The next circumstance which-to my perception-seems to follow, is the having awoke, as if from sleep, and found myself in a bed, in a handsome chamber; with a gentleman-as I first opened my eyes-looking attentively at me. I had my senses perfectly, though I did not speak at once. I thought directly that I had been reprieved at the scaffold, and had fainted. After I knew the truth, I thought that I had an imperfect 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 before me: but this idea certainly never presented itself to me until I was 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 living man; and I possess certificates both of my death and burial. I know that a coffin filled with stones, and with my name upon the plate, lies buried in the churchyard of St Andrew's, Holborn: I saw from a window, the undressed hearse arrive that carried it: I was a witness to my own funeral: these are strange things to see. My dangers, however, and I trust, my crimes, are over for ever. Thanks to the bounty of the excellent individual, whose benevolence has recognised the service which he did me for a claim upon him, I am married to the woman, whose happiness and safety proved my last thought— so long as reason remained with me-in 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. The fancy that this poor narrative-from the singularity of the facts it relates-may be interesting to some people, has induced me to write it: perhaps at too much length; but it is not easy for those who write without skill, to write briefly. Should it meet the eye of the few relatives I have, it will tell one of them-that to his jealousy of being known

in connexion with me-even after death-I owe my life. Should my old master read it, perhaps, by this time, he may have thought I suffered severely for yielding to a first temptation; at least while I bear him no ill-will-I will not believe that he will learn my de-liverance with regret. For the words are soon spoken, and the act is soon done which dooms a wretched creature to an untimely death; but bitter are the pangs-and the sufferings of the body are among the least of them—that he must go through before he arrives at it! Blackwood's Mag.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

THOU art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;
The Saviour has pass'd through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.
Thou art gone to the grave,-we no longer behold thee,

Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side:
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may hope, since the sinless has died.

Thou art gone to the grave,-and, its mansion forsaking,
Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt linger'd long;

But the sunshine of Heaven beam'd bright on thy waking,

And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.
Thou art gone to the grave,-but 'twere wrong to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide;
He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,
Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

HEBER.

SONNET.

My Country! when I think of all I've lost,

In leaving thee to seek a foreign home,
I find more cause, the farther that I roam,
To mourn the hour I left thy favour'd coast;

For each high privilege, which is the boast
And birth-right of thy sons, by patriots gain'd,
Dishonour'd dies, when Right and Truth are chain'd,
And caitiffs rule-by sordid lusts engross'd,

I may, perhaps, (each generous purpose cross'd,)
Forget the higher aims for which I've strained,
Calmly resign the hopes I've prized the most,
And learn cold cautions I have long disdain'd,
But my heart must be calmer, colder yet,
Ere Scotland and fair Freedom I forget.

PRINGLE

A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT

OF THE

BEHAVIOUR OF MARRIED PEOPLE

As a single man, I have spent a good deal of my time in noting down the infirmities of Married People, to console myself for those superior pleasures, which they tell me I have lost by remaining as

I am.

I cannot say that the quarrels of men and their wives ever made any great impression upon me, or had much tendency to strengthen me in those anti-social resolutions, which I took up long ago upon more substantial considerations. What oftenest offends me at the houses of married persons where I visit, is an error of quite a different description;-it is that they are too loving.

Not too loving neither: that does not explain my meaning. Besides, why should that offend me? The very act of separating themselves from the rest of the world, to have the fuller enjoyment of each other's society, implies that they prefer one another to all the world.

But what I complain of is, that they carry this preference so undisguisedly, they perk it up in the faces of us single people so shamelessly, you cannot be in their company a moment without being made to feel, by some indirect hint or open avowal, that you are not the object of this preference. Now there are some things which give no offence, while implied or taken for granted merely; but expressed, there is much offence in them. If a man were to accost the first homely-featured or plain-dressed young woman of his acquaintance, and tell her bluntly, that she was not handsome or rich enough for him, and he could not marry her, he would deserve to be kicked for his ill manners; yet no less is implied in the fact, that having access and opportunity of putting the question to her, he has never yet thought fit to do it. The young woman understands this as clearly as if it we e put into words; but no reasonable young woman would think of making this the ground of a quarrel. Just as little right have a married couple to tell me by speeches, and looks that are scarce less plain than speeches, that I am not the happy man,-the lady's choice. It is enough that I know I am not: I do not want this perpetual reminding.

The display of superior knowledge or riches may be made sufficiently mortifying; but these admit of a palliative.

* From Charles Lamb's delightful volume, entitled "Elia."

The

knowledge which is brought out to insult me, may accidentally improve me; and in the rich man's houses and pictures,-his parks and gardens, I have a temporary usufruct at least. But the display

of married happiness has none of these palliatives: it is throughout pure, unrecompensed, unqualified insult.

Marriage by its best title is a monopoly, and not of the least invidious sort. It is the cunning of most possessors of any exclusive privilege to keep their advantage as much out of sight as possible, that their less favoured neighbours, seeing little of the benefit, may the less be disposed to question the right. But these married monopolists thrust the most obnoxious part of their patent into our faces. Nothing is to me more distasteful than that entire complacency and satisfaction which beam in the countenances of a new-married couple,-in that of the lady particularly: it tells you, that her lot is disposed of in this world; that you can have no hopes of her. It is true, I have none; nor wishes either, perhaps: but this is one of those truths which ought, as I said before, to be taken for granted, not expressed.

The excessive airs which those people give themselves, founded on the ignorance of us unmarried people, would be more offensive if they were less irrational. We will allow them to understand the mysteries belonging to their own craft better than we who have not had the happiness to be made free of the company: but their arrogance is not content within these limits. If a single person presume to offer his opinion in their presence, though upon the most indifferent subject, he is immediately silenced as an incompetent person. Nay, a young married lady of my acquaintance, who, the best of the jest was, had not changed her condition above a fortnight before, in a question on which I had the misfortune to differ from her, respecting the properest mode of breeding oysters for the London market, had the assurance to ask with a sneer, how such an old Bachelor as I could pretend to know any thing about such matters.

But what I have spoken of hitherto is nothing to the airs which these creatures give themselves when they come, as they generally do, to have children. When I consider how little of a rarity children are, that every street and blind alley swarms with them,— that the poorest people commonly have them in most abundance,-— that there are few marriages that are not blessed with at least one of these bargains, how often they turn out ill, and defeat the fond hopes of their parents, taking to vicious courses, which end in poverty, disgrace, the gallows, &c.-I cannot for my life tell what cause for pride there can possibly be in having them. If they were young phoenixes, indeed, that were born but one in a year, there might be a pretext. But when they are so common