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Journal of a Poor Vicar

[Aug.

Jenny seemed more than usually serious, and casting a sad look at Fleetman, inquired if he also should appear. This was asked in a tone peculiarly soft, yet very penetrating, which I have seldom observed in her, and only upon rare occasions, and at the most serious moments.

Poor Fleetman himself trembled at her tone, so like the voice of the angel of doom. He looked up to her with an earnest gaze, and appeared to struggle with himself for an answer, and then advancing towards her a step, he said, emphatically, “Indeed, madam, you alone can decide that!"

Jenny dropped her eyes; he continued to speak; she answered. I could not comprehend what they were about. They spoke-Polly and I listened with great attention, but we neither of us understood a word, or rather we heard words without any sense. And yet Fleetman and Jenny appeared not only to understand one another perfectly, but what struck me as very strange, Fleetman was deeply moved by Jenny's answers, although they expressed the veriest trifles. At last Fleetman clasped his hands passionately to his breast, raised his eyes, streaming with tears, to heaven, and with an impressive appearance of emotion, exclaimed, "Then am I indeed unhappy!"

Polly could hold out no longer. With a comical vivacity she looked from one to the other, and at last cried out, "I do believe that you two are beginning to act already!"

He pressed Polly's hand warmly, and said, "Ah, that it were so!" I put an end to the confusion by pouring out the wine. We drank to the welfare of our friend. Fleetman turned to Jenny, and stammered out, "Miss, in earnest, my welfare?" She laid her hand upon her heart, cast down her eyes, and drank.

Fleetman immediately became more composed. He went to the cradle, looked at the child, and when Polly and I had told him its history, he said to Polly, with a smile, "Then you have not discovered that I sent you this New Year's gift?"

The whole of us exclaimed in utter amazement, guest then proceeded to relate what follows:

Who, you?" Our

"My name," said he, is not Fleetman. I am Sir Cecil Fairford. My sister and myself have been kept out of our rightful property by my father's brother, who took advantage of certain conditions in my father's will, and involved us in a long and entangled lawsuit. We have hitherto lived with difficulty upon the little property left us by our mother, who died early. My sister has suffered most from the tyranny of her uncle, who was her guardian, and who had destined her for the son of an intimate and powerful friend of his. My sister, on the contrary, was secretly engaged to young Lord Sandom, whose father, then living, was opposed to her marriage. Without the knowledge either of my uncle or the old lord, they were privately married, and the little Alfred is their son. My sister, under the pretence of benefitting her health, and availing herself of sea-bathing, left the house of her guardian, and put herself under my protection. When the child was born, our great concern was to find a place for it where it would have the tenderest care. I accidently heard a touching account of the poverty and humanity of the parish minister of C, and I came hither in disguise to satisfy myself. The manner in which I was treated by you decided me.

I have forgotten to mention that my sister never returned to her guardian; for, about six months ago, I won the suit against him, and entered into possession of my patrimony. My uncle instituted a new suit against me for withdrawing my sister from his charge; but the old Lord Sandom died suddenly a few days ago of apoplexy, and my brother-in-law has made his maraiage public, so that the suit falls the ground, and all cause for keeping the child's birth secret is henceforth removed. Its parents

have now come with me to take the child away, and I have come to take away you and your family, if the proposal I make you shall be accepted.

During the lawsuit in which I have been engaged, the living which is in the gift of my family, has remained unoccupied. I have at my disposal this situation, which yields over £200 per annum. You, sir, have lost your situation here; I shall not be happy unless you come and reside near me, and accept this living."

I cannot tell how much I was affected at these words. My eyes were blinded with tears of joy; I stretched out my hands to the man who came a messenger from heaven; I fell upon his breast; Polly threw her arms around him with a cry of delight; Jenny thankfully kissed the baronet's hand; but he snatched it from her with visible agitation, and burridly left us.

My happy children were still holding me in their embraces, and we were still mingling our tears and congratulations, when the baronet returned, bringing his brother-in-law, Lord Sandom, with his wife, who was an uncommonly beautiful young lady. Without saluting us, she ran to the cradle of her child. She knelt down over the little Alfred, kissed his cheeks, and wept freely with mingled pain and delight. Her husband raised her up, and had much trouble in composing her.

When she had recovered her composure, and apologized to us for her behavior, she thanked first me, and then Polly in the most touching terms. Polly disowned all obligation, and pointed to Jenny, who had withdrawn to the window, and said, "My sister here has been its mother!"

Lady Sandom now approached Jenny, gazed at her long in silence, and with evidently delighted surprise, and then glanced at her brother with a smile, and folded Jenny in her arms. The dear Jenny, in her modesty, scarcely dared to look up. "I am your debtor," said my lady; but the service you have rendered to a mother's heart it is impossible for me to repay. Become a sister to me, lovely Jenny; sisters can have no obligations between them." As they embraced each other, the baronet approached. There stands my poor brother," said my lady, as you are now my sister, he may stand nearer your heart, dear Jenny, may he not?"

66

Jenny blushed, and replied, "He is my father's benefactor."

"Will you not be," replied the lady, "the benefactress of my poor brother? I pray you look kindly on him. If you only knew how he loves you?"

The baronet took Jenny's hand and kissed it, and said, as she struggled to withdraw it, " Madam, will you be unkind to me? I cannot be happy without this hand." Jenny, much disturbed, let her hand remain in his. The baronet then led my daughter to me, and begged me for my blessing.

Jenny," said I, "it depends upon thee. Do we dream? Canst thou love him? Do thou decide?

She then turned to the gentleman, who stood before her deeply agitated, and cast upon him a full, penetrating look, and then took his hand in both hers, pressed it to her breast, looked up to heaven, and softly whispered, "God has decided."

Satisfied with the decision, I blessed my son and daughter, who embraced each other. There was a solemn silence, and all eyes were wet with a pleasing emotion.

Suddenly the lively Polly sprung up, laughing through her tears, and flinging herself upon my neck, she cried, "There! now we have it! The New Year's gift-a gift better than a bishop's mitre."

The vivacity of Polly awoke little Alfred.

N. S. VOL. I. NO. XII.- 0. S. VOL. III. NO. XLVI.

41

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Men for the Age.

[Aug.

It is in vain for me to continue the description of what occured during this happy day. I am continually interrupted; my happy heart is full to overflowing, is thankful to God for all his goodness.*

*This singularly touching narrative of certain passages in the life of a poor vicar in Wiltshire, is translated from the German of Zchokke, who took it from a fugitive sketch that appeared in England from seventy to eighty years ago, and which probably gave Goldsmith the first hint towards his Vicar of Wakefield. The present translation from Zchokke, who has improved considerably on the original, is (some amendations excepted) by an American writer, by whom it was contributed to "The Gift" for 1844, published by Carey & Hart, Philadelphia. To disarm prejudice, it is necessary to add, that no vicar or curate can be exposed in the present day to hardships so great as those endured by the hero of the piece; and we hope that men of the Dr. Snarl species are now extinct.

(ORIGINAL.)

ARTICLE CLX.

Men for the Age.

BY REV. T. J. TENNEY.

PERSONAL purity, inner cleanness and sanctity of life are matters not to be dispensed with in a reformer. The eye with the beam is not of sufficient clearness to detect the mote. The lip of the impure is too feeble to be effective in the cause of virtue. The mote and offensive hand will be claimed by those who have larger blemishes, as evils of no consequence. Although there may be something in the adage, “Set a thief to catch a thief," the thief would be but a sorry teacher of the man after he was caught. He would be too likely to recognize him as a persecuted brother of his own order. With such aid alone one might pray for the unlimited reign of goodness in the subjection of evil forever, and be no nearer to the answer of the desires of the righteous. We want whole-souled men to help us-those who have wills to work, and hands swift to relieve the wants of the poor and needy-men with minds to devise and strength to do. None of your dead lions. We have had enough of them in those literary, religious boasters who have been strong and scholarlike in language, but very feeble in what is far better, a whole heart for the true and the right. Those who have made fewer professions, and lived uprightly, have done infinitely more for us. Indeed, our lion labor has been invariably against us, for, notwithstanding some have been convinced by it of the unsoundness of an ism, more have been frozen up in its want of the life and love of the good and holy. The confession of error is but the beginning of repentance. It is not only our duty to convince of wrong (in doing this the work is only half done) we want to initiate the convinced into the right. A smart man in argument can do the first, but it takes a good man to do the last. St. Johnsbury, Vt.

ARTICLE CLXI.

The Execution of Elder Enos G. Dudley.

BY J. M. SPEAR.

DESIROUS of being present to observe the conduct of persons who love to gather around the gallows to witness executions, I left Boston on the morning of the twenty-second of May, for Haverhill, N. H.- -a distance of nearly two hundred miles-where Elder Dudley, who had been convicted of the murder of his wife, was to be hung on the following day. Spending the night in Newbury, Vt., about four miles from the place of the execution, the next morning I was early at the jail where the prisoner was confined. I did not see him. I did not wish to; for I did not go for that purpose. I desired to see the people who congregated around the gallows. But few persons were there before me, and these were men and boys.

I observed that most of those who came to see the hanging gathered first in the neighboring Rum Tavern, and having drank freely they then repaired to the place of execution. Little preparation had been made. A stick of timber run out of a window of the jail was all that met the eye of the beholder. The platform on which the prisoner was to stand, was concealed by the slight board fence, eight or ten feet high, that inclosed the jail, so that he would be exposed to the gaze of the crowd until the drop fell.

I perceived, as I stood upon the gallows hill, that many women, some with infants in their arms, were coming from various directions, with their husbands, brothers, and fathers, in open carriages, into the village. These looked toward the place of execution, as they passed on, to see if other women were there. For a little time not a single woman stopped. At last two or three approached and stood near the gallows. Others then soon congregated. They remained standing about four hours, occasionally nursing their infants as they called for nourishment. It was with some difficulty that I could credit my own senses so far as to believe that a woman, born in New England, could be found who would come to witness a scene like this; but I observed they smiled, laughed, and joked as well as those of the sterner sex.

It was understood that the prisoner would not be hung until after one o'clock. I was on the ground at eight, and had ample time, therefore, to move among the crowds at the tavern, on the common, in the stores, and at the gallows. It was thought that nearly three thousand persons were present, and I enjoyed an excellent opportunity to observe and to hear without being known. This was precisely what I had desired.

All the people, with but very few exceptions, with whom I conversed, and whom I heard converse, justified the infliction of the penalty of death. Scripture was freely quoted to sustain it. "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, "&c., was on the lips of all the people. I was deeply impressed that the common interpretation of that passage had done great mischief, and I could not help noticing that the more the people were excited by liquor the more they joked about the execution, the more

524

Scenes at an Execution.

[Aug. they quoted scripture and the more they cursed and swore in its defence when any person called their views in question. I will not repeat their profane expressions. Let them forever be buried in the sea of oblivion. About sixty soldiers were called out to guard the gallows because, it was feared there would be an attempt to rescue the prisoner by a mob. Had the officers of the law been better informed, they would have known that those who get up and encourage mobs are also in favor of executions. The people of Ann St., and of the Five Points, are almost universally the advocates of the gallows. Of course, there was no mob in Haverhill that day.

When the hour for the execution had fully come, and the arrangements were all completed, I turned away from the scene with a heavy heart. The men, women, and the children remained. One person only, a physician, left with me. He was opposed, as I afterwards learned, to Capital Punishment. He was the only person with whom I conversed, who agreed with me in opinion in regard to this matter. 1 was glad to find one single human being with whom I could freely speak, especially at the sad moment when a brother was being put to death by

the hand of his brother.

Observing that there began to be a moving among the spectators around the gallows, and judging that the horrid deed had been perpetrated, I hastened back to notice the influence of the execution, upon the spectators. I did not see a tear start from a single eye, or heard a word of deep christian feeling from a single lip. Turning to the women, I spoke with them, hoping to find hearts that were in sympathy with mine; but I found no kindred feeling, even in the usually tender heart of

woman.

The prisoner always, from the time he was arrested to the hour of his death, declared that he was innocent of the murder. With C. R. Morrison, his counsel, he left a long document commenting upon his trial, in which he says:—

*

*

"MAY 23, 1849.-I am not the first innocent victim that has wrongfully been hurried from this to another world, through the prejudice of the public opinion. I am only one among the many that have been thrown from existence on a charge of guess-work and false supposition, and the falsehood that always attends supposition, where prejudice dethrones and becomes master of the government. There is not much trouble in victory against the innocent, however falsely charged. The charge against me has been perfectly false, falsely sustained by false testimony. I am innocent of the charge-innocently convicted, innocently sent into the presence of that God who knows every thought, even, of the human heart-thank God, too, that there is nothing hid, and that my final sentence is not to be passed by the base rabble of false witnesses, nor the base conjecture of supposition. At that bar I stand an innocent man, and I hope all who have lent their acts or voice in favor of such an achievement will not hide under the witnesses, but remember they are accountable for lending their act or voice in favor of a course that is repugnant to the Scriptures.

The Rev. Kimball Hadly, his Chaplain, gives the following account of his dying declarations in regard to his innocence:

At about half-past nine o'clock, on the morning of the fatal day, I entered his cell, accompanied by the Rev. F. A. Hewes, and continued with him, excepting a few minutes for taking refreshments, until his execution.

Most of the time was spent in familiar religious conversation with reference to his preparation for eternity, and in social prayer. We endeavored to impress him as much as possible with the awful solemnities connected with the future, especiallv, did we exhort him to confess his crime if he was guilty, from the consideration that a refusal would involve additional sin. As he declined any confession,