bore him permitted her to taste even on the brink of the grave. After-reflection made her check those worldly transports as unfit for the present solemn occasion. But, alas! to her earth and William were so closely united that till she forsook the one she could never cease to think without the contending passions of hope, of fear, of joy, of love, of shame and of despair on the other. Now fear took the place of her first immoderate joy. She feared that although much changed in person since he had seen her, and her real name now added to many an alias, yet she feared that some well-known glance of the eye, turn of the action or accent of speech might recall her to his remembrance; and at that idea shame overcame all her other sensations, for still she retained pride, in respect to his opinion, to wish him not to know Agnes was that wretch she felt she was. Once a ray of hope beamed on herthat if he knew her, if he recognized her, he might possibly befriend her cause; and life bestowed through William's friendship seemed a precious object. object. But, again, that rigorous honor she had often heard him boast, that firmness to his word of which she had fatal experience, taught her to know he would not for any improper compassion, any unmanly weakness, forfeit his oath of impartial justice. In meditations such as these she passed the sleepless night. When, in the morning, she was brought to the bar and her guilty hand held up before the righteous judgment-seat of William, imagination could not form two figures or two situations more incompatible with the existence of former familiarity than the judge and the culprit; and yet these very persons had passed together the most blissful mo ments that either ever tasted. Those hours of tender dalliance were now present to her mind; his thoughts were more nobly employed in his high office, nor could the haggard face, hollow eye, desponding countenance and meagre person of the poor prisoner once call to his memory, though her name was uttered among a list of others. which she had assumed, his former youthful, lovely Agnes! She heard herself arraigned with trembling limbs and downcast looks, and many witnesses had appeared against her before she ventured to lift her eyes up to her awful judge. She then gave one fearful glance, and discovered Williamunpitying but beloved William in every feature. It was a face she had been used to look on with delight, and a kind of absent smile of gladness now beamed on her poor wan visage. When every witness on the part of the prosecutor had been examined, the judge addressed himself to her: The "What defence have you to make?" It was William spoke to Agnes. sound was sweet, the voice was mild—was soft, compassionate, encouraging. It almost charmed her to a love of life. Not such a voice as when William last addressed herwhen he left her undone, vowing never to see or speak to her more. She could have hung upon the present words for ever. She did not call to mind that this gentleness was the effect of practice, the art of his occupation, which at times is but a copy by the unfeeling from his benevolent brethren of the bench. In the present judge tenderness was not designed for the consolation of the culprit, but for the approbation of the auditors. There were no spectators, Agnes, by your side when last he parted from you: if there had, the awful William had been awed to marks of pity. Stunned with the enchantment of that well-known tongue directed to her, she stood like one just petrified; all vital power seemed suspended. Again he put the question, and with these additional sentences, tenderly and emphatically delivered : and rose to pronounce her sentence, she started The piercing shriek which accompanied these words prevented their being heard. by part of the audience, and those who heard them thought little of their mean "Recollect yourself. Have you no wit- ing, more than that they expressed her fear of dying. nesses no proof in your behalf?" After a short pause, he asked her, in the same forcible but benevolent tone, "Have you no character?" Serene and dignified as if no such exclamation had been uttered, William delivered the fatal speech ending with, "Dead, dead, dead!" She fainted as he closed the period and was carried back to prison in a swoon, while he adjourned the court to go to dinner. If, unaffected by the scene he had witone to speak to your nessed, William sat down to dinner with The prisoner answered, "No." A second gush of tears followed this reply, for she called to mind by whom her character had first been blasted. He summed up the evidence, and every time he was compelled to press hard upon the proof against her she shrunk and seemed to stagger with the deadly blow, writhed under the weight of his minute justice more than from the prospect of a shameful death. an appetite, let not the reader conceive. that the most distant suspicion had struck his mind of his ever having seen, much less familiarly known, the poor offender whom he had just condemned. Still, this forgetfulness did not proceed from the want of memory for Agnes. In every peevish or heavy hour passed with his wife he was sure to think of her; yet it was self-love rather than love of her that gave rise to these thoughts: he felt the lack of female sympathy and tenderness to soften the fatigue of studious labor, to soothe a sullen, a morose The jury consulted for a few minutes. disposition, he felt he wanted comfort for himThe verdict was, "Guilty!" She heard it with composure; but when William placed the fatal velvet on his head self, but never once considered what were the wants of Agnes. Yet the poor, the widow and the orphan frequently shared William's ostentatious bounty. He was the president of many excellent charities, gave largely, and sometimes instituted benevolent societies for the unhappy; for he delighted to load the poor with obligations and the rich with praise. There are persons like him who love to do every good but that which their immediate duty requires. There are servants who will serve every one more cheerfully than their masters; there are men who will distribute money liberally to all except their creditors; and there are wives who will love all mankind better than their husbands. "Duty" is a familiar word which has little effect upon an ordinary mind; and, as ordinary minds make a vast majority, we have acts of generosity, valor, self-denial and bounty where smaller pains would constitute greater virtues. Had William followed the common dictates of charity, had he adopted private piety instead of public munificence, had he cast an eye at home before he sought abroad for objects of compassion, Agnes had been preserved from an ignominious death, and he had been preserved from remorse, the tortures of which he for the first time proved on reading a printed sheet of paper accidentally thrown in his way a few days after he had left the town in which he had condemned her to die. young heart all their evil ways, and at length brought her to this untimely end. So she hopes her death will be a warning to all young persons of her own sex. The said Agnes freely forgives all persons who have done her injury or given her sorrow, from the young man who first won her heart to the jury who found her guilty and the judge who condemned her to death. "And she acknowledges the justice of her sentence, not only in respect of the crime for which she suffers, but in regard to many other heinous sins of which she has been guilty, more especially that of once attempting to commit a murder upon her own helpless child, for which guilt she now considers the vengeance of God has overtaken her, to which she is patiently resigned, and departs in peace and charity with all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy on her parting soul." POSTSCRIPT TO THE CONFESSION. "So great was this unhappy woman's terror of death and the awful judgment that was to follow that when sentence was pronounced upon her she fell into a swoon, from that into convulsions, from which she never entirely recovered, but was delirious to the time of her execution, except that short interval in which she made her confession to the clergyman who attended her. She has left one child, a youth about sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother during all the time of her imprisonment, but waited on her with true filial duty; and no sooner was her fatal sentence passed than he began to droop, and now lies dangerously ill near the prison from which she is released by death. During the loss of her senses the said Agnes Primrose raved continually on this child, | pangs of a guilty conscience were given to and, asking for pen, ink and paper, wrote William as soon as he had despatched a an incoherent petition to the judge, recom- messenger to the jail in which Agnes had mending the youth to his protection and been confined to inquire after the son she mercy. But, notwithstanding this insanity, had left behind, and to give orders that imshe behaved with composure and resigna- mediate care should be taken of him. He tion when the fatal morning arrived in likewise charged the messenger to bring back which she was to be launched into eter- the petition she had addressed to him during nity. She prayed devoutly during the last her supposed insanity, for he now experienced hour, and seemed to have her whole mind no trivial consolation in the thought that he fixed on the world to which she was going. might possibly have it in his power to grant A crowd of spectators followed her to the her a request. fatal spot, most of whom returned weeping at the recollection of the fervency with which she prayed, and the impression which her dreadful state seemed to make upon her.' No sooner had the name of "Anfield" struck William than a thousand reflections and remembrances flashed on his mind to give him full conviction whom it was he had judged and sentenced. He recollected the sad remains of Agnes, such as he once had known her, and now he wondered how his thoughts could have been absent from an object so pitiable, so worthy of his attention, as not to give him even a suspicion who she was, either from her name or from her person, during the whole trial. But wonder, astonishment, horror, and every other sensation, was absorbed by remorse: it wounded, it stabbed, it rent his hard heart as it would do a tender one; it havocked on his firm, inflexible mind as it would on a weak and pliant brain. Spirit of Agnes, look down and behold all your wrongs revenged! William feels remorse. The messenger returned with the written. paper which had been considered by the persons to whom she had entrusted it as the distracted dictates of an insane mind, but proved to William beyond a doubt that she was perfectly in her senses: "MY LORD: "I am Agnes Primrose, the daughter of John and Hannah Primrose of Anfield. My father and mother lived by the hill at the side of the little brook where you used to fish, and so first saw me. Pray, My Lord, have mercy on my sorrows; pity me for the first time, and spare my life. I know I have done wrong-I know it is presumption in me to dare to apply to you, such a wicked and mean wretch as I am-but, My Lord, you once condescended to take notice of me; and though I have been very wicked since that time, yet if you would be so merciful as to spare my life I promise to amend it for the future. But if you think it proper I should die, I will be resigned; but then I hope, I beg, I supplicate, that you will grant my other petition. Pray, pray, My Lord, if you A few momentary sensations from the cannot pardon me, be merciful to the child I leave behind. What he will do when I am gone I don't know, for I have been the only friend he has had ever since he was born. He was born, My Lord, about sixteen years ago, at Anfield, one summer's morning, and carried by your cousin, Mr. Henry Norwynne, to Mr. Rymer's, the curate there, and I swore whose child he was before the dean, and I did not take a false oath. Indeed, indeed, My Lord, I did not. "I will say no more, for fear this should not come safe to your hands; for the people treat me as if I were mad. So I will say no more, only this-that, whether I live or die, I forgive everybody, and I hope everybody will forgive me, and I pray that God will take pity on my son if you refuse; but I hope you will not refuse. "AGNES PRIMROSE. William rejoiced, as he laid down the petition, that she had asked a favor he could bestow, and hoped by his protection of the son to redress in some degree the wrongs he had done the mother. He instantly sent for the messenger into his apartment, and impatiently asked if he had seen the boy and given proper directions for his care. "I have given directions, sir, for his funeral." "How!" cried William. "He pined away ever since his mother was confined, and died two days after her execution." Robbed by this news of his only gleam of consolation, in the consciousness of having done a mortal injury for which he never now by any means could atone, he saw all his honors, all his riches, all his proud selfish triumphs, |