The day of execution arrived, and every hearth-stone in the great metropolis was shadowed by a knowledge that at an hour to be fixed between sunrise and sunset, a human being was to be strangled to death—forced brutally into the presence of his Maker. Children whispered to one another in the grey dawn as they crept awe-stricken from their little couches. Mothers—those who had hearts—grew sad as they thought of the household ties which the law would that day tear asunder.

I do not say that this law of blood for blood, which some good men cling to so tenaciously, should be altogether abolished. Women who from the natural and just arrangement of social life, have no share in forming laws, can scarcely arrogate to themselves the right of advancing or of condemning those which owe their existence to the greatest masculine intellect; and we, who reason so much from the heart, can never be sure that the angel of mercy, whom we worship, may not sometimes crowd Justice from her seat. But there is no law that should permit a solemn act of justice to become a jubilee for the mob. Executions, if they must darken the history of a nation, should be still as the grave—solemn as the eternity to which they lead.

Two wardens had been placed over the prisoner that night, for the sheriff feared that the poor old man might attempt suicide. It was a useless precaution for one who was so close to death, and yet slept so calmly. There he lay in the deep slumber which is so sweet to old age. The men kept a light in the cell, and it streamed softly over those calm, pale features, revealing a faint smile upon the lips, and the impalpable shadows scattered over his forehead by the white hair that lay around his temples. Sometimes, as the men gazed upon this picture, and thought of the morrow, with all its death horrors, they turned from each other with a sort of terror, and sat with downcast eyes, gazing upon the floor, for it made them heart-sick—the contrast of that peaceful slumber and the brutal death-sleep into which they were guarding the old man.

At the most, it was but a brief gleam of life that the law claimed; and even that had grown faint within the last few days, so faint that it seemed doubtful if the officers of the law would not be compelled to lift its victim to the scaffold, when the hour of sacrifice came. The day dawned quietly, and shed a sort of still, holy light over the slumbering man. Then, for the first time, his keepers remarked hew deathly pale was the serene countenance—how feeble was the breath that scarcely stirred the coarse linen on his bosom.

Everything was still. The cold dawn, the quiet city, and the prison lying heavy and grim in its bosom. All at once this stillness was broken by the fall of a hammer, distinct and sharp as the beat of a death-watch. It made the officers start and look at each other with meaning eyes; but the old man slept on, and the sound might have been the sigh of an angel, instead of the hideous death-signal that it was, for it only disturbed that tranquil slumber pleasantly, as it would seem. A faint smile dawned upon the face, and he folded his hands softly upon his bosom, with a deeper breath, as if some vision of ineffable happiness filled his thought.

It seemed a cruelty to disturb the last sleep he was ever to know on earth, and so the morning deepened, and the prison was filled with that sort of muffled tumult which bespeaks the opening day within those walls, before the old man awoke.

Other persons than the keepers were in the cell then. The wife, who was so soon to be a widow, and the grandchild, half orphaned at heart, were seated at the foot of the bed, watching him dimly through their tears. He held forth his hands on seeing them, and with the same smile that had haunted his slumber, asked after their welfare. You should have seen that aged couple, in their humble but sublime sorrow, that day, for it was a beautiful sight, and one which is not often witnessed within the walls of a felon's cell. There they sat, hand in hand, linked together by that beautiful love that outlives all things, comforting each other with gentle earnestness—he reading passages from the Bible to her now and then, and she more than once smiling hopefully through her tears, when he spoke of their great age, and of the little time that they could possibly be kept asunder. It did not seem as if they were talking of death, but of some important and not unpleasant journey, in which the wife would soon follow her husband to a new home.

The grandchild sat by in silent grief. It seemed a long time for her to wait, she was so young, so cruelly full of life. She could not, with her sensitive feelings and quick imagination, cast off the consciousness of all the horrors that would that day overwhelm her grandfather. Her eyes were heavy with weeping. At every sound a shiver of terrible apprehension ran through her frame, and she would grasp at the old man's hand, as if scared with dread that they might tear him away before the appointed time.

Then came another—and that prison cell was crowded full of grief. Ada Leicester, modestly clad, with all the jewels stripped from her hands, and her superb beauty veiled and toned down by suffering, such as wrings all bitterness from the heart, stood with her parents once more, a portion of the household her own errors had desolated. Then the old man arose in his bed, and his benign features lighted up with such joy as the angels know over a sinner that repenteth.

"My child," he said, opening his arms to receive her, "my child, who was lost and is found!" For a moment he held her to his bosom; then lifting his head, he reached forth one hand, and drew his grandchild forward.

"It is your mother, Julia, your own mother; she has been far away for many years; God has sent her back. Ada, kiss your daughter; Julia, my grandchild, love your mother, reverence her, for this day shall I be one of those that rejoice over her in heaven."

Ada turned to her daughter, and timidly held forth her arms. A thrill so exquisite that it swept all the tears from her heart, passed over the bereaved girl. She moved forward; she nestled close to the bosom of her mother; she murmured the name over and over again, "Mother—mother—mother!"

I have dwelt upon this scene, perhaps, tediously, and only, gentle reader, because my heart and nerves shrink from a description of that which was going on without the prison. It is so much better to describe that which is holy and strong in human nature, than to yield oneself up to scenes that shock and revolt every pure feeling, every gentle affection. But in portraying life as it is, an author cannot always choose the flower nooks, or keep back the clouds that darken human nature.

It was a winter's day, cold and drear, without being stormy. The sky was clouded a little, and of that pale, hard blue which is more desolate than absolute storm. The air seemed full of snow, but none fell; and the sunshine, when it did penetrate the atmosphere, streamed mournfully to the brown, frozen earth. Had you gone into the streets that day, something in the aspect of the populace would have told you that an event of no common interest was about to transpire. Men were grouped at the corners and around the doors. Business was in a degree suspended. But few females were abroad, and they walked hurriedly, as if necessity alone had called them from home.

The time of execution was fixed at five in the afternoon, an hour when the gay world usually throngs Broadway. But for once that noble promenade was deserted; and though the cross streets began to fill long before noon, it was not by the class who usually make the great thoroughfare so full of life.

It was a singular thing; but that day, a little after twelve, a star became visible, hanging, pale and dim, like a funereal lamp in the cold sky. At every corner you saw groups of men and boys gazing upward, with superstitious awe, as if there must be some connection between this star and the human soul about to be launched into eternity. It might have been only the grey light; but every one who went forth that morning must have noticed how pallid were the faces that met his view in the streets. It is difficult to excite the masses of a great city; but in this case there had been so much to interest the public, that for once the multitude seemed perfectly aroused. The age of the prisoner, the exceeding beauty and touching loveliness of his grandchild, the position and fashionable associations of William Leicester—all conspired to arouse public interest to a state of unusual excitement. Hours before the time of execution, the city prison was besieged by an eager mob. Mechanics left their work; women of the lower classes went forth, some with infants in their arms, some leading sons and daughters by the hand, all eager and full of open-mouthed curiosity to see a fellow-creature strangled to death in the face of high heaven.

It had been given forth that this execution would be private, in the court of the prison; that is, three or four hundred persons, favorites of the sheriff, or members of the press, might have the exquisite satisfaction of seeing how an old man could die, and these would duly report his struggles and his agonies, the next morning, through the daily press, that the crowd, heaving, swearing, and jostling together without the walls, might have their horrid curiosity satisfied.

All the cross streets around the prison filled rapidly up; and Centre street, down to Reade and above White, was crowded full of human beings. Then they began to swarm closer, filling the housetops and windows, choking up the door passages and alleys, till every standing place within sight of the prison was crowded full of eager, brutal life. I am saying now what might be deemed a cruel perversion of probability in fiction, but which many of my readers well know to be a disgraceful truth. But in the windows, and on the roofs of almost every house that overlooked the prison, appeared that day women not of the lowest classes, who came there to witness a scene at which the very soul revolts—women whom, with all the proud love of country thrilling at the heart, an American blushes to call countrywomen. When the time drew near, this ocean of human life began to heave and swell tumultuously against the prison walls. Many climbed upwards, fierce for a sight of bloodshed, though at the peril of life and limb, creeping like animals along the massive stonework, or hoisted up on the shoulders of those below, till they hung on the gateway and walls, literally swarming there, like bees seeking for a hive.

As the hour drew near, the mob became more compact and more eager. Excitement grew ferocious; faces, before only curious, now gleamed upwards in groups and masses, haggard with impatient brutality. Ten minutes had gone by—ten minutes beyond the time, and the gallows still loomed up from the prison yard empty. Then the crowd began to murmur and bandy rude jests, like men who had paid for an exhibition, and feared to be baffled out of their amusement. Shouts went up; oaths ran from lip to lip; those upon the walls leaned over, with open mouths and gloating eyes, gazing down into the yard, then telegraphed their companions, or shouted their disappointment to the mob, while others crept up from the mass, crowding the possessors from their places, and occasionally casting one headlong downward.

All at once, when the whole mob was tumultuous with impatience, a cry of fire rung up from the prison walls. The crowd caught the sound, and echoed it fiercely, heaving to and fro, and trampling each other down, eager to see the flames burst forth. There was a wooden steeple or watch-tower, over the front building of the prison. Through the huge timbers of this structure the flames leaped upward, flinging long gleams of light over the upturned faces of the multitude, and adding another horrid feature to a scene already terrible. The alarm bells sounded; the crowd rushed to and fro, shouting, heaving up in waves, beating itself fiercely against the prison walls. Through the masses thundered three or four engines, and a stream of firemen swept through the tumult, pouring noise upon noise, with their trumpets and their voices.

The prison gates were flung open, and as the firemen entered, a portion of the crowd, now furious with excitement, forced through after them, with a sudden rush, filling the inner courts like a torrent let loose.

With nothing but bare timbers to feed upon—for the prison itself was fire-proof—the flames soon burned themselves out, after scattering brands and sparks among the throng, leaving a red glare and a cloud of smoke hovering luridly over the scene. When the mob saw the fire dying away, its attention was once more turned upon the execution, and the clamor became deafening both within and without the prison walls. The hour of death had gone by. Were the people to be cheated and put off with a burning watch-tower? Were mechanics, who had lost half a day's time, in order to see a man hanged, to be kept waiting, when their appetite was whetted for a sight of blood? They packed the prison courts more densely; they swarmed close up to the gallows, and pushed forward into the prison corridors, abusing the sheriff, and calling on him vociferously to come forth and explain the meaning of all this delay.

He did come forth, at last, looking white as death; but this was nothing. All were pale then, either from compassion or wrath. He came slowly forth from the prisoner's cell, and standing upon the third gallery, looked down upon the mob.

"Bring the old fellow out—let's see him—no put off with us!" Shouted a man near the staircase.

"I cannot bring him out, he is ——"

They drowned the sheriff's voice with clamor.

"Cheated the gallows—stabbed himself."

The sheriff again attempted to speak, but the tumult grew louder.

"Bring him out—dead or alive, bring him out!"

The officer waved his hand and pointed into the cell. Half a dozen men sprang up from the masses, and ran from one gallery to another, shouting to the crowd below.

"We'll see for ourselves—it's all sham—they mean to let him escape!"

Like a troop of wild animals they plunged forward, pushed themselves past the sheriff, and entered the cell. There they stood motionless, all their brutal ferocity struck dumb within them. They had their wish. The old man was before them; the last gleam of life in his eyes; the last breath freezing upon his lips. God had been very merciful, more merciful than the law.