who were conducting the prisoner to jail. And now it was, that the poor old man, overcome by agonizing expectation, leant heavily and unconsciously on the friendly arm, which a moment before he had dashed aside with impatient recklessness. Cold drops gathered upon his forehead he breathed short and thick, and his sight became misty and imperfect, as he strained it with painful intensity towards the open door-way. But it cleared partially, as the expected group came forth. Three persons only the middlemost a hand-cuffed guarded felon, whose downcast features, haggard, and dark, and fierce -and shadowed by a mass of coarse red hair, were seen but for a moment, as he was hurried short round the corner of the Court-house to the adjacent prison. But the old man had seen them-he had seen enough -a genial glow diffused itself through his shivering frame-and with a burst of renovated energy he clasped his upraised hands forcibly together, and cried out with a piercing voice-"It is not he-Oh, God! it is not he." It was a piercing cry! The prisoner started, and half turned-but he was hurried off, and the crowd had already closed in between him and Andrew Cleaves, who, recovering a degree of self-possession, looked up at last to note and thank those who had befriended him in his agony. Everywhere from all eyes-he encountered looks of compassionate interest, and distressful meaning-and no one spoke but in some low whisper to his neighbour-and again Andrew's heart sunk with a strange, fearful doubt. But had he not beheld with his own eyes?—That dark gaunt countenance !-Those fiery elf locks!" That could not be my curly-headed boy-You saw it was not he!" the old man faintly uttered, as his eyes wandered with imploring anxiety from face to face, and resting at last on that of the friend whose arm still lent him its requisite support, read there such a page of fearful meaning, as scarce needed the confirmation of words to reveal the

whole extent of his calamity. But the words were spoken-the few and fatal words, which dispelled his transient security. They sounded on his ear like the stunning din of rushing waters, yet were they low and gentle-but his physical and mental powers were failing under the rapid transitions of conflicting passions, and overtasked Nature obtained a merciful respite, by sinking for a time into a state of perfect unconsciousness.

It needs not to detail the particulars of that last daring exploit, which had been the means of consigning Josiah into the hands of justice; nor of the progressive circumstances, which had drawn him back, step by step, with the hardened confidence of infatuated guilt, to receive the punishment of his crimes on the very spot where he had first broken through the laws of God and man. Neither will we attempt to trace the journal of those miserable weeks that intervened between his committal to the county jail and his trial, which came on at the next assizes. Still less may we venture to paint minutely, the first meeting of parent and child, in such a place, under such circumstances. On one side, the overwhelming agony of grief and tenderness. On the other, the callous exterior of sullen insensibility, and sneering recklessness, and unfilial reproaches, "sharper than a serpent's tooth." It is too painful to dwell on such a scene-too harrowing to depict it. Rather let us pass on to the brighter days of that awful interval, which was most blessed in its prolongation. Light from above penetrated the depth of the dungeon. The prayer of faith prevailed. The sinner's heart was touched, and at last the tears of the repentant son fell like balm upon the father's bosom. From that hour the gracious work was gradually perfected. The good seed, though mixed with tares, had been sown early in Josiah's heart; and God gave time in mercy, that the parental hand, which had first sown it there, should, with gen

tle and dear-bought experience, revive the long hidden and unfruitful germ, and cherish it into life everlasting. The father's labour of love had been ably seconded by the christian zeal of the officiating chaplain, who was unremitting in his visits to the prisoner's cell, especially at those times when imperious necessity detained Andrew Cleaves at his own desolate home, or forced him more unwillingly into the public haunts. But when (as was not unfrequent) Mr. Grey found the father and the son together, it was very affecting to observe with what a chastised and humbled spirit the aged man acknowledged his own deficiencies-his own need of instruction, and his own earnest desire to profit by the spiritual teaching, and pious exhortations, addressed to his unhappy son. Mr. Grey's voice not seldom faltered with emotion, as he looked on his two hearers, the eyes of both fixed on him with such earnest reverence! Of the beautiful youth!-and the old grey-haired man!—and both so near the grave!

The awful hour approached of Josiah's arraignment before an earthly tribunal, but his trial did not come on till the last day of the assizes. Its result was inevitable, had the cause been defended by the ablest counsel in the land; but no defence was at tempted, all had been pre-arranged between the father and son; and when the latter in a low but steady voice pleaded "Guilty" to the charge against him, and in spite of merciful dissuasion from the Bench itself, firmly persisted in that plea, and it was finally recorded, the aged parent who had accompanied him into Court, and borne up through all the preliminary forms with unshaken fortitude, bowed his head in token of perfect acquiescence with that decisive act, and yielding at last to natural weakness, suffered himself to be led away, as the Judge arose to pronounce sentence.

On the evening of the day preceding that appointed for his execution, far different was the scene in Josiah's 17 ATHENEUM, VOL. 9, 2d series.

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cell, from what it had presented in the earlier stages of his imprisonment. Its occupants were the same as then, the old afflicted man, and the poor guilty youth-and they were alone together, and now for the last time, and earthly hope was none for either of them. And yet, in that gloomy cell-that portal of the grave, was Hope, not born of this world, and Peace, such as this world" neither give nor take away.” Iu the father's heart, a humble and holy confidence, that through Christ's atonement and intercession, the pardon of his repentant child was already registered in Heaven; and in the son's, a more chastised and trembling hope, built up on the same corner stone, and meekly testified by a perfect submission to his awarded doom, far removed from the miserable triumph of false courage, and the presumptuous confidence of fanatic delusion. That evening was the close of the last Sabbath Josiah was to pass on earth, and the old man had obtained the mournful privilege of being locked up for the night in the condemned cell. Father and son had that day partaken together of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper; and when the pious and compassionate chaplain, who had administered that holy rite, looked in upon them before the closing of the prison doors, they were sitting together upon the low hard pallet, side by side, hand clasped in hand,—and few words passed between them, for they had spoken all. But the Bible lay open upon the father's knees, and the eyes of both followed the same line, on the same page, as the old man occasionally read in his deep solemn voice, some strengthening and consolatory sentence. The youth's tall slight form was visibly attenuated, and his face was very pale-yet it had regained much of its sweet and youthful expression. The jetty curls of which his father had been so proud, again clustered in glossy richness on his white and polished forehead, and as his head leant against the old man's shoulder, a large tear,

which had trembled on the long black fringes of his downcast eye-lids, dropt on the sacred page, which assuredly it profaned not. As the good chaplain gazed upon that youthful countenance, his own eyes filled with tears, and he almost groaned within himself, "To be cut off so young!" But repressing that involuntary thought, as one of sinful questioning with Heaven, he addressed to each of his heart-stricken hearers, a few fitting words of comfort and exhortation, and having knelt down with them in short but fervent prayer, and promised to revisit them at the earliest hour of admission, he departed for the night with his Master's emphatic words, "Peace be with you."

The pale cold light of November dawn yet feebly visited the cell, when Mr. Grey re-entered early on the fatal morning, and all was so still within, he thought both slept, the parent and the child. Both had lain down together on the narrow pallet, and the youth's eyes were heavy, and he "slept for sorrow;" but in age, the whole weight falls within, and presses not upon the aching eyelids: So the old man slept not. The son's cheek was pillowed on the father's breast, every feature composed in angelic peace, and his slumbers were deep and tranquil as those of infant innocence. One long pale hand was clasped within his father's-in that hard withered hand, which had toiled for him so long-and as the chaplain drew near, and stooped over the bed, the old man, who had been so intently watching his child's placid sleep, as not to heed the opening of the cell, turned his head round with an impatient gesture, as if to prevent the disturbance of that blessed rest. Perhaps he also had slumbered for a while, and awaking with that young head upon his bosom, where it had so often lain in the beauty of childhood, his mind had wandered back confusedly to that blissful season, and its fair vision of parental hope. But one glance round the walls of the small prison

room, at the person of the reverend visitor, recalled him to the scene of sad reality, and knowing that the hour was come, he cast upward one earnest look of unutterable supplication, and softly pressing his lips to the forehead of the still unconscious sleeper, thus tenderly awakened him, as he had often done before to light and joy; but now to the light of a new day, which for him, whose hours were numbered, was to have no morrow but eternity. And from that hour, till the earthly expiation was complete, Andrew Cleaves left not for one single instant, the side of his unhappy son; and having surely received strength from above, proportioned to his great necessity, not only sustained himself firmly throughout the tremendous trial, but soothed and supported the fainting spirit of the poor youth, in his dishonoured passage through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, whispering hope and consolation, even within the portal of that gloomy gate, through which, according to the course of nature, himself should have gone first. And when all was over, his aged hands helped to compose in its narrow receptacle that youthful form, which should have followed his own remains to a peaceful grave, and laid his grey head reverently in the dust.

Andrew Cleaves had provided that his own cart, with the old favourite horse, should be in readiness at the place of execution, that Gallows-hill at a short distance from C, where his first outset with the young Josiah had been so ominously impeded. Compunc ious bitterness might have sharpened the arrow in his heart, had the absorbing present left room for retrospection. But to him, the past, the future, and all extraneous circumstances, were for a time annihilated. In comparatively light affliction, the heart takes strange delight, in aggravating its own sufferings, with bitter fancies, and dear remembrances, and dark anticipations; but a mighty grief sufficeth unto itself, in its terrible individuality.

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So absorbed, yet acting as if mechanically impelled, while aught remained to do, the old man proceeded with his appointed task, and having, with the assistance of friendly hands, lifted into the cart the shell containing that poor all which now remained to him on earth, he quietly took his seat beside it, while those who had so far lent their charitable aid, prepared to accompany the humble vehicle with its mournful freight, and to lead the old horse-ah! how unconscious of his charge-with slow and respectful pace, to the desolate home of his aged master. Just as the simple arrangement was complete, the old man, whose eyes had not once wandered from the coffin, lifted them for a moment to the face of a woman, who had touched him accidentally, as she stood beside the cart. The sight of that face was like lightning from the past. It flashed through heart and brain, and wakened every nerve that thrilled to torturing memory; and almost he could have cried aloud-" Hast thou found me, oh, mine enemy?' but he refrained himself; and groaning inwardly, let fall his head upon his breast in deep humility. Then slowly lifting it, looked up again into that remembered face, still fixed on him with an expression of unforgetting hardness; and laying his hand upon the coffin, he said, in a subdued tone, "Woman! pray for me-the time is come."

The old man looked up no more, neither spake nor moved, nor betrayed farther signs of consciousness, till the humble car, with its charitable escort, stopt at the gate of his own cottage garden. Then rousing himself to fresh exertion, his first care was to assist in bearing the body of his dead son under the shelter of that roof, beneath which, three-and-twenty years before, he had welcomed him, a new-born babe-and to place the coffin (for he would have it so) on his own bed, in his own chamber, Then lingering for a moment behind those who had helped him to deposit the untimely burden, he drew the

white curtain before the little casement, glanced round the chamber as if to ascertain that all was arranged with respectful neatness, and stepping softly, like one who feared to disturb the slumbers of the sick, paused on the threshold to look back for a moment, and making fast the door, as if to secure his treasure, followed his friends into the outer room, and with quiet and collected firmness, rendered to all his grateful acknowledgments for their charitable services, and set before them such refreshment as his poor means had enabled him to provide.

Neither, while they silently partook round his humble board, did he remit aught of kindly hospitality, nor was it apparently by any painful effort that he so exerted himself. But there was that in his countenance and deportment, and in the tone of his low deep voice, which arrested the words of those who would have pressed him to "eat and drink and be comforted," and carried conviction to the hearts of all, that to his affliction One only could minister; and that having rendered him all the active service immediately needful, they should best consult his wishes, by leaving him to the unmolested quiet of his solitary cottage. There was a whispering among themselves, as they stood up to departand then a few lowly spoken, but earnest proffers, were made to return at the close of evening, and watch through the hours of darkness, while the old grey head took rest in sleep, by him whose slumbers needed no guardianship.

But the kindly offer was declined with a gentle shake of the head, and a faint smile which spoke more meaningly than words— and the old man spoke also, and thanked and blessed them, and bade them take no care for him, for he should "now take rest." So they retired-slowly and reluctantly retired-and left him to his coveted solitude.

But there were not wanting some who, deeply moved with compassionate anxiety for the desolate old man,