 | Fact and fiction |  |
ELIZABETH WILSON.
The following story is founded upon facts which occurred during the
latter part of the eighteenth century. The leading incidents are still in the
memory of many of the inhabitants of Chester county, Pennsylvania.
Elizabeth Wilson was of humble, though respectable
parentage. From infancy she was remarked for
beauty, and a delicate nervous organization. Her
brother William, two years older, was likewise a
handsome child, with a more sturdy and vigorous
frame. He had a gentle, loving heart, which expended
its affections most lavishly on his mother and little
sister. In their early years, Lizzy was his constant
shadow. If he went to the barn to hunt for eggs,
the little one was sure to run prattling along with
him, hand in hand. If he pelted walnuts from the
tree, she was sure to be there with her little basket,
to pick them up. They sat on the same blue bench
to eat their bread and milk, and with the first jack-knife
he ever owned, the affectionate boy carved on it
the letters W. and E. for William and Elizabeth.
The sister lavishly returned his love. If a pie was
baked for her, she would never break it till Willie
came to share; and she would never go to sleep unless
her arms were about his neck.
Their mother, a woman of tender heart and yielding
temper, took great delight in her handsome children.
brush, she stopped to look in upon them, as they sat
on the blue bench, feeding each other from their little
porringers of bread and milk. The cross-lights from
side-window threw on them a reflection of the lilac
ushes, so that they seemed seated in a flowering
grove. It was the only picture the poor woman had;
but none of the old masters could have equalled its
beauty.
The earliest and strongest development of Lizzy's
character was love. She was always caressing her
kitten, or twining her arms about Willie's neck, or
leaning on her mother's lap, begging for a kiss. A
dozen times a day she would look earnestly into her
mother's eyes, and inquire, most beseechingly, “Does
you love your little Lizzy?” And if the fond answer
did not come as promptly as usual, her beautiful eyes,
always plaintive in their expression, would begin to
swim with tears. This “strong necessity of loving,”
which so pervades the nature of woman, the fair child
inherited from her gentle mother; and from her, too,
inherited a deficiency of firmness, of which such natures
have double need. To be every thing, and do
every thing, for those she loved, was the paramount
law of her existence.
Such a being was of course born for sorrow. Even
in infancy, the discerning eye might already see its
prophetic shadow resting on her expressive countenance.
The first great affliction of her life was the
death of her mother, when she was ten years old.
Her delicate nerves were shattered by the blow, and
were never after fully restored to health. The dead
eye-lids, was so awfully impressed on her imagination,
that the image followed her everywhere, even into her
dreams. As she slept, tears often dropped from her
tremulous eye-lashes, and nightmare visions made her
start and scream. There was no gentle voice near to
soothe her perturbed spirit; none to throw an angel's
shining robe over the hideous spectre, that lay so cold
and stiff in the halls of memory. Her father fed and
clothed his children, and caused them to be taught to
read and write. It did not occur to him that anything
more was included in parental duty. Of clothing for
the mind, or food for the heart, he knew nothing; for
his own had never been clothed and fed. He came
home weary from daily toil, ate his supper, dozed in
his chair awhile, and then sent the children to bed.
A few times, after the death of his wife, he kissed
his daughter; but she never ventured to look into his
eyes, and ask, “Does you love your little Lizzy?”
Willie was her only consolation; and all he could do
was to weep passionately with her, at everything which
reminded them of their mother.
Nature, as usual, reflected back the image of the
soul that gazed upon her. To Lizzy's excited mind,
everything appeared mysterious and awful, and all
sounds seemed to wail and sigh. The rustling of the
trees in the evening wind went through her, like the
voice of a spirit; and when the nights were bright,
she would hide her head in her brother's bosom, and
whisper, “Willie, dear, I wish the moon would not
keep looking at me. She seems to say something to
me; and it makes me afraid.”
All susceptible souls have felt thus; particularly
when under the influence of grief.
O'er everything doth fall,
So beautiful and quiet,
And yet so like a pall—
As if all life were ended,
And rest were come to all.”
otherwise than injurious to a bodily frame originally
delicate. The sensitive child soon became subject to
fits, the severity of which at times threatencd her life.
On coming out of these spasms, with piteous tones
and bewildered looks, she would ask, “Where is my
mother?”
At the end of a year, an important change came
over the lonely household. A strong active step-mother
was introduced. Her loud voice and energetic
tread, so different from her own quiet and timid mother,
frightened poor Lizzy. Her heart more than ever
turned back upon itself, and listened to the echoes of
its own yearnings. Willie, being old enough to work
on the farm, was now absent most of the day; and
the fair girl, so richly endowed by nature with all
deep feelings and beautiful capacities, so lavish of her
affections, so accustomed to free outpourings of love,
became reserved, and apparently cold and stupid.
When the step-mother gave birth to an infant, the
fountain of feeling was again unsealed. It was her
delight to watch the babe, and minister to its wants.
But this development of the affections was likewise
destined to be nipped in the bud. The step-mother,
and worldly-wise. She deemed it most profitable to
employ a healthy, stout niece of her own, somewhat
older than Elizabeth, and to have her step-daughter
bound out in some family where she could do light
labour. It was also determined that William should
go to service; and his place of destination was fifty
miles from that of his sister.
The news of this arrangement was very bitter to
the children. Both answered their father, very meekly,
that they were willing to go; but their voices
were deep, sad, and almost inaudible. Without
saying another word, the boy put on his hat, and the
girl her sun-bonnet, and taking each other by the
hand, they went forth, and roamed silently to their
mother's grave. There they stood for a long time,
in silence, and their tears dropped fast on the green
sod. At last, Elizabeth sobbed out, “Oh, if dear
mother was alive, Willie, we should not have to go
away from home.” But Willie could only answer by
a fresh outburst of grief. A little clump of wild
flowers nodded over the edge of the mound. The
affectionate boy cut two of them, and said, “Let us
keep these, Lizzy, to remember mother by.”
The flowers were carefully pressed between the
leaves of Lizzy's Testament, and when the sorrowful
day of parting came, one was nicely folded in a paper
for Willie. “Now, dear sis, give me that nice little
curl,” said he, putting his finger on a soft, golden-brown
ringlet, that nestled close to her ear, and lay
caressingly on her downy cheek. She glanced in the
fragment of a glass, which served them for a mirror, and
I cannot give you that. Don't you remember how
dear mother used to wet my head all over with cold
water, to make my hair curl? She used to laugh
when I shook my head, and made the curls go all
over my forehead; and she would kiss that little curl
in particular. She said it was such a darling little
curl.” Thus childishly did the innocent ones speak
together. The brother twisted the favorite curl round
his finger, and kissed it, and a bright tear fell on it,
and glittered in the sunshine.
William left home a few days earlier than his sister,
and bitterly did the lonely one sob herself to sleep
that night. She shuddered in the dark, and when
the moon looked in at the window, its glance seemed
more mournful than ever. The next morning, she
fell from the breakfast table in a fit more severe than
usual. But as she soon recovered, and as these
spasms now occurred only at distant intervals, her
step-mother thought she had better be in readiness to
depart at the appointed time.
The wagon was brought to the door, and the father
said to her, “Lizzy, put on your bonnet, and bring
your bundle. It is time to go.” Oh, how the poor
child lingered in her little bed-room, where she and
Willie slept in their infant days, and where the mother
used to hear them say their prayers, and kiss them
both, as they lay folded in each other's arms. To
the strong step-mother she easily said good bye; but
she paused long over the cradle of her baby-brother,
and kissed each of his little fingers, and fondly turned
a little wave of sunny hair on his pure white forehead.
down the sobs; for it was her cradle, and she was
thinking how her mother used to sing her to sleep.
Her father spoke to her in a tone of unusual tenderness,
as if he too remembered her infancy, and the gentle
one who used to rock her in that cradle. “Come,
Lizzy,” said he, “it is time to go. You shall come
back and see the baby before long.” With blinded
eyes she stumbled into the wagon, and turned and
looked back as long as she could see the old elm-tree
by her bed-room window, where all the summers of
her young life she had watched the swallows come
and go.
It is a dreary fate for a loving and sensitive child
to be bound out at service among strangers, even if
they are kind-hearted. The good woman of the house
received Lizzy in a very friendly manner, and told
her to make herself at home. But the word only sent
a mournful echo through her heart. For a few days,
she went about in a state of abstraction, that seemed
like absolute stupidity. Her step-mother had prepared
them for this, by telling them there was something
strange about Lizzy, and that many people
thought her fits affected her mind. Being of coarser
and stronger natures, they could none of them imagine
that the slow stagnation of the heart might easily dim
the light of intellect in a creature so keenly susceptible.
But by degrees the duties required of her roused
her faculties into greater activity; and when night
came, she was fortunately too weary to lie awake and
weep. Sometimes she dreamed of Willie, and her
dreams of him were always bright and pleasant; but
and sometimes came as the pale cold spectre. Thus
the months passed slowly away. Her father came to
see her at distant intervals, and once in a great while,
a letter came from Willie, in a large stiff hand. Unaccustomed
to writing, he could not, through that medium,
tell much that was passing in his heart. That
he wanted badly to see his sister, and often kissed the
flower they plucked from the dear mother's grave,
was the substance of all his epistles.
In the mean time, Lizzy was passing into womanhood.
Childhood and youth kissed each other, with
new and glowing beauty. Her delicate cheeks mantled
with a richer colour, and her deep blue eyes,
shaded with long fringes of the darkest brown, looked
out upon life with a more earnest and expressive longing.
Plain and scanty garments could not conceal
the graceful outline of her figure, and her motions
were like a willow in the breeze. She was not aware
of her uncommon loveliness, though she found it pleasant
to look in the glass, and had sometimes heard
strangers say to each other, “See that pretty girl!”
There were no young men in the immediate neighbourhood,
and she had not been invited to any of the
rustic dances or quilting frolics. One bashful lad in
the vicinity always contrived to drive his cows past
the house where she lived, and eagerly kept watch
for a glimpse of her, as she went to the barn with her
milking pails. But if she happened to pass near
enough to nod and smile, his cheeks grew red, and his
voice forsook him. She could not know, or guess,
that he would lie awake long that night, and dream of
would have courage to tell her how handsome she
was, and how the sight of her made his heart throb.
She did not yet know that she could love anybody
better than she had loved Willie. She had seen her
darling brother but twice, during their three years of
separation; but his image was ever fresh and bright
in memory. When he came to see her, she felt completely
happy. While he gazed upon her with delighted
eyes, her affectionate nature was satisfied with
love: for it had not yet been revealed to her in the
melting glance of passion. Yet the insidious power
already began to foreshadow itself in vague restlessness
and romantic musings. For she was at an age,
To seek one nature that is always new,
Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss;
Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope
Of the young heart with one mysterious hope.”
At last, an important event occurred in Lizzy's
monotonous existence. A young girl in the village
was to be married, and she was invited to the quilting
party. It was the first invitation of the kind she had
ever received, and of course it occupied her thoughts
day and night. Could she have foreseen how this
simple occurrence would affect her whole future destiny,
she would have pondered over it still more
deeply. The bridegroom brought a friend with him
to the party, a handsome dark-eyed young man, clerk
of a store in a neighbouring town. Aware of his
personal attractions, he dressed himself with peculiar
care. Elizabeth had never seen anything so elegant;
that he had never seen anything half so beautiful.
He devoted himself to her in a manner sufficiently
marked to excite envy; and some of the rich farmers'
daughters made critical remarks about her dress,
which they concluded was passably genteel, for a girl
who lived out at service. However, Lizzy was queen
of the evening, by virtue of nature's own impress of
royalty. When the quilt was finished, romping
games were introduced according to the fashion of the
times; and the young men took care that the forfeits
paid by the pretty girls should generally involve kissing
some of their own number. Among the forfeits
required of the dark-eyed stranger, he was ordered to
beg on his knees for the identical little curl that Willie
had asked of his sister. In the midst of her mirthfulness,
this brought a shadow over her countenance,
and she could not answer playfully. However, this
emotion passed away with the moment, and she became
the gayest of the gay. Never before had she
been half so handsome, for never before had she been
half so happy. The joyful consciousness of pleasing
everybody, and the attractive young stranger in particular,
made her eyes sparkle, and her whole countenance
absolutely radiant with beauty. When the
party were about to separate, the young man was
very assiduous about placing her shawl, and begged
permission to accompany her home. Little was said
during this walk; yet enough to afford entrance into
both hearts for that unquiet passion, which tangles the
web of human life more than all the other sentiments
and instincts of our mysterious being. At parting, he
hold it, and leaning against the gate, they stood for a
few moments, gazing at the clear, silvery orb of night.
Ah, how different the moon seemed to Lizzy now!
Earth's spectral robe had changed to a veil of glory.
Her bonnet had fallen back, and the evening breeze
played gently with her ringlets. In soft insinuating
tones, the young man said, “Will you not give me
that little curl I asked for?” She blushed deeply
and answered, in her child-like way, “I cannot give
you that, because my mother used to kiss it so often.”
“No wonder she kissed it,” he replied; “it looks so
roguish, lying there on your pretty cheek.” And before
she was aware of it, he had kissed it too. Trembling
and confused, she turned to open the gate, but
he held it fast, until she had promised that the next
time he came she would give him one of her curls.
Poor Lizzy went to bed that night with an intoxicated
heart. When she braided her hair at the glass,
next morning, she smiled and blushed, as she twined
the favourite ringlet more carefully than ever. She
was so childishly happy with her pretty little curl!
The next Sunday evening, as she sat at the window,
she heard the sound of a flute. He had promised to
bring his flute; and he had not forgotten her. She
listened—it came nearer and nearer, through the wood.
Her heart beat audibly, for it was indeed the handsome
dark-eyed stranger.
All summer long, he came every Sunday afternoon;
and with him came moonlight walks, and flute-warblings,
and tender whisperings, and glances, such as
steal away a woman's heart. This was the fairy-land
eyes she could gaze, with all the deep tenderness of
her soul, and ask, “Do you love your own Lizzy?”
The young man did love, but not as she loved him;
for hers was a richer nature, and gave more than he
could return. He accompanied her to her father's,
and they were generally understood to be betrothed.
He had not seen brother William, but he was told a
thousand affectionate anecdotes of his kind good heart.
When they returned from the visit to the homestead,
they brought with them the little blue bench marked
W. and E. Lizzy was proud of her genteel lover; and
the only drop which it now seemed possible to add to
her cup of happiness was to introduce him to William.
But her brother was far off; and when the autumn
came, her betrothed announced the necessity of going
to a distant city, to establish himself in business. It
was a bitter, bitter parting to both. The warmest
letters were but a cold substitute for those happy
hours of mutual confidence; and after awhile, his
letters became more brief and cool. The fact was,
the young man was too vain to feel deeply; and
among his new acquaintance in the city was a young
good-looking widow, with a small fortune, who early
evinced a preference for him. To be obviously, and
at the same time modestly preferred, by a woman of
any agreeable qualities, is what few men, even of the
strongest character, can withstand. It is the knowledge
of this fact, and experience with regard to the most
delicate and acceptable mode of expressing preference,
which, as Samuel Weller declares, makes “a widow
equal to twenty-five other women.” Lizzy's lover was
is no wonder, therefore, that his letters to the pretty
girl, who lived out at service, should become more
cool and infrequent. She was very slow to believe it
thus; and when, at last, news reached her that he
was positively engaged to be married to another, she
refused to listen to it. But he came not to vindicate
himself, and he ceased to answer her letters. The
poor deluded girl awoke to a full consciousness of her
misery, and suffered such intensity of wretchedness as
only keenly sensitive natures can suffer. William
had promised to come and see her the latter part of
the winter, and her heart had been filled with pleasant
and triumphant anticipations of introducing to him her
handsome lover. But now the pride of her heart was
humbled, and its joy turned into mourning. She was
cast off, forsaken; and, alas, that was not the worst.
As she sobbed on the neck of her faithful brother, she
felt, for the first time, that there was something she
could not tell him. The keenest of her wretched
feelings she dared not avow. He pitied and consoled
her, as well as he could; but to her it seemed as if there
was no consolation but in death. Most earnestly did
he wish that he had a home to shelter her, where he
could fold her round with the soft wings of brotherly
love. But they were both poor, and poverty fetters
the impulses of the heart. And so they must part
again, he guessing but half of her great sorrow. If
the farewell was sad to him, what must it have been
to her, who now felt so utterly alone in the wide
world? Her health sank under the conflict, and the
fits returned upon her with increased violence. In her
noticed the significant glances and busy whispers
of neighbours and acquaintance. With her, the
agony of death was past. The world seemed too
spectral for her to dread its censure. At last she gave
birth to a dead infant, and for a long time her own
life trembled in the balance. She recovered in a state
of confirmed melancholy, and with visible indications
of intellect, more impaired than ever.
From out her thoughts, and turned to dreariness
All blissful hopes and sunny memories.”
She was no longer invited to visit with the young
people of the neighbourhood; and the envy excited by
her uncommon beauty showed itself in triumph over
her blighted reputation. Her father thought it a duty
to reprove her for sin, and her step-mother said some
cutting words about the disgrace her conduct had
brought upon the family. But no kind Christian
heart strengthened her with the assurance that one
false step in life might be forgiven and retrieved.
Thus was the lily broken in its budding beauty, and
its delicate petals blighted by harsh winds.
Poor Lizzy felt this depressing atmosphere of neglect
and scorn; but fortunately with less keenness
than she would have done, before brain was stultified,
and heart congealed by shame and sorrow. She no
longer showed much feeling about anything, except
the little blue bench marked W. and E. Every moment
that she could steal from household labours, she
would retire to her little room, and, seated on this
bench, would read over William's letters, and those
She would not allow any person to remove the bench
from her bedside, or to place a foot upon it. To such
inanimate objects does the poor human heart cling in
its desolation.
Years passed away monotonously with Elizabeth;
years of loneliness and labour. Some young men,
attracted by her beauty, and emboldened by a knowledge
of her weakness, approached her with familiarity,
which they intended for flattery. But their profligacy
was too thinly disguised to be dangerous to a
nature like hers. She turned coldly from them all,
with feelings of disgust and weariness.
When she was about twenty-three years old, she
went to Philadelphia to do household work for a family
that wished to hire her. Important events followed
this change, but a veil of obscurity rests over the causes
that produced them. After some months residence in
the city, her health failed more and more, and she returned
to the country. She was still competent to
discharge the lighter duties of household labour, but
she seemed to perform them all mechanically, and
with a dull stupor. After a time, it became obvious
that she would again be a mother. When questioned,
her answers were incoherent and contradictory. Some
said she must be a very base low creature to commit
this second fault; but more kindly natures said,
“She was always soft-hearted and yielding, from childhood;
and she is hardly a responsible being; for
trouble and continual fits have made her almost an
idiot.” At last she gave birth to twins. She wept
when she saw them; but they seemed to have no
wanderings. When they were a few moths old, she
expressed a wish to return to Philadelphia; and a
lad, belonging to the family where she had remained
during her illness, agreed to convey her part of the
way in a wagon. When they came into the public
road, she told him she could walk the rest of the way,
and begged him to return. He left her seated on a
rock, near a thick grove, nursing her babes. She
was calm and gentle, but sad and abstracted as usual.
That was in the morning. Where or how she spent
the day was never known. Toward night she arrived in
Philadelphia, at the house where she had formerly lived.
She seemed very haggard and miserable; what few
words she said were abrupt and unmeaning; and
her attitudes and motions had the sluggish apathy of
an insane person.
The next day, there was a rumour afloat that two
strangled infants had been found in a grove on the
road from Chester. Of course this circumstance soon
became connected with her name. When she was
arrested, she gave herself up with the same gloomy
indifference that marked all her actions. She denied
having committed the murder: but when asked who
she supposed had done it, she sometimes shuddered
and said nothing, sometimes said she did not know,
and sometimes answered the children were still living.
When conveyed to prison, she asked for pen and ink,
and in a short letter, rudely penned, she begged William
to come to her, and to bring from her bed-room
the little blue bench they used to sit upon in the happy
the affectionate couple stand locked in each other's
arms, sobbing, and without the power to speak. It
was not until the second interview, that her brother
could summon courage to ask whether she really
committed the crime of which she was accused.
“Oh no, William,” she replied, “you could not
suppose I did.”
“You must indeed have been dreadfully changed,
dear Lizzy,” said he; “for you used to have a heart
that could not hurt a kitten.”
“I am dreadfully changed,” she answered, “but I
never wanted to harm anything.”
He took her hand, played sadly with the emaciated
fingers, and after a strong effort to control his emotions,
he said, in a subdued voice, “Lizzy, dear, can
you tell me who did do it?”
She stared at him with a wild intense gaze, that
made him shudder. Then looking fearfully toward
the door, she said, in a strange muffled whisper, “Did
what?” Poor William bowed his head over the hand
that he held in his own, and wept like a child.
During various successive interviews, he could
obtain no satisfactory answer to the important question.
Sometimes she merely gazed at him with a
vacant inane expression; sometimes she faintly answered
that she did not know; and sometimes she said
she believed the babes were still alive. She gradually
became more quiet and rational under her brother's
soothing influence; and one day, when he had repeatedly
assured her that she could safely trust her
whisper, as if she feared the sound of her own
voice, “He did it.”
“Who is he?” asked the brother, gently.
“The father,” she replied.
“Did you know he meant to do it?”
“No. He told me he would meet me and give
me some money. But when I asked him for something
to support the children, he was angry, and
choked them. I was frightened, and felt faint. I
don't know what I did. I woke up and found myself
on the ground alone, and the babies lying among the
bushes.”
“What is his name, and where does he live?” inquired
the brother.
She gave him a wild look of distress, and said—
“Oh, don't ask me. I ought not to have done so.
I am a poor sinner—a poor sinner. But everybody
deserted me; the world was very cold; I had nobody
to love; and he was very kind to me.”
“But tell me his name,” urged the brother.
She burst into a strange mad laugh, picked nervously
at the handkerchief she held in her hand, and repeated,
idiotically, “Name? name? I guess the babies are
alive now. I don't know—I don't know; but I guess
they are.”
To the lawyer she would say nothing, except to
deny that she committed the murder. All their exertions
could wring from her nothing more distinct
than the story she had briefly told her brother. During
her trial, the expression of her countenance was
stupid and vacant. At times, she would drum on the
a bewildered look, as if unconscious where she was.
The deranged state of her mind was strongty urged
by her lawyer; but his opponent replied that all this
might be assumed. To the story she had told in prison,
it was answered that her not telling of the murder at
the time made her an accomplice. After the usual
display of legal ingenuity on both sides, the jury
brought her in guilty of murder, and the poor forlorn
demented creature was sentenced to be hung at
Chester.
The wretched brother was so stunned by the blow,
that at first he could not collect his thoughts. But it
soon occurred to him that the terrible doom might
still be arrested, if the case could be brought suitably
before the governor. A petition was accordingly
drawn up, setting forth the alienation of mind to which
she had been subject, in consequence of fits, and the
extreme doubtfulness whether she committed the murder.
Her youth, her beauty, the severe sorrows of
her life, and the obviously impaired state of her reason,
touched many hearts, and the petition was rapidly
signed. When William went to her cell to bid her
adieu, he tried to cheer her with the hope of pardon.
She listened with listless apathy. But when he pressed
her hand, and with a mournful smile said, “Good-bye,
dear Lizzy, I shall come back soon; and I hope
with good news,” she pointed tearfully to the little
blue bench and said, “Let what will happen, Willie,
take care of that, for my sake.” He answered with a
choked voice; and as he turned away, the tears flowed
fast down his manly cheeks. She listened to the
longer, she threw herself on the floor, laid her head
down on the little blue bench, kissed the letters carved
upon it, and sobbed as she had not sobbed since she
was first deserted by her false lover. When the jailor
went in to carry her supper, he found her asleep thus.
Rich masses of her glossy brown hair fell over her
pale, but still lovely face, on which rested a serene
smile, as if she were happy in her dreams. He stood
and gazed upon her, and his hard hand brushed away a
tear. Some motion that he made disturbed her slumber.
She opened her eyes, from which there beamed
for a moment a rational and happy expression, as she
said, “I was out in the woods, behind the house,
holding my little apron to catch the nuts that Willie
threw down. Mother smiled at me from a blue place
between two clouds, and said, `Come to me, my
child.' ”
The next day a clergyman came to see her. He
spoke of the penalty for sin, and the duty of being resigned
to the demands of justice. She heard his
words, as a mother hears street sounds when she is
watching a dying babe. They conveyed to her no import.
When asked if she repented of her sins, she
said she had been a weak erring creature, and she
hoped that she was penitent; but that she never committed
the murder.
“Are you resigned to die, if a pardon should not
be obtained?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” she replied, “I want to die.”
He prayed with her in the spirit of real human love;
and this soothed her heart. She spoke seldom, after
to hear when she was spoken to. She sat on the
little blue bench, gazing vacantly on the floor, like
one already out of the body.
In those days, there was briefer interval between
sentence and execution, than at present. The atal
day and hour soon arrived, and still no tidings from
the governor. Men came to lead her to the gallows.
She seemed to understand what they said to her, and
turned meekly to obey their orders. But she stopped
suddenly, gazed on the little blue bench, and said in a
gasping tone, “Has William come?” When they told
her no, a shudder seemed to go over her, and her pale
face became still paler. A bit of looking-glass hung on
the wall in front of her; and as she raised her head,
she saw the little curl, that had received her mother's
caresses, and the first kiss of love. With a look of
the most intense agony, she gave a loud groan, and
burying her face in her hands, fell forward on the
shoulder of the sheriff.
* * * * *
Poor William had worked with the desperate energy
of despair, and the governor, after brief delay,
granted a pardon. But in those days, the facilities
for travelling were few; and it happened that the
country was inundated with heavy rains, which everywhere
impeded his progress. He stopped neither for
food nor rest; but everywhere the floods and broken
roads hindered him. When he came to Darby
Creek, which was usually fordable, it was swollen
too high to be crossed, and it was sometime before a
boat could be obtained. In agony of mind he pressed
frantic, he begged for another at any price, mounted,
and rode furiously. From the top of a hill, he saw a
crowd assembled round the place of execution. He
waved his handkerchief, he shouted, he screamed.
But in the excitement of the moment he was not
heard or noticed. All eyes were fastened on the gallows;
and soon the awful object came within his own
vision. Father of mercies! There are a woman's
garments floating in the air. There is a struggling,
a quivering—and all is still.
With a shriek that pierced the ears of the multitude,
the desperate rider plunged forward; his
horse fell under him, and shouting, “A pardon! A
pardon!” he rolled senseless on the ground. He
came too late. The unhappy Elizabeth was dead.
The poor young creature, guilty of too much heart,
and too little brain to guide it, had been murdered by
law, and men called it justice.
Pale as a ghost, with hair suddenly whitened by
excess of anguish, the wretched brother bent over the
corpse of that beautiful sister, whom he had loved so
well. They spoke to him of resignation to God's
will. He answered not; for it was not clear to him
that the cruelty of man is the will of God. Reverently
and tenderly, he cut from that fair brow the favourite
little curl, twined about with so many sacred memories,
and once a source of girlish innocent joy to the
yearning heart, that slept so calmly now. He took
the little bench from its cold corner in the prison, and
gathering together his small personal property, he
retired to a lonely cave in Dauphin county. He
when spoken to, answered briefly and solemnly.
There he died a few years ago, at an advanced age.
He is well remembered in the region round about, as
William the Hermit.
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