Every body was sorry for poor Stokes, who was as honest and civil a fellow as any in the neighbourhood. All too felt for his widow, who with three small children were thus suddenly deprived of a kind husband, on whose industry and good character she depended for subsistence.
When the dreadful intelligence reached Wildgoose's mother, she stood like a statue. She shed no tears; she uttered no lamentations; she stirred neither hand nor foot. At last, uttering a faint scream, she dropped senseless on the floor. Her eldest daughter, and a neighbour who had been called in, got her to bed, and it was long before she came to herself. At first she had but an indistinct recollection of what had happened, and felt as if awaking from a horrible dream. In proportion as her senses returned, she felt that it was no dream, but a sad reality. Her first impulse was to go to her son; but when she attempted to get up, she was unable to stand, and fell back upon the bed. A violent fever came on, attended with almost constant delirium, and the doctor had great apprehensions for her life.
The country house of the gentleman, in whose family Lucy Wilmot lived as house-maid, was at a considerable distance; and she had now accompanied her master and mistress to London. It so happened that the sad news did not reach her till a few days before the Assizes. When she had a little recovered from the first dreadful shock, she immediately determined to hasten to poor Wildgoose, in order to give him whatever comfort or assistance his awful situation would admit of. She requested therefore her mistress to allow her a short leave of absence; borrowed a few pounds of the house-keeper, placed herself on the top of a stage, and next morning reached the county town. With an aching heart, and trembling steps, she hurried to the gaol. The gaoler, who, like most of his brethren of the present day, was a kind and humane man, having asked her a few questions, conducted her into his own parlour, and promised to bring Wildgoose to her: adding, that though his duty did not permit him to leave them alone together, yet that they might depend upon his not repeating any thing of what might pass between them. Poor Lucy's heart sickened at the heavy creaking of the door which led to the prisoners' day room; and she was nearly fainting when she heard footsteps approaching the little parlour where she was sitting. When Wildgoose entered, she started up, and without speaking, eagerly tried to take his hand. He, however, uttering a deep groan, clasped both his hands to his face, and turning his head away, burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing. Lucy still held her hand stretched towards him, when he at last said in a smothered voice, "Oh! Lucy, don't try to shake hands with me; the hand of such a good girl as you are must not be touched by the hand of a murderer." He then sank on a bench, and in spite of all his efforts to command himself, gave way to an agony of grief. Lucy could hardly stand; she had, however, been internally seeking strength from Him, who alone can give it, and by his aid was supported. Her ardent wish too, to be of use, led her to exert herself to the utmost. When, after some minutes, Wildgoose became a little more composed, she spoke to him of taking steps for his defence at his trial; and said that she was provided with money in order to secure the assistance of a lawyer. At first he would not hear of it. He said that it would be of no use, and that he deserved to suffer. Lucy herself, from what she had heard, hardly indulged any hope of his acquittal; but still urged him to make use of what assistance he could, both that he might have longer space for repentance, and also for the sake of his mother. "Oh, my mother! my dear, dear mother!" exclaimed Wildgoose, striking his hand to his forehead, and giving way to the expression of the most piercing anguish. Several minutes passed before he could at all compose himself, but when he was a little calmed, he at last consented that Lucy should take whatever steps she thought expedient. With a voice almost stifled with emotion, Wildgoose then asked Lucy if she had heard any thing of the poor woman who had been deprived by his rashness of a tender husband. Lucy replied that she had not. "Alas!" said he, "what is done cannot be undone, nothing can make up to her for her loss; but if my life should be spared, how gladly would I work night and day, to keep her and her poor children from want."
The gaoler now hinted to them that his duty required his attendance in another part of the gaol. The prisoner was therefore reconducted to his ward; and Lucy was just leaving the parlour, when a gentleman entered. From his dress and appearance she guessed him to be the chaplain of the gaol; and having ascertained by a timid and respectful enquiry that her conjecture was well founded, she implored him in the most earnest and pathetic manner to use his best offices in preparing Wildgoose for whatever might be the event of his trial. The chaplain answered, that he had already had many very serious conversations with the prisoner, about whom she seemed to be so much interested, and that he trusted that he was properly affected by his awful situation; "He appears," said he, "never to have been entirely without some impressions of religion, though his conduct was not sufficiently governed by it; and dreadful as is the crime with which he is charged, yet it has not the additional guilt of premeditation. I never dare to build much upon a profession of repentance occasioned by the near prospect of death; but as far as I can judge, his repentance is deep and sincere. He is full of shame and sorrow for having lived in such neglect of God and his laws, and for having paid no better attention to serious religion. The anguish which he feels from this last fatal deed is heart-breaking; and it becomes doubly acute, when he thinks of the desolate condition of her whom his hand has made a widow. His only hope of forgiveness is founded on God's mercy in Christ." "May I understand then, Sir," said Lucy, in an eager though tremulous voice, "that you think that if—if—if he should suffer for the crime, his eternal interests are safe?" "I dare not say so; it is not for one sinful and erring mortal to pronounce confidently on the final state of another. The mercy of God is extended to all truly penitent sinners, through the atonement of Christ. I hope that the faith and the repentance of your friend are sincere; but, generally speaking, repentance under such circumstances must be attended with much of fear and doubt[g]. As I said before, I hope that the penitence of this poor young man is such, that it would, if his life should be spared, shew itself to have been real, by producing the fruits of a holy life; but I presume not to speak with confidence. Let us both pray to God to perfect his repentance, and to increase and strengthen his faith." Many aspirations to this effect had already been fervently offered up by Lucy, and she renewed them with redoubled earnestness.
[g] See Note [G.] To which I particularly request attention.
Lucy was allowed to see Wildgoose frequently. When the anxious time of trial came, she secured him the assistance of an able lawyer, who exerted himself in his defence. It was however all in vain. The facts of the case were so clear, and the evidence so strong, that the jury without hesitation returned a verdict of guilty. The Judge, after a short preface, in which he emphatically introduced the words of Scripture, whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed, proceeded to pronounce the awful sentence of the law. He did this in the most feeling and impressive manner, and many of the audience were in tears. When he concluded in the solemn words, "The Lord have mercy on your soul," the prisoner, who during the trial had maintained a steady but melancholy composure, seemed torn and agitated by conflicting emotions. After half uttering a deep and smothered groan, however, he in some measure recovered himself, and was removed from the bar. Lucy, it may easily be imagined, could not bear to be present at the trial, but waited in painful and breathless suspense at her lodgings. She thought that she was prepared for the worst, and had in fact never allowed herself to encourage any hope; but when the tidings of the sentence reached her, she felt a sudden mist before her eyes, and fell lifeless on the ground. The woman of the house kindly gave her every assistance; but it was long before she came to herself. At length she opened her eyes, and wildly looking round her, exclaimed, "Where is he? where is he? they have not torn him from me?" Again her eyes closed; and she lost the sense of her misery in another swoon. When she was a little recovered, the people with whom she lodged endeavoured to prevail on her to go to bed. She was, however, steady in her refusal; and as soon as her limbs were able to support her, hastened to the prison.
She now found Wildgoose heavily ironed, and additional measures taken for securing him. They grasped each other's hand in silent agony, and were long unable to speak. At length Wildgoose exerted himself so far as to give her a message to his mother and family, and Lucy employed the little time she was allowed to remain with him, in suggesting such religious consolation as seemed most adapted to his situation. The next day, which was Sunday, she received the Sacrament with him. Wildgoose was calm beyond her expectations; and behaved throughout with a seriousness and fervour of devotion, which gave her more comfort than she had yet experienced.
I must spare both myself and the reader the pain of speaking of the awful scene of the day following. It is distressing even to think, or to speak of an execution. How is it possible that such numbers—sometimes, I fear, even women—can seem to take pleasure in going to witness the last pangs of a fellow-creature, who is condemned to forfeit his life to the offended laws of his country! I would have every one pray for, and feel for, the criminal, but on no account seek to gratify curiosity, by actually witnessing his death.
The following paper was handed about, as the last dying speech of John Wildgoose.
"I acknowledge the justice of the sentence by which I suffer; and would have all young men take warning from my example. I attribute my crime and punishment, in the first place, to my neglect of the Lord's Day; and in the second, to my keeping bad company. Had I been regular in going to church, and attentive to my religious duties, I should, under the blessing of God, have preserved and increased the good impressions, which I had received from my parents. These impressions, however, I suffered to wither away. By keeping bad company I was led into poaching, in which I at first thought there was not much harm. When by a kind friend I was convinced that it was wrong, the want of firmness in religion prevented me from giving it up. Poaching made me the companion of sabbath-breakers, swearers, drunkards, and thieves; and at last led me on to the dreadful crime of murder. May God support and comfort the poor woman whom my hand has robbed of a husband, and the dear and excellent parent, whom the same rash action has deprived of a son; may He make my sad fate productive of good to all who hear of it; and may He have mercy on my own soul through Jesus Christ!"