[CHAP. XII.]
THE CONCLUSION.
The morning dawned slow and sullenly over the great metropolis of Columbia; and its immense field of buildings seemed as gloomy as the skies above them. All the shops were closed, as if in a time of general mourning; and the citizens hurried along the streets with melancholy and unsocial looks. Occasionally, two or three would stop at a corner of a street and exchange a few eloquent words and gesticulations; but the approach of some of the numerous bands of soldiers that continually perambulated the streets separated them, and they continued on their way. Everywhere the houses looked cheerless, as if they had been deserted. The shutters were closed, the windows darkened, and not a sign of life appeared about them. Such of the inhabitants as had ventured out, appeared to be proceeding in one direction, communicating with one another when they could do so without being observed by the troops. All wore the same aspect—that of deep dejection; but, occasionally, a close observer might have noticed a more fierce expression in their countenances, as a muttered execration escaped from their lips.
They passed regiments of horse and foot at every commanding situation. The whole city seemed to be filled with them; and their picquets stationed at regular intervals, patroling every thoroughfare, prevented any attempt at revolt on the part of the citizens. Still they proceeded forward till they entered a spacious quadrangle, the whole space of which, including all the avenues that approached it, was filled with soldiers and citizens. Along the wall of a high gloomy building, evidently from its construction a prison, there had been erected a platform, covered with black cloth. Upon it appeared a block, and at a short distance from it a coffin, both covered with black cloth. Around the platform were a troop of horse; and others were posted along the sides of the quadrangle, the inner space of which was filled with a regiment of foot supported by several pieces of artillery.
At one corner of the principal entrance to the quadrangle was an ancient stone structure, very strongly built, from the windows of which there was a good view of the proceedings before the prison; at the opposite corner was a similar edifice, and in their windows and on their roofs crowds of anxious citizens had congregated. If any had come with an intention of attempting a rescue, the disposition of the military was sufficient to make them despair; and all they did was to throng as near as possible to the place of execution, where they stood regarding the scaffold and its defenders with scowling looks, and hearts eager for vengeance.
The utmost decorum prevailed among the multitude. There was no talking or laughing; and when Master Porphyry made his appearance upon the scaffold every head was uncovered, and blessings loud and deep were breathed from all. The philanthropist advanced to the block with a firm step, and eyes as mild and kind as they had ever beamed. His look was cheerful, and his bearing noble and manly. He wore the robe of honour, which distinguished him as the chief magistrate of the city, as if desirous of dying in possession of the dignity to which he had been raised by the respect of his fellow-citizens. After bowing in acknowledgment of the recognitions of the people, he looked unmoved upon the coffin and the block; and with the executioner on one side, masked, having a glittering axe in his hand, and with a priest on the other, who kept addressing him with pious exhortations, to which he paid respectful attention, he advanced to that part of the platform which overlooked the surrounding multitude. Some murmurs and execrations had burst from the spectators at sight of the executioner; but when it was noticed that Master Porphyry was about to address them, the vast assembly were instantly hushed to the most perfect silence.
“My countrymen!” exclaimed the philanthropist, in a clear unbroken voice, “I do not in any way regret the fate that has been prepared for me, except so far as it prevents me continuing those offices of social kindness which made the happiness of my existence. To be without the means of doing good is scarcely less desirable than to be in the commission of evil; and it was a wise and charitable thing of my persecutors, after having confiscated all my property, to take away a life no longer of value to the community.”—A low murmur escaped from the crowd. “I may safely say, and I proudly say, I have lived for you; and it is an equal gratification for me to be allowed to assert, that I die for you.”—Ten thousand blessings followed the delivery of this sentence.
“My death, therefore, is not to be considered pitiable, if regarded in that light. I am pleased that I have been thought worthy of this honour. I am delighted that my oppressors have given me an opportunity of leaving life with so much satisfaction to myself. Let me beg of you, therefore, to refrain from any exhibition of regret for the manner of my death—it is a very humane one; and my persecutors have shown me a kindness in allowing me to be so disposed of.—I see nothing in it terrible. I see nothing in it painful. I see nothing in it of shame or dishonour. ’T is a blow, and it is over.—Had my oppressors wished, I might have died suffering the most excruciating tortures. Had I lived, probably I might have been the victim of some loathsome disease; or have been deprived of my faculties—have become idiotic, or insane, or blind; and at the last extremity have been deserted by friends, or left without the means of serving those who most required assistance. How much better is it for me to close my existence in this way, without pain, in the full enjoyment of my reason, and surrounded by friends; and although I am rendered incapable of continuing of use to you, the remembrance of the pleasures I have enjoyed from a life of active benevolence is sufficiently agreeable to overpower the regret I feel in having been left to so unprofitable an end.”—Again murmurs of applause broke from all parts of the crowd.
“There is however a regret, which is powerful, and which I require all my philosophy to endure.—I regret that I leave my country in a worse condition than I found her.—I regret that the freedom for which I strived so earnestly is passing away from her people.—I regret to see a state of bondage in preparation for the free hearts around me, which is likely to deprive them of all their noblest privileges. I was born a free citizen, and a free citizen I will die. The galling chains of abject servitude which are being forged for you shall never disgrace my nature. Remember, oh, my countrymen, that freedom is your natural inheritance; and although it would be madness to attempt its repossession without sufficient means, never give up the desire of liberty—wait the fitting time; and while you endure, forget not that the graves of your fathers are disgraced, and the spirits of your children are being dishonoured.”—The citizens testified, by loud shouts and eager exclamations, their assent to the sentiments expressed by the philanthropist; and many were the fierce looks directed towards the soldiery.
“If there is any man amongst you whom I have injured, I desire of him most earnestly to tell me the wrong I have done, that I may repair it before I die. I am quite certain that I have never done any one an intentional injury; but if I have left undone any good which I might have done, I consider that I have done an injustice, and would remedy it before it be too late. Speak, my fellow-citizens; tell me what injuries against you I have committed.”—There was an eloquent silence, that lasted for several minutes. Each man looked at his neighbour, and all saw that the philanthropist had no accuser.